PRAISE FOR REMAINS
“The best hard sf stuff is built around a soft core of humanity, and Mark Tiedemann’s Remains is no exception... That the hero and his compatriots are all too human gives him a chance to show off his understanding of the conflicted heart.”
SHARON SHINN
“An intricate tale of love, loss and betrayal played out amid a complex and fascinating techno-industrial setting.”
KRISTINE SMITH
PRAISE FOR MARK W. TIEDEMANN
“Mark Tiedemann is a writer of genuine talent and ability, who explores his cosmos with verve and a sense of wonder.”
DAVID BRIN
“one of science fiction’s great world-builders” JOHN SNIDER, SCIFIDIMENSIONS
“Mark Tiedemann writes with an engaging energy, gritty realism, and a genuine concern for his characters.”
JEFFREY CARVER
REMAINS
ALSO BY MARK W. TIEDEMANN
Compass Reach
Metal of Night
Peace & Memory
BENBELLA BOOKS Dallas, Texas
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Mark W. Tiedemann
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-publication data
Tiedemann, Mark W.
Remains / Mark W. Tiedemann.—BenBella Books ed. p.cm. ISBN 1-932100-49-0 I. Title. PS3620.133R46 2005 813’.6—DC22
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an ebookman scan
For Kelley Eskridge and Nicola Griffith, for innumerable kindnesses and excellent friendship.
Chapters
One – Mars, 2115
Two – Mars, 2115
Three – Lunase, 2116
Four – AEA, 2118
Five – AEA, 2118
Six – AEA, 2118
Seven – AEA, 2118
Eight – AEA, 2118
Nine – AEA, 2118
Ten – AEA, 2118
Eleven – AEA, 2118
Twelve – AEA, 2118
Thirteen – AEA, 2118
Fourteen – AEA, 2118
Fifteen – AEA, 2118
Sixteen – AEA, 2118
Seventeen – AEA, 2118
Eighteen – AEA, 2118
One – Mars, 2115
MACE PRESTON BRUSHED REDDISH SAND off the dented and scarred recorder, tucked it under his arm and started the long trudge up the slope to the rim of the excavation. Like most of the debris found so far, the dark box showed signs of having been ripped from its moorings and tossed around by the hurricane-force winds that then buried the site beneath nearly seven million cubic meters of Martian dust.
As he reached the edge and stepped onto the solid ground of Hellas Planitia, Mace looked back at the ruin below. Diggers moved methodically, pumping and sifting sand, lowering the level of the burial, and concentrated extra effort at the far wall where the magline tunnel entered the site. Snaking tubes draped up over the rim at intervals, clouds of reddish dust shooting from their maws. Equipment jutted from the drifts below like toys abandoned in a playground. Eighty-nine bodies had been tangled up with broken habitats, tools, chemical wastes, food, clothes and construction material. Many had been uncovered already, but the excavation went slowly so as not to miss anything that might provide a clue about what had happened. Mace’s patience wore thin. One of those corpses might be his wife.
Around the edge of the rectangular trough stood huge stanchions, three meters wide and two high, at thirty-meter intervals. Wispy black threads clung to their bases, part of what remained of the molifiber sheeting that had covered the trough. The stanchions held the fabric tight over the volume, keeping an atmosphere in and the Martian winds out. At least, it had. No one yet knew exactly when that failure had occurred, only that during the recent sandstorm that had blown with 300 to 350 kilometer-per-hour strength across Hellas Planitia for nearly forty-five days the interlocking molecules somehow unlocked, the sheet tore, letting out the pressurized atmosphere within the site, immediately followed by the sand that had killed everyone and then filled the manmade hole. Mace guessed that the disaster had occurred during the past seven days. He had talked to Helen eight days ago. Then communications went down.
Mace seethed. So far all the recorders that had been found had been disconnected prior to the catastrophe. Not one had contained a recoverable record of the incident. No one had used the word “sabotage” yet, but Mace doubted anyone believed this had been an accident.
“Mr. Preston,” a voice spoke through his earpiece. “Someone here to see you.”
Mace turned toward the carryall squatting a few dozen meters away. Just beyond its hulking mass, Mace saw a three-passenger dusthopper that had not been there when he had left the carryall earlier.
“I’m coming in,” he said. “I have another recovery.”
No response. He made his way to the carryall with his find. The airlock was near the forward section of the twenty-meter-long vehicle emblazoned with the stylized star-and-fullerene logo of PolyCarb Intra-Solar, the main contractor on the site. His employers. A few more carryalls stood at intervals around the outside of the dig.
Mace stomped his feet just inside the hatch, raising small clouds of wispy red dust. Cyclers sucked it in, clearing it from the air before he went through to the inner lock.
He entered the cramped prep chamber and pulled his breather mask off. The cooler air tasted of plastic and metal. He had been outside for six and a half hours.
