Vagabonds

by Hao Jingfang

  The interior of the cylindrical hull was radially divided into four sections. The four quarters were interconnected, but the passageways were so complicated and far apart that few ever bothered to visit the other quarters. The crew took up one of the quarters, and the Terran delegation, the Martian delegation, and the Mercury Group each took up another. Although the four groups had been traveling together for almost a hundred days, there were few cross-group visits. Plenty of all-hands parties were held, to be sure, but the conversation was always strained and formal.

  A different mood prevailed among each of the three delegations. The Martian delegates had completed their mission and were relaxed and joyful as they approached home. They no longer bothered with formal dress, and their conversation with one another was dominated by children, good food, their strange and silly experiences on Earth, the anxieties of middle age, and similar topics. In the dining hall of their quarter, they held daily gatherings, where homestyle cooking was salted with wit and laughter.

  The Mercury Group, on the other hand, seemed to be holding a months-long postgraduation party. The twenty students had been away from Mars since they were thirteen years of age, and for the last five years, they had grown closer than blood siblings. During their time on Earth, they were scattered to every corner of the globe, and so this trip represented for them a rare reunion. They enjoyed and celebrated their youth: drinking, joking, flirting, singing, playing ball in the spherical weightless gym at the bow of the ship.

  The Terran delegation presented yet another sight. The delegates were from different countries, and they didn’t know each other well. Other than business dinners, they spoke to each other only cautiously in bars. In a sense, the delegates were too similar to each other—prominent politicians, famous scientists, tycoons of industry, and big media stars—used to being the center of attention, and thus unable to be close to anyone. They dressed simply, with tasteful accents of luxury. They spoke warmly and casually but rarely disclosed anything personal. They tried to look humble but made sure that the effort was noticed.

  In a small bar in the Terran quarter, delegates often gathered in small clusters of two or three, whispering among themselves. The bar was decorated after the fashion of Earth: dim lamps, stools around small tables, ice clinking in tumblers as the light refracted through the amber whiskey.

  “What do you think of the tension between Antonov and Wang?”

  “Really? I haven’t noticed.”

  “Observe. You need to observe.”

  The speakers were a middle-aged, balding man and a young man with brown hair. The middle-aged man, a charming grin on his face, had asked the first question. His chin glowed blue from a close shave, and his gray eyes twinkled like the sea in summer. The younger man didn’t say much, often answering a query with nothing more than a smile. Brown curls spilled over his brow, and his dark eyes were deeply set, so that in the dim light of the bar it was difficult to tell his expression. The middle-aged man was Thomas Theon, CEO of the Thales Media Group and heir to the vast Thales fortune. The younger man was Eko Lu, a filmmaker and one of the Thales Group’s featured artists, there to document the delegation’s visit to Mars.

  Antonov and Wang were the delegates from Russia and China, respectively. Due to the long-lasting border dispute between their two countries, they gave each other the cold shoulder. The Terran delegates came from countries with complicated mutual animosities, and though everyone tried to remain polite in public, there was much jostling and score keeping beneath the surface.

  Theon, on the other hand, was a man without a nation. He held passports from four countries, maintained residences in five, appreciated the cuisines of six, and dealt with jet lag in seven. When nationalistic passions flared, he preferred to observe from the sidelines, popcorn in hand. His attitude was typical of the elites of the second half of the twenty-second century: nation-states were not things to be taken seriously, and the historical problems left unresolved by the era of globalization should be mocked rather than understood.

  Eko understood what Theon was getting at, but he preferred not to engage. The delegation was full of people with conflicting desires and goals, and this was as it should be. Everyone came to Mars in search of something, including Eko.

  “May I suggest a subject for your documentary?” asked Theon, still wearing that charming smile.

  “Please.”

  “A girl.”

  “A girl?”

  “A girl from the Mercury Group. Her name is Luoying.”

  “Luoying … Which one is she again?”

  “She has black hair—the one with the longest hair. Fair-skinned. A dancer.”

  “I think I know who you’re talking about. Why her?”

  “She’s going to give a solo recital once she gets back to Mars. It ought to be good. The market will eat up the footage.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “More … ? What do you mean?”

  “Your real reason for asking me to film her.”

  “You are much too paranoid,” said Theon with a laugh. “All right, I can tell you that her grandfather is Hans Sloan, the current consul of Mars. She’s the only granddaughter of the great dictator. I just found out myself.”

  “Does that mean I need to obtain the consul’s permission first?”

  “No. Don’t let anyone know about your plans. Less trouble that way.”

