Pools of Yarah

by J Gurley

  9

  Mars

  Captain Moore was deeply concerned for his missing crew. He had heard nothing from them in twenty-four hours. It was not that he doubted Lieutenant Lorst’s ability as a capable First Officer. Her only problem was that she did not have enough faith in her own abilities. The last message they had received from the shuttle was terse and cryptic: Taking fire from active defense satellites. The implications were ominous.

  No further messages followed. Long-range scans provided no useful information. He had waited in orbit a full day, ignoring the Martians’ repeated requests that he land, in hope that the shuttle would limp back to Mars. Now, he was out of options. He contacted President Anjiro of Mars.

  “Mr. President,” he started. He was unsure how to relate his problem. After all, the president had warned them not to visit Earth. He hated going to anyone on bended knee. “I have a problem. One of our shuttles was near Earth orbit, scanning the planet, when we lost contact with it. They reported active satellites.”

  “The Planetary Defense Grid,” President Anjiro explained. “We warned you. We have lost many ships over the years attempting to reach Earth. I am afraid your shuttle crew is dead. There is nothing we can do.”

  The finality of the president’s tone made Moore’s blood pressure rise. He had dealt with many petty bureaucrats and local politicians in his long years of trading. They were as ubiquitous as rats. Every world had some genus of rat skulking in the alleyways and lurking in the dark underbelly of the cities. They had migrated outward with mankind, at times seemingly arriving before the colony ships. Throughout colonized space, a bureaucrat’s stock response to any crisis was to wring their hands and shrug.

  Putting on his best diplomatic face, he said, “We’re not asking you to do anything, Mr. President. We take care of our own. What I need is all the information available on these satellite defense systems.”

  “I’m afraid that will not be possible. We have no such records.”

  With a little practice, Moore had found that could understand most of what Anjiro said. The differences between the two languages were slight even after a thousand years. The odd inflection of his words and cadence made it difficult to determine the emotion behind them, but he knew a bold-faced lie when he heard one. Bureaucrats kept records on everything. It was their only function in life. They kept records on record keeping. Enough was enough. He had no time to play silly little diplomatic games. He was no diplomat. He was a Trader’s Guild merchant ship captain, and his friends were in danger.

  “Mr. President,” he yelled. “I refuse to believe you have no records of your encounters with the Earth defense satellites. My crew is in danger and I need your help. Our people are used to dealing with backward planets like this. Either you send over those records right now, or I shall seed your planet’s atmosphere with a cloud of nano-scavengers. Within ten of your days, they will have devoured every building on this planet down to the bare metal. You’ll be forced to bang two rocks together to start a fire.”

  Of course, he had no nano-scavengers, if such a thing existed, but President Anjiro did not know that. He hoped the president had as much difficulty analyzing his motives as he did the president. He had read something about such devices once, but couldn’t remember if it was in a trade magazine or a science fiction novel. As he had hoped, his idle threat produced the desired results.

  “There is no need for threats, captain. The people of Mars are concerned only for your safety. What records we have, however limited in scope, we will gladly provide. However, this might take a few days. Such records are stored in the archives. If we can help you in any way, please contact us.”

  Moore imagined the President was already calling a meeting of his advisors to discuss the threat of nano-scavengers. He hoped that, like most bureaucrats, he would not bother to consult any real experts in the field, but instead rely on the advice of the usual bootlicking, politically correct leeches who attached themselves to powerful people.

  Alexi Secord, his engineer, interrupted Moore’s pleasurable mental image of President Anjiro scrambling around his office. “Sir, I’ve picked up the shuttle’s transponder. There is a lot of interference from solar radiation, but I’m sure it’s them. It’s coming from the planet.”

  “Good news,” Moore told him “At least they made it down in one piece. Have you tried to contact them?” he asked, before realizing that Secord would have done that automatically.

  “Well, yes, sir. There’s no reply. I’m cutting through the interference. They’re just not sending.”

  Moore knew that the shuttle’s transponder would activate automatically in a catastrophic event. He was not enjoying the dark mental image his mind was conjuring. “They might have crashed.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve thought of that, but I’m also picking up very faint traces of a personal transponder. Someone is alive down there. That means they could have landed safely and activated the shuttle transponder manually. Of course, I have no way of knowing what condition they may be.”

  Secord sounded defensive. Moore knew he was taking the blame for not being able to contact the crew of the downed shuttle. They were his friends and shipmates. He decided Secord needed a pat on the back. He was doing everything in his power to locate the crew, and he would continue to work until they had exhausted all possibilities.

  “Good job, Secord. We know someone is still alive down there. Lieutenant Lorst is a good officer, and she has a good crew. The president has promised to help us rescue our shipmates, but between you and me, it will be up to us to do the job. Get with Nest and Awe. See if you can boost the transponder signal. We will need a precise location.” Nest O’Conner and Awe Angina were both skilled technicians. If anyone could solve the communications problem, they could. “Also, we’ll need something powerful enough to knock out a defense satellite.”

