“Inside the small craft,” shouted Gaspar to the boy. “Now!” He grasped the girl by the hair. She didn’t even squeal in protest. He would have preferred a little squeal, but that could wait. Right now he needed to get aboard the only remaining means of escape along with the boy and the girl. He took long strides to the get-about, forcing the girl to come with him.
“Get over here or I shoot the girl,” shouted Gaspar. “I want you at the helm, boy. Now!” He roared, wishing Renard had a more threatening voice.
The boy shook his head. “My aunt wants her alive. You won’t shoot her.” Saying this, the boy dashed away, taking cover behind the M-class ship.
Renard could hear him scrabbling along the backside of the transport between boulders.
“Shizer!” said Gaspar. He had a quick decision to make. He could shoot the girl—knee or foot would prevent her from running—but he wasn’t sure he could find the boy, disable him, and still make it back to the ship before the Chancellor’s apocalypse hit. “Shizer!” he repeated.
Better the girl than nothing at all.
He forced her into the small craft—she was remarkably docile—and set a course for Budapest. “Fly this thing,” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be a pilot, aren’t you? Flew all the way from Mars? So, fly!”
She sat still.
“Fly this thing or I run out there and shoot the boy!”
He ought to have taken the helm. The girl at his side sobbed and gasped and tears ran down either side of her face as though she’d not heard a word he’d said.
“Are you a pilot or not?” he roared.
Something in the girl seemed to click. She turned and gave him a look that would have melted icebergs with its fiery heat.
“And don’t try anything stupid—the ship has a CCMS.”
Jessamyn took the craft hard into the sky, causing Gaspar to curse and grab at his seat as they rocketed into the dark of night.
42
HARBINGER
Jessamyn did not speak during the first four hours of the journey. She flew, providing for her hands and mind an occupation, a safeguard against facing the enormity of her losses. She flew and flew and flew.
Her ship, the Red Hope was surely in pieces now, destroyed by missiles.
Don’t think about it. Just fly.
Jessamyn would never see Mars again. Or anyone for whom she cared.
Fly, pilot. Don’t think.
And Pavel. Pavel, who had tried to save her. He must be dead. A choked wail escaped her. If death awaited her in Budapest—and she felt certain it did—she would welcome it.
Fly toward death. Fly to it.
But gradually she began to see that her own death was anything but certain. She would face not execution, but interrogation. And if she laid bare to Lucca the things she knew, the secrets she carried, then Mars would stand no chance at all.
She had to prevent that from happening. She had to find strength. And thinking about the losses she’d suffered was not going to keep her strong. And so, carefully, Jessamyn walled each of her losses within an imaginary fortress.
She placed her regrets for the accusations she’d hurled at Pavel inside one room and sealed the door shut. She placed her terror that he lived no more into another room and closed it off. She placed her fears for Harpreet and for Ethan in another room, securing them within. Her regret that she would never see Mars again required several doors, each heavier than the last. And when she had sealed the fortress, she dropped the keys into a very deep, very dark well.
Once her griefs were inaccessible, she found that one emotion remained: rage. And her rage against all Lucca had taken felt to Jessamyn both powerful and grand. It gave her strength to face what lay before her. It reminded her that only the present moment was real. So she flew. And as she flew, she steeled herself for a confrontation with the Terran Chancellor.
What would the Chancellor suspect already—what would she have deduced from the wreckage of the Galleon? Or from the destruction of the facility governing the Terran satellites circling Mars? If Jess sent the ship hurtling into the Arctic Ocean right now, would Mars have a better chance of surviving? Would there remain a chance for Ethan to complete his mission at Cameron Wallace’s? Jess didn’t even know if Cameron had deep space satellites.
And what if the Chancellor knew everything already?
Lucca couldn’t know everything, Jess decided, Or else she wouldn’t want me alive. She wants me alive because she thinks I have information. So it would be interrogation. Jess took a deep breath. She wanted to believe she would never betray her world or its secrets. But she’d read enough stories to be unfortunately well-informed as to the likely outcome of the combination of questioning and torture.
