by A P Heath
“We’re on our way sir.” Aitkin didn’t recognise the voice in his comms, but it meant reinforcements. It meant they just needed to hold on.
Aitkin groaned as he dragged himself to his knees. He lifted his head just as the fist came down, smashing against his cheek with the sickening crunch of fracturing bone.
His head plummeted to the deck again, his body folding onto its side. He could feel the looseness of his jaw through the terrible pain, knew the left side of his face would be a caved-in ruin.
“Thirty seconds sir.”
Just hold on.
As his head banged against the deck and his eyes rattled in their sockets he saw Johs’ arm bent back and pulled away from his body.
He roared in frustration as the strength he fought against overwhelmed him. His pitch changed, the bellow changing
from one of anger to agony as the flesh at his shoulder tore.
Aitkin watched, his stomach forcing bile into his throat at the shock of what he saw, as Sergeant Joh’s entire arm was torn free of his body with a horrific meaty sound and a welter of spraying blood.
“Entering down the trans-shaft now sir. Stand clear if you can.”
The other arm came down across Johs’ head. Aitkin heard the sickening crunch, saw the blood fly.
Hold on.
His sight was failing, darkening and blurring. The light above was eclipsed as a figure stood over him, raising a boot above his head.
He was broken, powerless to fight and watching his friend; a man he had grown with from childhood, brutally beaten to death before his eyes.
They were killing him. They had killed his sister. Killed Cooper and Mentrim and so many others.
Aitkin was burning with rage. It filled him totally. Rage at the enemy, at their strange silent attacks. At the deaths of his comrades, at the orders to abandon them. He let the fury boil inside him, opening his mouth to scream his anger in defiance of his end.
A voice inside his head spoke.
You will not die here, Aitkin Cassini.
The boot fell and Aitkin’s world went black.
THIRTY-FOUR
The market district of Sabaea was crowded with jostling bodies and loud with the noise of trade.
Just south of the centre of Sabaea’s main dome, it spanned twenty kilometres of wide streets made narrow by the shanty-like stalls that lined their sides.
The buildings of Sabaea were not like the sleek, crystalline towers of Prometheus or even the pearly white architecture of Hereidum. They were squat, broad blocks of dark stone.
Most of Sabaea had been built while the majority of Mars’ population still lived beneath the surface and the aim of the construction had been to achieve efficiency rather than beauty.
Even the domes of Sabaea were less impressive than those of the first and second city-states of Mars.
Above Prometheus the great central dome over the Hellas Sea was overlapped on all sides, in graceful curves and seamless joins by the five lesser domes that allowed the city to extend hundreds of kilometres in every direction.
Hereidum’s dome was not in fact a dome at all. Instead the majority of Mars’ second city was encased in a tall seven-sided pyramid, its faces angular and straight.
To the west two semi-domes broke the sheerness where they curved out to house the gardens, farms and vineyards that fed and watered the wealthy of Mars.
Sabaea’s own main dome was a darkened half sphere, set low to the ground where the others soared to the sky. Martius remembered reading somewhere that the highest building in Prometheus was more than double the tallest point of Sabaea’s main dome in height. The thought made him smile with associated superiority.
Reaching Sabaea had been an easy enough journey. He’d left the beach of the Hellas Sea and made his way back to the rooms he kept within his family’s estate.
His mother had been absent, thankfully and the servants knew better than to interrupt him.
He’d raided his clothing stores, tossing fine synthetic silks and
rich gilded robes aside in search of something suitable for his journey.
Martius would admit he was spoilt, a brat with little to no experience outside the pampered and entitled world in which he’d been raised, but he wasn’t so stupid as to think a rich man in a poor city would not be a target for every beggar and thief that laid eyes on him.
His wardrobes, full as they were, had yielded little that he thought would pass muster. He’d been forced to approach one of the house staff who was roughly similar in build and bribe the man into agreeing to leave his duties and return with samples of his own clothing for Martius to choose from. He’d been sure to specify they must be the poorest clothes the man owned.
The man had taken his credits and returned a short while later with a pile of drab and plain looking garments, so poorly made Martius was unconvinced they would even last the journey to Sabaea.
He’d selected the least offensive items he could find to wear, as well as a few additional options should he be forced to change.
He was careful not to tell the man too much of his intentions. He needed to be sure his mother would not be easily able to find him if the man was questioned over Martius’ absence, so he kept their conversation brief and his destination vague.
He couldn’t use his new clothes immediately. To dress in such rags and walk the byways of central Prometheus was a sure way to attract the eyes of the local security services. He would have to wait until he reached the outer domes to don his pauper’s disguise, where the least wealthy of the capital lived and his shabby look would be less out of place.
He was pleased with his planning. He was thinking of everything, surprising himself with the fullness of the details he mulled over. Usually he was far more prone to simply doing things, damn the consequences. Usually he would drink a hefty volume of alcohol before and during as well.
This time was different though.