The specialist on duty accepted the recorder from Mace to log in. Then he took Mace’s breather pack and hooked it into a recharger on the wall. Mace carefully peeled out of his overskin, mindful of the pendant hanging from his neck, while the specialist busied himself behind his small desk.
“Pushing it a bit,” the man said. “Regs say never less than an hour’s supply.”
“Anybody else bring anything in?”
“No, sir. Mr. Cavery’s still out, though.”
Winston Cavery had been head of on-site security here before Mace arrived three days ago. Mace had assumed his position, demoting Cavery to his second.
“Who’s waiting to see me?” Mace asked, annoyed at being reminded of safety regulations.
“Company brass, out of Burroughs. Just got in a couple hours ago. Didn’t catch the name. She’s with Overseer Oxmire, forward in ops.”
Mace felt tired now that he was in normal air with normal pressure. He was ready to clean up and sleep. Instead, he slipped into a soft one-piece utility and went past the specialist into the main lounge. The smell of coffee and cocoa filled the air, drawing hi
m to the dispenser. He drew a cup of hot cocoa, then went forward into main ops.
“—shouldn’t even be here. He had no authorization—”
Mace stepped over the threshold. Cliff Oxmire, the recovery site manager, leaned against a console on the opposite side of the elliptical space, heavy arms folded over a wide chest. He looked up at Mace with a skeptical smirk.
Hobs, the ops cyberlink, reclined in his couch, a cable plugged into the socket at the base of his skull, plugging him into the database. His fingers twitched, a byproduct of whatever direct stimulation his brain received from the data flow. He was deep into the link, oblivious to anything else in the room.
The woman talking to Oxmire had her back to Mace when he entered. She turned now Tall, olive-skinned, with thick black hair and wide-set dark brown eyes, she looked displeased to see Mace.
“Mace Preston,” Oxmire said. He lowered his arms. “This is Cambel Guerrera. Corporate liaison.”
“You asked to see me?” Mace asked.
“My request,” she said. “Yes. Can we go somewhere private?”
“Use my cabin,” Oxmire said.
Mace led the way back through the lounge, down a narrow corridor lined with sleeping berths stacked three high, some with curtains drawn. Oxmire’s cabin was a cubicle just outside the equipment stores, a space barely long enough for a bunk bed, just wide enough for a fold-down desk and a commlink.
Guerrera closed the narrow door behind her.
“Just what do you think you’re doing here, Mr. Preston?”
She held up a hand. “Before you start making excuses, let me tell you what I’m doing here. Among other things, I’ve been sent to evaluate your conduct in relation to this incident. You were in Burroughs, 500 kilometers from here, four days ago, running security for Director Listrom’s tour. You abandoned that assignment to come here. Right now that looks like dereliction and failure to follow procedure. You just took off, talked your way onto a transport full of rescue workers, and came here. Since arriving here you have replaced the head of security and run his operations as your own. You did this with no authorization from the company at any point, from any level. That’s breach of contract. Cavery complained to Oxmire, Oxmire filed an official protest, which you ignored. Insubordination. Have I missed anything?”
Mace hesitated. He felt his anger rise. Calm down, he told himself. “No. Not yet.”
“We can expect more?”
“Depends what we find here.”
She crossed her arms. The fingers of her right hand drummed briefly on her left bicep. “Why did you abandon your assignment in Burroughs?”
“My wife is here.”
Cambel Guerrera blinked, her entire posture changing. “Oh. I didn’t know that. Who—?”
“Her name is Helen. Helen Croslo. She’s a special projects consultant. Troubleshooter.”
Guerrera’s arms fell. “I see. That—I can understand your being upset, then, but—”
“Cavery’s good, but I needed to be here. I needed to do this myself.”
Cambel Guerrera frowned. Clearly she had expected something else, something for which a reprimand or worse might be not only required, but justified. Action was still likely—he had walked off a job to come here—but circumstances might lessen the severity. She nodded slowly. “You haven’t done yourself any favors, Mr. Preston. Director Listrom is rather upset.”
“I left him in good hands.”
“That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have ‘left him’ in anybody’s hands. I can understand the impulse, but there are rules.”
“What would you have done?”
“That’s also beside the point.” She pursed her lips, regarding him. “I’m going to spend the next couple of days here. I’m to make a report on progress and on you. This is a very important contract for PolyCarb. We need to know what happened here, sooner rather than later. How did you know about the accident, by the way? It’s been kept off the open media.”
“Helen and I had been talking every other day. She missed two calls, then I found out the link was down to the site.”
“And?”
“And what? I’m a security specialist, Ms. Guerrera. I found out what happened.”
“From whom?”
“I’m not getting anybody else in trouble. This was my decision to come out here.”
“You pulled rank, in other words.”
“What else is it for?”