The man at her side examined her with narrowed eyes upon seeing her sitting up a bit straighter.
She determined she would crash the ship and end both their lives.
Quickly, pilot. Don’t think about it. She pointed the nose down hard.
Gaspar, at her side, did something unexpected. He laughed.
At the same moment, the ship corrected itself, preventing the attempted crash.
“I told you,” he said. “CCMS.”
Jessamyn would not give him the satisfaction of asking what “CCMS” stood for.
Her heart racing, she realized she would be facing Lucca after all. Which was a dreadful thing to contemplate and should have left her shaking in fear. But deep inside, a small part of her whispered, Where there’s life, there’s hope.
To what use could she put her life, then?
Jessamyn wondered if this man knew something of what the Chancellor suspected about Mars and the raiding crew. It was time for Jess to begin her career as a liar.
Renard, or whoever he was, had attempted to engage her in conversation several times. He’d cajoled and he’d threatened. Most recently, he’d tried sympathizing with her. It was time to pick his mind for answers.
He was vain; she’d determined that much. And an admirer of the Chancellor.
Jess interrupted the silence as they flew south along the coast of Europe.
“Is she a reasonable employer, the Chancellor?”
Not-Renard snapped to attention, murmuring, “It speaks,” in an undertone.
“I want to know what she can offer me that Mars cannot.”
The man smirked. “How good is the rebody program on Mars?”
Jess snorted in derision. “We live twice your pathetic lifespans.” Having said this, she realized her knee-jerk tendency to disparage all things Terran wasn’t going to serve her well. Perhaps she would turn out to be a very bad liar on Earth as opposed to on Mars.
The man angled his body so that he could look her directly in the eyes. “Why did you come here? It’s the first thing she’ll want to know. That, and, how far behind you is the Martian invasion?”
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“Because old Gaspar won’t damage your flesh to get the truth out of you.”
“That’s your real name? Gaspar?”
“What’s in a name? I’ve worn many.” He smiled. “So why not tell me everything? In the end she’ll make you wish you had, you know.”
Jessamyn frowned. She wanted to say she was done talking. But Budapest was less than an hour distant, and this man could provide her with insights she lacked.
“So the Chancellor believes I’m the forerunner to an invasion?”
Gaspar looked at her sharply. “You won’t find us unprepared, girl. We’ve done the math. Even if you’ve been cloning and forcing all your women to give birth to multiple sets of twins, your army can’t number more than twenty-thousand. Thirty if you make the very old and the very young fight as well.”
This surprised Jessamyn. Someone had been thinking about this. So the Chancellor thought Jessamyn came as a harbinger of war.
Gaspar’s voice softened. “Of course, if you’re serious about changing loyalties and asking the Chancellor to harbor you, the rewards could
be great. Very great.”
Jessamyn nodded as though considering what he said carefully.
“You asked what kind of employer she is? The kind who appreciates a show of strength. There’s a reason I chose the name of Gaspar Bonaparte.” His eyes narrowed. “You do know Bonaparte, you Martians? Great Emperor?”
Who died imprisoned, stripped of everything, thought Jessamyn. Her only response was a curt nod.
“You really ought to consider telling me everything,” said Gaspar.
But Jessamyn was too busy considering what she ought to tell the Chancellor—how to play upon or against her fears of a Marsian invasion.
“Have it your own way,” said Gaspar at last. “The angrier she is with you, the less I’ll suffer her wrath.”
43
EQUIDIMA
Jessamyn was shoved onto her knees in a room that appeared to be a very luxurious sleeproom, of all things. She’d been blindfolded as soon as she’d landed the craft under Gaspar’s direction. After that, she’d been left in a drafty room for what felt like an hour. Her eyes adjusted with difficulty to the very bright lighting in the new room. Reflective surfaces—polished chrome, mirrors, glass—increased the sense of pervasive illumination.