  Secord thought for a moment. “Our laser won’t be enough, and the satellite’s scanners would detect any missiles long before they reached target. If the Martians don’t have anything powerful enough to do the job, we’ll have to invent one, perhaps some type of Electro-Magnetic Pulse weapon. We can get close enough to launch two or three modified missiles with E-M warheads. That should confuse the scanners. Even if the defense satellite is shielded, it won’t be able to handle a series of pulses radiating in different spectrums from different sources.” He closed his eyes in thought for a moment or two. “We have the material here, but it will take at least five days to construct and test the devices. It’s very delicate work. One mistake and I could fry the Baldry’s electronics.”

  Moore knew Secord was extremely capable though perhaps a bit overly cautious. He couldn’t leave his crew marooned for another week. “Don’t worry about testing it, just cobble it together. We’ll test it on the defense satellite. We don’t have time to be cautious. Our people could be dying down there.”

  He knew he was taking a risk, but his crew was family to him. Most of them had been with the ship for years. He was godfather to half the children and had performed all of the weddings. He was not about to lose a single one if he could help it. Leaving Secord and his crew to work, he decided it was time to pay a personal visit to His High Uppity Lord, President Anjiro. Time to light a fire under his bureaucratic ass, he thought.

  “Matamoras, inform the fine people of Mars that we are landing. Double check the coordinates they provided to be certain they’re playing nice. We don’t want any surprises.

  *

  An hour later, he was on the train running from the spaceport to Robinson City, the capital. He had learned a bit about the history of Mars from tapping into their computer network, though not as much as he would have liked. As he stared out the window, he realized Mars looked much like Earth prior to the Great Migration. The sky was a very pale blue, although even in the daylight some stars were visible overhead. The soil, where not covered by a carpet of low-growing vegetation that looked like feathers, was a rusty brown color. The atmosphere was st
ill low in oxygen and high in carbon dioxide compared to Earth, but one could walk about unhindered by a cumbersome environmental suit or breather if they were careful not to overexert themselves.

  The Great Migration had bypassed Mars and its fledging colonies in the haste to abandon Earth. The first ion-propelled multigenerational ships had been on their journey for fifty years when the first Skip Drive ship, harnessing the incredible power of artificially created miniature black holes, launched from Earth’s orbit. Many of the lumbering multigenerational ships arrived at their destinations only to find thriving colonies already planted by the faster Skip Drive ships. Some, learning of the likelihood of finding their chosen planet already colonized, chose new destinations. However, a few, dismayed by the poor likelihood of success, returned to Earth.

  They arrived during the height of the solar flares engulfing Earth and chose to settle on Mars. The fourth planet’s distance from the sun offered some protection from the massive solar bombardment. They expanded the struggling existing colonies underground for protection. Then, they pumped water from vast subterranean caverns, cracked it into oxygen and hyrdrogen, used the hydrogen as fuel, and released the oxygen into the atmosphere, slowly creating a protective ozone layer. The thin atmosphere trapped the additional solar output, raising the planet’s mean average temperature by eight degrees Celsius, making seeding the planet’s surface with ground cover to provide more oxygen and as a source for carbon more viable. In a way, his ancestors, the Scattered Ones, had settled Mars. It even looked much like his childhood home on Sanchez. There were no oceans, but a chain of shallow interconnected seas dotted the planet’s surface.

  The Presidential Palace was an imposing hexagonal building constructed of Martian red limestone topped by a mirrored glass dome. It offered a magnificent view of the Thesis Bulge and a small forest of cedars marching majestically along a waterway. President Anjiro was nervous, wringing his hands as he met Moore. Surrounding him was the usual perfunctory group of lackeys carrying computer slates. A tall man, the President appeared short surrounded by his even taller, lanky staff members. Almost all the Martians Moore had met so far were tall and thin. The slightly lower gravity explained the increased height. Their habit of consuming numerous small but elaborate meals and years of genetic modification had eliminated obesity and encouraged a svelte physique.

  Carrying a slightly larger stomach than he wished and standing barely one-hundred-sixty-seven centimeters tall, Moore felt somewhat uncomfortable among such gaunt company. Then he remembered his threat to the President. He would bluster his way through as he had done so often before. He sucked in his gut and stood as tall and as proud as he could manage. To these people, he was the representative of a foreign and possibly extremely advanced culture.

  “Ah, Captain Moore,” Anjiro called as he spotted the captain. “We have all the information on Earth’s defenses we could find on such short notice.” He indicated a slate one of his attendants held out in the open palms of his hands, as if an offering of gold or jewels.

  Moore accepted the slate graciously and bowed slightly. “I regret my earlier incivility, Mr. President. It’s just that my crew is my only family, and I was driven by my deep concern for their safety.” He swallowed hard to force down the taste of bile his apology was creating in his mouth. He hoped the Martians had something suitable with which to wash out his mouth. “I withdraw any threats I have made and gladly accept any and all assistance you can offer.” He felt that apologizing now that the president had already acceded to his wishes was perhaps a bit magnanimous, but it indicated a willingness to allow the president to appear to be in charge, saving face.

  As he expected, President Anjiro seized on his conciliatory gesture with all the tact of a true diplomat. He puffed out his chest and smiled broadly. “No apology is necessary, my dear captain. I fully understand your, er, ah, somewhat emotional outburst. I show the same concern for my people. Rest assured my people are even now at work on several methods of rescuing your downed ship.”

