Martian Knightlife

by James P. Hogan

  "Bullshit," Banks snarled, and cut the connection.

  "It seemed to go through okay," Pierre told Kieran.

  "We'll soon see," Kieran said.

  Minutes later, Trevany called from the Juggernaut out at Tharsis. "Bravo," he complimented when Kieran answered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "We just watched your performance with Banks." Kieran had talked to Trevany from his hotel room after becoming the Khal that morning, so Trevany was familiar with his new appearance.

  "Like it?" Kieran said. "It looked as if they're just leaving for Lowell."

  "That's right," Trevany confirmed. "Lowell sent an airbus to collect them. Their own vehicles are staying there for the time being, until they've been checked over. Now would you mind filling us in on the rest of it?"

  "As I just told Pierre, who's here with me, we're going into the mystical healing business."

  "You're going to make them better?"

  "Just Banks."

  "How can it be that selective?"

  "Pierre and I think we've figured out a way. So this is a test before trying it with Asgard—but think of the impact it could have on Hamilton if it works. Also, it might have the very real effect of changing Banks into a convert—or at least, give him a lot to think about." Just then, a call came in on Kieran's comset. He flipped the unit out and accepted to find that the caller was Mahom. "Look, Walter, I've just got another call that might be something I've been waiting for. Can I get back to you on this?"

  "Sure." Trevany disappeared. Kieran redirected Mahom to the room's larger screen.

  "Mahom. What news?"

  "I think we've got it. It's owned by a city hire franchise, on lease to a guy called Lee Mullen, who organizes local muscle and does caretaking."

  Kieran nodded. It sounded like the kind of person he'd expect the syndicate to mobilize until their own people arrived to take over. "Where is it?" he asked.

  "At an address in Embarcadero. The people I've put there have counted seven bodies coming and going who aren't Sol or Casey."

  "You haven't positively identified Sol and Casey there?" Kieran checked.

  "Not as yet. But they have to be there. It's going to be a tough one to crack, though. No clear plan of action right now. The troops are checking it out and going through the options. The best thing for now is just to keep watching the place for a while longer to see what comes up."

  Kieran nodded reluctantly. "Do we know where Sol and Casey's flymo is?" he asked.

  "The skylock at Cherbourg." Mahom meant the upper-level flyer parking area with locks out to the atmosphere. Flyers weren't used within the covered-over confines of Lowell itself. When Leppo and Casey wanted to work on it in their shop, they moved it there by road.

  "Okay, well I guess I'll have to leave it with you," Kieran conceded. "It's been a rough day here, too. We'll be wanting to turn in after we've eaten something. Let me know if anything new develops, okay?"

  "You've got it, Knight," Mahom promised.

  21

  Asgard was an inside-out planet a little under a mile in diameter. An artificial sun keeping a regular day-night cycle hung in the center; the surface where everything happened—apart from arriving and departing spacecraft—was on the inside. The enclosed space and the force induced by slowly spinning the structure thus took the place of mass and gravity in retaining an atmosphere and keeping people and everything else on the ground. The regularly inhabited part, consisting of residential and commercial areas, and the corporation's business and technical facilities, extended around the equatorial belt; heavy installations, industrial plant, and docking areas were located around the poles. The space between was largely devoted to test sites for new engineering methods and construction techniques, with several open landscaped areas for recreation.

  The reception was held in the ballroom of the complex known as the Constellation Suites—a part of the residential sector containing accommodation, catering, pool, and sports facilities, intended for use by visiting business people, relatives, and friends. It was a splendid affair indeed, with over two thousand guests arrayed in thematic South Sea costumes, garlands, robes, and hula-hula skirts, as well as colorful and glittery conventional styles. Marissa and Mervyn, respectively blushing and handsome, cut cake, tossed garter and bouquet, smiled, posed, and received lines of congratulations and tributes. Hamilton delivered a speech laced with jokes and witty anecdotes targeted at some of those present, proposed toasts, and got in a few quotes; performers and musicians, including a full orchestra and two choirs, entertained; lavish food offerings graced the tables; profusions of flowers decked the walls, the halls, and the people. There were lots of flowers.

  When the formal parts were over, Hamilton joined his daughter for the first waltz to commence the remainder of the day's festivities. He might spend a lot of his life in first-class seats and at conference tables these days, but he could still glide a step or two. Adoring matrons in jeweled gowns and tiaras gazed on admiringly; friends and patrons of the corporation, and henchmen from the organization chart's ionospheric levels smiled; management lackeys and their spouses, and assorted hangers-on tried to look as if they felt they fitted in. Hamilton Gilder was a happy man. He liked life when he and his tribespeople were the center of attraction, and just at this moment, the island headquarters-in-space of the empire he had created seemed like the center of the universe. Yet, a part of him was worried. It was a worry that he had talked about only with Thornton Velte and one or two others of his innermost clique. And Marissa, of course—but then, it was she who had brought the matter to him in the first place. Ever since then, she and Mervyn had been so in demand that this was the first moment he had found to have a word with her away from other ears after having any time to think about it.