At the focal point of all that light stood Lucca Brezhnaya. Jessamyn was relieved to find she would not have to wait untold days to learn her fate. The Chancellor struck Jess as someone who would enjoy making people wait.
“Ah, there you are,” said Lucca, as she might have said to a misplaced stylus or pair of reading lenses.
As Jessamyn’s eyes adjusted, she saw the Chancellor was being sewn into an elegant gown by a woman in a simple grey uniform. Jess couldn’t tell if the dress was shimmering in the light or creating luminosity on its own. It appeared to be made of flame, blood red. Jessamyn thought of Yucca all-ablaze and then tried not to think of Yucca. She especially tried not to think of Pavel. This was a time to be hard, not yielding. She imagined once more the fortress within which sheltered all that was soft or tender or vulnerable about her.
“I don’t have time to question you properly right now, as I have an investiture to attend,” continued the Chancellor. “And I really can’t risk soiling the lovely confection Zabrina’s created for me.”
The woman in grey shuddered as the Chancellor spoke her name.
“Careful with that needle, girl!” warned Lucca.
Zabrina murmured an apology.
The Chancellor took in a slow, deep breath as if to calm herself.
She’s nervous, thought Jessamyn. The realization brought a small measure of strength. On the other hand, the Chancellor wasn’t the one on her knees with her hands secured behind her back.
“I thought we’d get started using Equidima,” said Lucca. “Seeing as I’m stuck here for … however long it takes Zabrina to finish up.”
Jessamyn remained silent.
“It’s just there on the table beside you, dear,” said the Chancellor. “The med-patch. I believe you are familiar with their application?”
Jess stared at the woman before her, flushing. Lucca was referring, of course, to the time Jess had slapped a narcotic onto the Chancellor.
“Oh,” said Lucca. “I forgot you’re still shackled. Release,” she said in a tone of authority.
The bindings on Jessamyn’s wrists fell separated, although on each wrist the manacle remained, reminding Jess of the genie in the story.
“Hurry up, girl,” said Lucca. “I haven’t all evening.”
Angry words exploded from Jessamyn at last. “Are you insane? Do you seriously think I’m going to inject myself with Equidima?”
“Yes,” said the Chancellor, as if explaining something to a wayward child. “I think you are going to do as I request.”
“Or you’ll kill me, I suppose? Go ahead. What are you waiting for?”
The Chancellor laughed. It was a light laugh, but there was nothing merry or soft about it. “No, my dear. Should you refuse me, I will find it necessary to kill Zabrina, I’m afraid.”
“You …What?” sputtered Jess.
Zabrina sewed more swiftly, her lips pulling into a thin line, a furrow forming between her eyes.
“Apply the medpatch or watch me end Zabrina’s life,” said the Chancellor. The fingers of her right hand flexed slightly. “Beg.” The order was directed not to Jessamyn but to the woman sewing faster than ever now.
“Please, miss,” said the dressmaker. “It’s not my life that matters. But I have a sister. She’s not … normal. She requires special care. My position here makes the special care possible. Please, miss, please—”
From the pleading girl’s work basket, Lucca procured a wicked-looking pair of dressmaking shears.
“Stop it!” shouted Jess, peeling back the wrapping from the medpatch. She slapped it violently to her inner wrist. “Your dress is done. Get the girl out of here!”
Lucca’s red lips pulled back to reveal white teeth. “You may go, Zabrina. I’ll see you for tomorrow’s fitting.”
The young woman in grey scuttled from the room, not even taking a moment to gather her sewing kit.
“Now, then,” said the Chancellor. “Let’s talk, you and I.”
Jessamyn remembered how words had tumbled from her when Pavel had used the truth-telling drug on her months ago. She recalled as well his admission that he was worthless under its influence. Would she prove worthless under Equidima as well, knowing ahead of time it was flowing through her veins? Was she now, for the sake of sparing a woman she didn’t know, about to betray the world she loved?
“Secure wrists,” said the Chancellor as she approached Jess.
Jessamyn felt the manacles drawing her hands together once more—they must have been magnetically charged.