“You’re a Martian, aren’t you?”
“Originally. I’m Aean now.”
“And your wife?”
“Aean by birth.”
“Is that how you became Aean? Through marriage?”
“Do you have a point to make?”
Guerrera’s arms came back up, refolded. “I would suggest you stop giving me attitude. You’re the one in violation of company rules, Mr. Preston. I can either help you or hurt you.”
“Which would you rather do?”
“I’m inclined to help you. Stop pushing me in the other direction.”
Mace caught himself before provoking her again. He was tired and, he admitted, frightened. He had been plunging forward for three days now on adrenaline and hope. Both were fading.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally “What do you need to know?”
Cambel herself seemed to be fighting impatience. She sighed heavily. “Do you understand how important this project was? Is? This was the first leg of the CircumAres Underground entirely run by PolyCarb. Up till now we’ve been consultants and subcontractors.”
“I read all the press material, Ms. Guerrera. That’s what Listrom’s doing in Burroughs, making nice with the Martian elite.”
“So you have a sense how bad this makes us look.”
“I admit I haven’t given a lot of thought to PolyCarb’s image since I’ve been here.”
“Do. It’s not just PolyCarb. To Mars, we’re Aea. A lot of them don’t believe we know how to do anything on a planet.”
Mace understood what she meant. He had grown up hearing jokes about the orbitals, about people living in airless space, not knowing which end was up because there was no ground beneath their feet. Aea was the oldest and largest of the orbital communities. Mars was fast becoming the largest surface-bound colony, catching up to Lunase on the moon. Over decades competition had evolved between the orbitals and the planetaries. Despite their joint membership in the Trans System Congress—what was known as Signatory Space—it threatened to create serious divisions. Aea’s work on the Jovian moons and now on Mars promised to head off such splits before they became endemic.
Martians admired good engineering. But it had to be surface engineering, planetbound, for them to trust the engineers. The Maglev underground project would go a long way toward convincing Martians that Aeans could be trusted.
“In a couple more days,” he said, “Helen would’ve been done. We had it scheduled to meet at the Burroughs Grand Mariner and spend a couple days before catching a liner back to Aea.”
His vision fragmented suddenly, the light shimmering. He blinked, wiped at his eyes. A convulsion threatened to take him over. He sniffed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Preston. I would like a full report on what you’ve found here. I’ll be getting reports from others as well.”
He could not speak without losing control. He nodded, raising a hand in assent.
“Have they... have they found her yet?”
Mace shook his head, not looking up. Cambel Guerrera left the cabin.
Mace sat down on Oxmire’s bunk to wait for the spell to pass. So far, since arriving on the site, he had managed to be alone when these episodes overtook him. Usually, he was tired when it happened. If he just waited it out, self-control returned.
He managed to suppress his tears. He went back to ops. Hobs was still there, plugged in and effectively absent. Mace sat down at the security console. He entered his code, waited for the clearance, then connected to Burroughs. A personnel file came up on the screen and he touche
d the icon for his second. He put the earpiece on as the link opened.
“Hey boss.”
“How did it go?” Mace asked.
“Mr. Listrom is extremely upset. The company sent someone to check you out.”
“I know, she’s here. What can you tell me about her?”
“Cambel Guerrera, been with PolyCarb about five years, moving up fast, but not exceptionally so. She has a reputation for fairness and thoroughness. She didn’t go alone. There’s an adjuster from the company with her, guy named Piers Hawthorne. Upper-mid-level type, standard clearance.”
“An adjuster. Why? Isn’t it a bit soon?”
“There’s a security cordon around the site now. Martian authorities agreed to the request from the company We want to find out what happened before anything goes public. Hawthorne needed to get there to do his job, theirs was the last scheduled flight.”
“That’ll be great for morale. I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Boss, you may have done me a favor, but this might cost you.”
“I’ll handle that. I just needed to know what kind of bureaucrat they sent me.”
“Uh... have you found anything yet?”
“No.”
“Well, look. Good luck, boss.”
He closed the link and removed the earpiece. When he turned around, Cliff Oxmire was sitting at his own board. Mace stood and Oxmire looked up.
“Cavery just reported uncovering another cluster of bodies,” Oxmire said. “Just north of the tunnel entrance.”
Mace felt his pulse pick up. “And?”
“And I just checked your duty log. You’re pushing your limit on surface work, Mace. Maybe you should get some sleep.” When Mace hesitated, Oxmire added, “I suggest you do it voluntarily. I can order it, but that goes on your record.”
“How am I supposed to relax after what you just told me?”
“Take a pill. I will tell you when we have ID on the bodies or if anything else turns up that you need to know about.”
“I’m supposed to determine that.”
Oxmire said nothing. Mace knew he was right, that it was within his authority to make Mace stay in the carryall for a number of hours.
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