This time he had a goal. Something to aim for that was more meaningful than simply causing his mother embarrassment or
upsetting the house staff.
He’d crossed the river Las in the northernmost dome of Prometheus still dressed as an aristocrat. His clothes were rich and marked him as wealthy, easily distinguished from the common workers that thronged the cheaper areas on the outskirts of the city state.
The only part of him that would seem out of place was the large bag he carried strapped across his back. It was an idea of the servant he’d bought his new clothes from. If he dressed poor, but still carried his belongings in fine cases his disguise would be for nothing.
Martius had seen the wisdom, although he baulked at the musty smell of the rough old pack. He resigned himself to accepting it as one of the hardships he would have to face on his journey. They would be temporary at least. Once he was off the surface he would be able to throw off his disguise and revert to the luxuries of life he had grown so used to.
The route between Prometheus and Sabaea was the shortest intercity line on Mars; just eleven-hundred kilometres separated the stations at either end.
Were he not travelling incognito, Martius would have demanded a private carriage aboard the land-train and slept the journey in comfort.
As it was he could not risk the exposure. If he was seen to be himself at the Prom-Sab station his mother would have her agents sent out to pick him up before the land-train even departed. He would not go back. He vowed to himself that no matter what the perils he faced, the hardships and debasements he must endure, he would not return to the Earone estate.
And so, after changing in the filth of a public convenience outside the Prom-Sab station, Martius Julius Earone, first son of the wealthiest family of Mars, boarded the land-train heading north, as a member of the lowest of the low classes.
He bought his ticket with hard-creds so his accounts could not be traced.
He wore dark overalls above a musty shirt of some scratchy, cheap material and thick boots that looked sturdy to the eye,
His short jacket, another touch he was particularly proud of, was marked with Martian mine-sign, scrawled over the sleeves, breast and back, giving the impression he’d actually worked the dark and dangerous tunnels beneath the surface of the red planet.
Martius had stolen the jacket. Truly stolen it. Once he’d changed into his dirty, deceiving garb and buried his finery at the very bottom of his bulging pack, he’d made his way from the convenience to head out to the station proper. A man had passed him, wearing the jacket that was now draped across Martius’ shoulders and the idea of adopting such a persona thrilled him with his own brilliance at thinking of it.
The man had been old, Martius guessed at fifty years or more. Fifty was nothing for someone like him, but for the poor of the tunnels and especially the mines, fifty was a ripe old age to reach. He could see the damage the years of labour had taken on the body; the skin dry, wrinkled and cracked, the hair greyed and thin, the shoulders hunched from a lifetime of stooping through enclosed spaces. Even the way the man moved shouted his frailty to the world.
Martius had followed him back inside the dirty little building. Accosting an impoverished old miner while he was trying to relieve himself was not something Martius would ever have expected to find himself doing, but here he was all the same.
He’d offered creds for the jacket, trying to gauge what this man, so alien and apart from all the people he was used to, would think a fair price.
His first gambit was met with laughter, his second with scorn. Martius upped his price, incredulous that this old fool could think anything he owned was really even worth the attention of someone like Martius, let alone his actual currency.
He made a third attempt, by now offering a sum that was probably more than this wiry old miner had made in the course of his whole life.
He’d spat at Martius’ feet. Pushed him away, shoving harder than Martius would have thought his spindly looking arms were capable of.
Martius had tried to repeat his offer but the man simply raged at him, pushing again and shouting, driving Martius away.
Martius’ temper didn’t hold, how could he be expected to take such abuse from one so lowly, so contemptuously far beneath him?
Of course he’d accepted he would have to deal with people of a lower class on this fine adventure, but they should at least have the decency to understand that, dressed like them he may be, but still better than them he was.
Martius shoved the old man in return. He had meant to simply push him back, to exert his dominance and stop the fool from cursing him long enough to make his point.
He grabbed the bony shoulders in front of him and pushed hard, expecting the resistance to match the force of the man’s own shoving. It didn’t. As Martius let go he saw the effect his action had on the miner’s frail body.
He stumbled back, one leg buckling behind the other to trip him and as Martius watched, amazed at his own strength, fell hard against the roughly tiled floor. His head struck the frame of the very stall Martius had used to change privately only minutes before and he lay still.
Martius looked down on him, seeing the filth of the floor soaking into his clothes. He felt an overwhelming sensation of power. This old fool thought he could do as he pleased; thought that just because Martius looked a little like him now, he could act as if they were equals. Martius had shown him otherwise.
He knelt awkwardly, trying hard not to let any more parts of him touch the wet floor than were absolutely necessary. He pulled the jacket from the old man’s shoulders, roughly stripping it from him and let him fall back to the ground. He was unconscious, knocked down and out by Martius’ superior strength. It felt good to know he had overpowered this man, could overpower others if he needed to.
Martius donned the jacket, screwing his face up at the miasma of new and unpleasant odours it added to his already potent collection.
He considered leaving the creds he’d offered for the miner to
find when he finally awoke.