  “Aren’t you worried this will cause us trouble back home?”

  “Let’s worry about that when we get back.”

  Eko said nothing. He made no sign that he was accepting the suggestion, and he made no sign that he was rejecting it. Theon also didn’t ask him to clarify. Mutual silence where there was no apparent consensus of any sort was best. Eko wasn’t bound by any promise, and Theon couldn’t be blamed for inciting anything. Gently, Eko shook the ice in his glass. Kindly, Theon continued to watch him.

  A veteran of more film releases than he cared to count, Theon knew very well how to target different audiences with exactly the right pitch. He was skilled at courting controversy for profit while evading responsibility. Eko was still too young to be free of the idealistic air of the academy. He was a thoughtful young man who disliked following trends. But Theon trusted in the power of time. He had seen far too many young artists, each believing themselves too creative to follow mere formula; he had also seen far too many artists experience the epiphany that only products that sold had any value. The market was merciless with youthful pride.

  The bar played Nu Jazz, and the lilting melody provided good cover for the private discussions and whispered secrets at the separate tables. The room was warm; ties were loosened and collars unbuttoned. There was no bartender, and everyone mixed their own drinks from the glass case along the wall. Glass domes hung down from the ceiling over each table, illuminating the apparently friendly faces that masked the churning thoughts behind them. Once in a while peals of laughter burst from a table. The patrons were wrapping up their final conversations before docking.

  Although the delegates from Earth each had their own goal, the overall thrust of their desire was for technology. Technology equaled wealth. For the whole of the twenty-second century, technology and know-how formed the foundation for every component of society all over the globe and became the new currency of the financial system. International economy relied on technology the same way old national economies had once depended on the gold standard. Control of technical know-how became the only way to maintain a difficult balance in an increasingly complex and fragile world.

  Commerce in knowledge thus played a most pivotal role. It was thirst for technology that broke through the barriers created by memories of the war and built this new Silk Road that reached Mars. Terrans realized that Mars was like a farm whose most important crop was skilled engineers. Knowledge had allowed Mars to become independent, and it also meant that there was profit to be found on the red planet.

  The music continued to play; the lights continued to glow; the
smiling faces continued to nod and turn; the calculations behind them grew ever more intricate.

  In the dim light of the bar, no one paid attention to the photographs hanging on the walls. These new patrons didn’t understand that the photographs disguised traces of the past. Behind one of the photos was a bullet hole from twenty years earlier, and behind another was concealed a crack left when something slammed against the wall ten years ago. Once, an old man had roared here like a golden-maned lion, and another old man with silvery hair and beard had uncovered a deceitful scheme. Their names were Galiman and Ronen, and they were the other two men in the photograph on the captain’s desk.

  All conflicts had subsided, and all the unpleasantness of the past had been recorded in the official histories as misunderstandings. The scars of the past were covered up. The bar remained a comfortable, pleasant drinking hole, and the photographs rested in their dark brown frames, neatly in a grid.

  * * *

  Maearth was going to dock in another few hours. The parties would soon end, and passionate laughter would soon subside into silence. The dance floor would be disassembled, and the fancy napkins and centerpieces would be put away. Pillows and sleeping bags were about to be collected. Screens were about to dim. The floor would be swept. The palatial storerooms would be emptied.

  The only thing left behind would be the smooth floors and glass furniture, the naked body of the ship itself.

  The ship had many experiences of being filled and being stripped. Every table had been covered by tablecloths from successive eras, and every rug had borne witness to changing conflicts of the passing years. The ship was used to going from full to empty, from colorless canvas to rainbow painting back to colorless canvas again.

  Photographs filled the ship’s winding passageways: everything from the earliest black-and-white images dating back to a time when humanity had not yet dreamed of going to the stars to the holographic displays showing the pride and joy of two peoples going their separate ways after the war. As one walked along one of these curving corridors, one hand caressing the wall, or climbed up and down the stairs, it was possible to travel through time, to view a montage of sliced-up history. There was no end or beginning to this journey, for the photographs were not arranged chronologically. Postwar photos might directly precede prewar ones, and 2096 might come right after 1905. To ignore sequencing in time was also a way to ignore disagreements. On these walls at least, Mars and Earth coexisted side by side in peace, and by taking a different course through the passageways one could reconstruct a different cycle of history.

  Each time when the ship docked, decorations throughout the vessel were packed up and put away—except these photographs. No one knew that, during the days when the ship lay idle, the captain walked through every corridor, gently wiping off the dust from each frame.