  "You really think this Khal is the real thing?" he murmured, smiling through his teeth at the onlookers as he led Marissa through an underarm twirl and smoothly back into a one-two-three box step. "He might know what it is that's broken out down there?"

  "It was uncanny, Dad. He knew things that you and I had said over the link from here less than an hour before—things that nobody could have known. And those eyes! I could tell from them alone."

  "I always said you had this intuition."

  "That's what he told me too. His note said I have rare gifts of insight and understanding."

  "So, should I halt this project, do you think? Thornton's told me that I'd be out of my mind. It would lose us a lot of friends—big friends."

  "There are higher things to existence, Dad."

  Hamilton nodded and reminded himself. It would still be a tough decision. Thornton and the others didn't know the things he knew. He'd tried to share his insights at times, but he knew now that such efforts would always be futile. Seed could only take in ground that was ready.

  They toured the floor in a series of vigorous Viennese whirls. People applauded. "And he told you it could start here too?" Hamilton said, just a touch breathlessly. "I shouldn't have mentioned that to Thornton."

  "Why? Don't you believe it? The Ancients were able to manipulate physical probabilities, remember? Impossible things can happen."

  "Oh, I know what can happen. But Thornton and the others are settled that this guy's a crazy."

  "Just be careful, Dad. Don't forget, you're the prime instigator."

  "I am being careful. . . . Look, that hideous Krentz woman is waving. Wave back at her and smile. Her husband is a patent attorney who does us favors. . . ."

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Hamilton was summoned away from a plate of roast guinea fowl and dressed pork to an incoming call from a person on a list that his staff had been told were to be put through, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. He went to take it in an office along a corridor, away from the noise from the ballroom.

  From the first moment, the Khal was every bit as colorful and riveting as Marissa's description had prepared him to expect. The clear brown eyes seemed to emit a light that
was not of the screen. The expression on the aged yet ageless countenance was infinitely deep and all-seeing. Already, Hamilton felt as if his thoughts were being read like words on a poster. "I thought I might be hearing from you," he said. "Your name was given priority status."

  The Khal nodded, as if that were indeed what he had been wondering. "A wise decision. And first, allow me to add my congratulations to all those that have been heaped upon you. May your charming daughter and her husband live lives that are long, happy, and prosperous."

  "Well, thanks." Hamilton eyed the figure with a mixture of awe and curiosity. As with Marissa, an inner part of him rejoiced at finally finding what was surely the doorway to Truth that he had always known existed; at the same time, he was wondering through habit what might be the best way to get this guy on the payroll. "She showed me your gift. It's splendid—so unusual. We have it on display at the reception."

  "A modest token. I am honored that you are pleased." The Khal looked aside, as if checking for anyone who might overhear. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial note. Instinctively, Hamilton leaned closer to the screen. The Khal went on, "But I must also speak of more serious things. Heed the warning that was given through me. Your agents here on Mars scoffed when the seer who is with Professor Hashikar and the scientists at Tharsis tried to tell them. The doctors at Lowell will have no more success than Farquist had. This plague is not of their ken."

  Hamilton was startled. "How did you know his name—and that they were being taken to Lowell? I've only just found out about that myself."

  The Khal looked at him in a way that said he shouldn't need to ask. "I want you to know this in advance. You have detractors there who demand proof. So that you can allay their doubts—and also any that you yourself may still be harboring—your agent, Banks, has been selected as a demonstration that these events are being driven by powers beyond the reach of all the specialists and their equipment. From him and him alone, the affliction will be lifted. When these words come true, then all will believe."

  "You can really do this?"

  "Not I. The powers of old, for which I am merely a conduit to the present time."

  "Of course."

  Hamilton realized that he had actually spoken reverently.

  * * *

  Thornton Velte got a call shortly afterward from a youngish man with a stubbly chin and a mop of black hair, who said he was a doctor with the emergency team at Lowell entrusted with Justin Banks and his companions. He understood that Velte was Bank's superior at Asgard. He was sorry to interrupt Velte at a wedding, but this was a medical matter. Velte said he understood. Could Velte authorize the transfer of company medical records for the individuals involved? Of course, Velte agreed—although it seemed a little strange, since Banks could just as easily have instructed that himself. Maybe the disease had progressed, and Banks was more incapacitated than Velte had realized. The doctor went on to ask some routine questions, which irritated Velte because it seemed they were questions that could more easily have been asked of those on the spot. Also, he got irritated at the doctor's tendency to mumble. Velte had to press his face close to the screen to make out what he was saying.

  * * *

  Deirdre, Hamilton's older, recluse daughter, didn't attend but sent a message of congratulations from her religious retreat out in the Belt. Achilles, the playboy son, received a call at a mobile bar by the poolside, where he was cavorting with a couple of the bridesmaids. It was from a good-looking woman with long, black hair and a sultry voice who said she was from the Mars office of a spacemobile rental company based in the Jovian system, and had a query concerning a reservation he had made for the following month. Achilles was puzzled, since he couldn't recall any such reservation, and getting testy because she had somehow bypassed the incoming filters, and this was eating into his fun time. Wasn't this Mr. Achilles Glider . . . ? No, Gilder. Yet she seemed to have his account number and ID code. The woman could only apologize, presume there had been an unprecedented mix-up somewhere, and promise to straighten things out. Achilles wouldn't need to do anything if he heard no more, she assured him. By that time he had been on the line for over four minutes.