The Chancellor circumscribed a narrow arc around Jessamyn. “Why are you here?”
Jess sat back on her heels. “Gaspar tricked me into coming with him.” As before with Pavel, the answer seemed to come out of her without her volition.
Lucca let out a heavy sigh. “Why are you here on Earth?”
“I wanted things to be normal at home, and I thought I was in love.” Jessamyn heard the answer and was stunned by the solemn truth. As much as she’d justified everything she’d done in the name of saving her world, the truth was that she’d returned for Ethan and for Pavel.
“So you’re resistant to Equidima,” said Lucca, as if musing to herself. “Is it training or is it genetic alteration?”
An answer of sorts tumbled out: “We don’t practice genetic mods on Mars.” Jess realized she had a moment—just a split-second, really—where she could exercise choice as to what she said. The Chancellor had asked her two questions. She had chosen which one to answer.
“Of course you don’t,” said Lucca.
The Chancellor drew very near to Jessamyn until she stood just behind her and touched her hair. It seemed to Jess as if Lucca was stroking her hair, but in an instant Jess realized that wasn’t what she was doing at all.
Lucca, gripping a handful of Jess’s long, red hair, tugged hard, forcing Jessamyn’s head back until she faced the Chancellor behind her, upside down. Tears sprang to Jess’s eyes from the sharp pain of hairs parting company with her scalp. It was humiliating.
“How do you survive on that wretched ball of cold dirt?” murmured the Chancellor.
Jessamyn could tell it wasn’t really a question. But an answer tripped its way out regardless. “We trade tellurium for ration bars.” She was able to keep herself from saying with what frequency raids were carried out. It was evident she could exercise some measure of control over what she said.
But the Chancellor seemed to continue in her belief that Jess was lying—was Equidima-resistant.
“That’s ridiculous, child. At least form your lies with better care than that. An entire civilization surviving upon ration bars? Impossible.”
“It isn’t,” Jess replied.
The Chancellor threw Jessamyn’s head forward. Thanks to
the Equidima, Jess felt the impulse to express relief, but she suppressed it.
“Well, I can see you’re not going to do this the easy way. They do you no favors in the long run, child, providing training in resisting the drug. You’ll find the traditional method of interrogation far less pleasant than this. And either way, I’ll get the truth. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather tell me everything about your mission right now?”
“I’m certain,” said Jessamyn, honestly.
“Well, then, I’ll see you in three hours’ time for a conventional interrogation.”
The Chancellor called out, “Security!” Then she turned back to Jessamyn. “I’m going to enjoy our next meeting. Probably more than I ought to.” She smiled.
“What will you do to me?” asked Jess, instantly ashamed for asking, but the inclination to speak had proved irresistible.
Lucca smiled. “I’ll apply pain and after a while you will supply answers.”
“That’s inhuman,” said Jessamyn, her voice fierce.
“What do you know of humanity? You abandoned Earth for your planet of ice, to scratch and claw out a worthless existence, hoarding resources, plotting to destroy Earth and steal what’s ours.” She spit the last words out in Jessamyn’s face.
Vituperative, thought Jessamyn. That was the accurate description of the woman before her. She kept the thought unexpressed this time.
The Chancellor leaned forward to wipe the spittle from Jessamyn’s face. The gesture seemed tender, almost, but it was also deeply invasive and Jess felt a shiver run along her spine.
44
ONCE CALLED HOME
Pavel Brezhnaya-Bouchard turned his face to the sky, watching the craft that carried Jessamyn and someone who was no longer Renard away from him. The stars overhead appeared ice-cold and infinitely distant. His own heart felt as cold as the sky above, as heavy as the boulder beside which he’d sheltered.
“How could I have been so stupid?” He slammed his fists into the side of the great ship that would fly no more and then tore off at a run toward Yucca. He might not make it to the bunkers, but even the Gopher Hole would provide a measure of protection beyond what he had now.
Losing Mars (Saving Mars Series-3) Page 20