No, the man had no respect, no sense of his place. Leaving him cold and humbled was just what he needed. He was probably more than accustomed to the feeling.
Martius boarded the cheapest section of the land-train a few minutes later. He was appalled at the stink of the carriage, at the state of his fellow passengers.
But he marvelled at their complete and utter disinterest in him. He was one of them!
At least, in appearance.
Martius would never truly be one of them. It suited his ends to appear that way for now, but he was better. Above them all.
The journey to Sabaea was longer than he remembered.
The carriage he travelled in was cold and sparse of furniture, the better to pack in the highest number of passengers. He was forced to stand for most of the three hours. The people around him were packed in so tightly there was little chance to do anything more than squeeze in with them.
He breathed their breath, trying hard not to gag. He was jostled by strangers as the swaying of the land-train affected their balance, pitching them into one another as bends in the line were taken at high speed.
Martius was disgusted. He was offended by the lack of manners, the invasion of his space, but he was also utterly thrilled. He was delighted at the mediocrity of the lives these people lived, heading out to work for their living on shifts that could last for days.
They would travel, work, return home to whatever meagre accommodation they could afford and repeat the process over and over again, just to give their children the opportunity to follow in their footsteps.
There were no balls for these people, no fancy engagements or fawning, false hangers-on desperate to find favour and get a taste of borrowed power from those above them.
All these people hoped for was to live tomorrow as they lived today. He admired the simplicity of it. Admired it, but knew it was not for him. He was meant for grander things.
Once he’d reached Sabaea’s main dome it took him another hour to find the internal tram that would bring him to the market district. He’d spent the entirety of the day travelling, he couldn’t believe the waste!
He needed succor; something to drink and somewhere quiet to drink it before laying down his weary head.
He didn’t know the avenues and streets of Sabaea. He’d visited Hereidum on occasion and spent plenty of his time on the Utopian Isle of course, but Sabaea and its sprawling industrial domes had never been a tempting or necessary destination for him. Until now at least.
Martius had been eyeing the signs that hung above the crowded streets, proclaiming the contents of the buildings they sprouted from. He’d seen three so far with the outline of ladies cast in bright neon.
There were no words incorporated into the signage, but Martius knew enough to guess what they represented. He’d heard of the Delights of Sabaea, although not in any real detail. Even if he hadn’t a few of the brightly coloured lines were wrought in ways that left little doubt as to the nature of the establishments. He was sorely tempted. Places like that offered only a very temporary kind of rest though and Martius needed somewhere with a bed all to himself and a door he could lock. Maybe once he’d found such a place he could take the time to investigate these ‘delights’ for himself.
Martius smiled. He was doing it, really doing it. His head was full of the adventures he would have once he left Mars behind. He would see Earth, visit the God’s Belt station, Jupiter’s Halo. He would travel the length of the solar system and write his name large across the hearts of its people. He was going to be so much more than his near-sighted mother could ever have envisioned.
Martius let the throng of the crowd carry him along as his eyes searched for somewhere suitable to rest and his heart sang with the knowledge that his greatness would soon echo across the stars.
THIRTY-FIVE
“I am unbroken.” Aitkin forced the words from his lips with the last of his reserves. He could feel the sm
ile, could see the flicker of uncertainty in his torturer’s eyes.
What had he said his name was?
It had been such a short time ago, but Aitkin’s memory was hazy. He let his eyes close, his lids heavy with exhaustion. The pain was fading. It had been enough to break him, to push through his barriers and force the scream of submission from his dry mouth.
He had wanted it, wanted to give in, to agree. He just wanted the pain to stop. The abyss of failure had opened in his mind, but something had stopped him from falling.
It wasn’t a voice, or a thought; just a feeling.
A sudden understanding he would make it through this ordeal. That he would face no more pain. He knew it with a confidence he trusted but couldn’t explain.
Mylus. That was his name.
This strange metal-faced tormentor who cut him to pieces with no more reaction to the visceral nature of his work than a common clerk paid to the mundane act of record filing.
Mylus
He heard the word in his thoughts. It was his voice, only different. Somehow it seemed to contain an echo of itself, as if his words carried their own shadow.
Yes, a shadow.
Aitkin could hear sounds around him. They were distorted, as if he had sunk to the bottom of a deep pool and was hearing words spoken above its surface.
He tried to open his eyes, but found he couldn’t. It didn’t panic him. He felt warm, protected somehow. Aitkin thought he’d never been as comfortable.
He was floating now; he could feel the pressure pulling his arms and legs down lessen as they drifted freely. His back was no longer held firmly upright, but allowed to lie flat as he relaxed.
There was music around him and light flickering behind his eyes. It wasn’t the harsh, bright shaft of illumination he had come to know, but a soft, wavering light that suffused him, turning and changing as he tried to follow it.
Aitkin allowed himself to float onwards. He was at peace, calm. His thoughts drifted away from the man who had pushed him so far. Somehow his name had faded from Aitkin’s memory again.