  * * *

  Several minutes later, a woman who looked uncannily like the one who had called Achilles was put through to Mervyn Quinn, the handsome, superstar groom of the occasion. She had told the staff member filtering calls that she was a director with one of the major media networks focusing on the event, and she seemed to have the right credentials; but once connected, she confessed to him with a beguiling charm that she represented a fan group of over a million members and had "cheated a little" to ask for a few words on this big day that they were all sharing from afar. Mervyn's vanity was as massaged by the thought of a million idolizing fans as major network coverage, and he spoke for a full six minutes.

  * * *

  The same "doctor" from Lowell called one of Hamilton Gilder's vice presidents, whose name was Slessor Lomax, asking the same kinds of questions as he had put to Thornton Velte, but this time about the military contingent that had been taken to Lowell along with the Zorken group. Lomax was mystified because it was the kind of information that should come from the mercenary organization that employed them, not from Zorken. It seemed to take the doctor an inordinately long time to grasp the point, whereupon he hung up with apologies.

  It had been Slessor Lomax who first proposed and later ordered the use of military force at Troy.

  22

  A scream pierced the night, coming from the lakeside chalet in the grounds of the Constellation Suites, where the bride and groom were staying. Apprehensive domestic staff fluttered around the door, while behind them, guests who had been awakened or in the vicinity looked on. Word went around that a doctor had been called and was on the way. The head steward strode forward brandishing a master key, but just then the door opened and Marissa appeared in a pink velvet robe. Normally calm and controlled, she could only indicate the direction behind her with frantic nods of her head, at the same time gnawing her knuckle distraughtly. "It's Mervyn! He's got it! It's here! Oh, my God . . . !"

  While one of the night maids guided Marissa back to a chair and tried to calm her down, the head steward went through to the bedroom suite, followed by several of the guests. They found Mervyn Quinn staring, horrified, into the mirror wall behind the gilded bathroom sink and vanity unit. His face was sickly yellow, showing hints of a greenish tint in places.

  "Where is he? What's going on?" a voice demanded from the hallway outside.

  "The doctor and a nurse are here," someone announced.

  "We should call Hamilton," one of the guests said.

  * * *

  "Huh . . . ? Wha . . ." The call note from the comset by the bed dragged Hamilton Gilder up from the depths of a sleep fortified by copious administrations of champagne and century-old brandy.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Gilder. This is Dr. Dante, duty physician at Constellation Suites. We have an emergency, I'm afraid. It concerns your son-in-law, Mr. Quinn."

  The news brought Gilder abruptly back to wakefulness. "Mervyn? What's happened?"

  "He's feeling nauseous and has a facial discoloration. My first guess would be that he might have eaten something that disagreed with him, but Ms. Gilder insists that it's some kind of plague. To be honest, it's her that I'm more worried about."

  "Marissa?"

  "She's very disturbed."

  "I'll be right over."

  Gilder cut the connection, swung himself out of bed, and hurried through to the dressing room to pull on some pants. He grabbed a shirt and detoured back via the bathroom to splash water on his face. As he straightened up to reach for a brush to run through his hair, he froze at the sight of the face peering blearily back at him from the mirror.

  "Jesus Christ!" he breathed, staring disbelievingly.

  * * *

  Thornton Velte was still up, drinking with a group of cronies in the subdued light of an alcove outside the ballroom. I
n a visit to the men's room, someone had remarked that he was looking a bit pasty, but Velte dismissed it with a laugh and the comment that none of them was getting any younger. By the time he wandered out to get some air in the new light of Asgard's dawning sun, his condition had advanced several hours. A fellow guest gasped at his appearance and took him back inside to see himself in a mirror. Stunned but still rigidly disbelieving, Velte made his way with a couple of attending colleagues to the medical room, where they found Mervyn and Hamilton suffering from the same affliction. Minutes later, a gibbering Achilles Gilder called in from his own suite, whence his ladyfriend of the evening had just fled in terror. Slessor Lomax joined them within the hour.

  Food poisoning was the doctors' first suspicion, but it became less plausible as further checking showed the condition to be confined to just those five cases. One of the doctors recognized the symptoms as the ones affecting the corporation people and their military detail down on Mars, upon which the security head from the Oasis recalled the eccentric Asiatic who had visited Marissa there. Velte needed no further proof that the Martian Cross the Khal had given her to bring up to Asgard was the culprit. "It's impregnated with something or releasing something," he fumed as the facts strung themselves together before his eyes. "Get it over to the labs and find out what's in it. Take it apart down to the last molecule if you have to."

  They X-rayed the Cross, electromeasured it, sonogrammed it, broke it in pieces, ground parts of it to powder, and subjected samples to neutron activation tests, fluorescence tests, gas and liquid chromatography, various types of spectroscopy, nuclear magnetic resonance tests, a battery of solution assays, and biometric imaging. And they found . . . nothing. For the moment the experts were baffled.