  He smiled at the president. “We may have come up with a solution, but I will require the assistance of some of your asteroid miners.”

  Moore had already made the acquaintance of several miners when he had sold his mining equipment to them for a tidy profit and had found them to be a down to earth people, more like Traders than Martians. With no common currency, he had accepted items he hoped would be in high demand back on the settled worlds. With such deals came the risk of failure, but his innate sense of what would sell hadn’t failed him yet. The Altruscon nuclear drilling rigs he carried were far superior to any the Martians had in operation. Manned by crews of two instead of the usual ten men, they proved a valuable trade item. In gratitude, the Miner’s Alliance had promised to assist him in his endeavors. The approval of the president was merely a political maneuver designed to garner more votes in the ruling council for the miners. Moore figured having political influence could not hurt in future dealings with Earth or Mars. The Traders Guild had operated in this manner for centuries. “If it works, use it” was his motto.

  The president looked shocked and somewhat annoyed that Moore had arrived at a solution before his people could, but he recovered quickly. “That is wonderful!” he gushed. “I assure you anything I can do to, er, facilitate the assistance of the miners will be done. Can you tell me what your plan is?”

  “I had rather wait until my engineers report their findings, Mr. President. Things may change several times before plans are finalized.” Actually, he did not want Martian engineers bothering him with their contributions. They had never recovered a ship from Earth space. It was unlikely that any plan they contrived would be viable. Besides, he thought with amusement, they might not like my solution.

  “Ah, yes. It is the same in politics also: so many variables to be considered, so many egos to be salved.”

  Moore barely covered a chuckle with a strategic cough.

  “Well, dear captain, I know you are a busy man, but would you honor me by having lunch with me? It has been a trying day. A delicious meal and a glass of local brandy would do much to ease the burden of command.”

  Moore sighed. He hardly had the time to spare, but brandy – that was another matter entirely. He could put up with the pompous twit at least long enough for a bite to eat and a glass, or perhaps two, of brandy. He had been fortunate enough to sample Martian brandy during his meeting with the miners. So far, the local liquor was the only thing about Mars he liked. In fact, part of his deal with the miners had included several cases of Martian brandy. He hoped it would prove as profitable a trade item as the drilling equipment.

  “I would like nothing better, Mr. President,” he answered with a broad smile.

  “Please, call me Alfons.”

  “Certainly, Alfons. Call me Captain. It’s the only name I answer to. I’ve forgotten the others.”

  The humor was lost on the president. “Come then, Captain. Let us dine.”

  He walked beside the president while the entourage followed dutifully a few steps behind. He could not help feeling that next to the Martians, he looked like a barbarian invader from some nether region of space. Perhaps when he returned to the ship he would trim his beard and hair. He ignored the slight tittering of onlookers as the bells in his braided beard tinkled as he walked. He quietly reached up and removed them, then surreptitiously placed them in his pocket.

  10

  The Journals of Arun Kane

  “I have set these words to tablet in order to help others understand the reasoning behind my actions,” Hramack read from the journal Kaffa had given him. In the back of his mind, he wondered what process the ancients had used to etch the words into the metal pages, but the enormity of hearing a voice from the past overcame his curiosity. “History will judge me as it will, for I have done what I thought necessary in order to save mankind and to end the bitter enslavement of our people.

  “When it was first discovered that the Earth’s sun was slowly increasing its
radiation output to a lethal level, the nations of the world reluctantly set aside old wounds and differences to unite in a noble effort to reach the stars. The newly formed Alliance of Nations oversaw the construction of a fleet of two-kilometer-long multi-generation ships in Earth’s orbit to transport carefully selected crews and passengers to new homes beyond the stars. Recently developed antigravity drive engines lifted great tankers of water to provide fuel for the fusion reactors and radiation shielding for the ships. The undertaking was monumental. Tankers of water, freighters filled with supplies, and shuttles filled with lucky passengers left the surface at the rate of five hundred a day, forming a cloud in the sky. This continued for forty years. Even so, only a small fraction of Earth’s population went aboard the ships, less than eight million people. Many people chose sterilization to reduce the population. Some governments enforced mandatory sterilization on all but a carefully selected few destined for the ships.

  “Sadly, the initial cooperation of nations fell apart under the financial and political burdens of such a mammoth undertaking. Petty jealousies, the hoarding of dwindling resources, the reluctance to allocate food and medicines to the most impoverished nations, and waves of religious fervor simmered and festered until wars broke out. Most were small border wars, but ensuing famine and disease killed tens of millions in the most affected nations.

  “Skip Drive technology developed in the late Twenty-Third Century reduced the stellar journeys to mere weeks instead of decades or centuries, allowing cheaper and smaller ships to make multiple journeys to distant worlds. Over a hundred-year period, half of Earth’s remaining population abandoned their birth world for new homes beyond the stars, leaving only a dozen domed cities as refuges against an environment steadily growing more hostile to life. Those not selected for the domes or those who refused to enter the domes for whatever reason established what shelters they could, but most perished.