  * * *

  The party reached its climax just before docking.

  Luoying had never figured out the mazelike layout of the ship, but she thought of the weightless gym as a polestar of sorts. The weightless gym was the largest compartment on Maearth, spherical in shape, and it did not spin along with the rest of the hull. Outside the gym was an annular observation platform, where she liked to go to relax. Wide viewports around the observation platform gave one the illusion of floating in space.

  Coming from the captains’ quarters, she rushed through the empty observation platform, surrounded by the stars. A loud cheer from inside the gym told her that the game was nearly at an end. Hurrying to the door, she pulled it open.

  Waves of chaotic colors and sounds washed over her as though the spherical compartment were filled with exploding fireworks.

  “Who’s winning?” Luoying asked the person floating nearest to her.

  Before she got an answer, someone had pulled her into an embrace. She looked up and saw that it was Leon.

  “Our last match,” mumbled Leon.

  He let go of Luoying and opened his arms to Kingsley. They embraced and then slapped each other on the shoulders. Anka pushed his way through the crowd to face Luoying, but before he could say anything, Sorin had grabbed him by the shoulders from behind. Chania drifted by the group, and Luoying saw tears at the corners of her eyes.

  Mira opened a couple of bottles of Martian Gio, and together the students poured the wine into the center of the spherical hall. Innumerable golden droplets glistened in the air. Everyone kicked off the wall and drifted into the middle. As they twirled and tumbled through the air, they opened their mouths and caught the globules of alcohol.

  “To victory!” called out Anka. Everyone cheered.

  “To a safe landing,” Anka whispered right after. Only Luoying, who was close by, heard him.

  She closed her eyes, tilted back her head, and let herself drift. Invisible hands lifted her into the embrace of the stars.

  This was the last night that would belong only to them.

  * * *

  At six in the morning Mars time, Maearth approached the still-asleep planet along with the rising sun. The ship aimed for the port in aerostationary orbit. The port was a giant ring in space: the inside was the berth for Maearth, and the outside was for the fifteen shuttles that would bring the passengers to the surface.

  The docking procedure would take three hours, leaving the passengers plenty of time to snooze. As the ship gently glided into the center of the ring, those looking out the front viewports saw the gate to a magnificent temple, and the ship was like a dove gliding toward the altar, holy and completely at ease. Sunlight glistened off the port’s metallic curve, and the shuttles lining up with their left wings touching the ring and right wings pointing at the dusty soil of Mars resembled temple guards silently standing at attention.

  Out of the ship’s one hundred and twenty passengers, thirty-five were awake. Sitting or standing, in their own cabins or in some obscure corner, they watched as the ship slowly settled into its perch. As the ship came to a complete stop, the observers returned to their own beds without anyone noticing. The ship was completely at peace.

  Half an hour later, everyone woke up to soft music, rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, and greeted one another. The disembarkation process was orderly and quick, and the passengers politely said their goodbyes, boarded separate shuttles, and headed for the surface.

  It was the year 2190 on Earth, the year 40 on Mars.

  THE HOTEL

  Eko stood next to the window and looked outside. The empty surface of Mars evoked for him the music of bagpipes.

  The room was extremely bright. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls allowed his view to extend unimpeded from his feet to the horizon. The red desert stretched flat like an endless scroll recording an epic—wild, vast, uninhibited.

  Is this where you wanted to be buried? Eko thought.

  Though he had never been to Mars, the scenery before him wasn’t unfamiliar. The first time he had visited his teacher, when he was fifteen, this same eternal red view was projected on his teacher’s wall.

  He had stood at the door to the study, gazing at the desert of another world, not daring to go in. His teacher was sitting in a high-backed chair facing the wall, back to the door, his blond hair spilling from the edges of the chair back. Bagpipe music played over the sound system, and it seemed to be coming from every direction. Although at first the desert on the wall appeared as a still photograph, closer examination revealed movement. The footage was shot from a low-flying aircraft that wasn’t flying very fast, though the rocks on the ground hurtled through the view, too quick for the eyes to focus on any one. The star-studded sky loomed in the distance.

  He stood, mesmerized, until a deep canyon suddenly swept into view. He cried in surprise and knocked over a wooden statue by the door. By the time he managed to lift up the statue, his teacher was standing next to him.

  He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Eko, is it? Please come in.

  He looked up, and the desert was gone. The bagpipe music lingered in the empty air. He was disappo
inted.

  Eko had never told anyone of that encounter, and during the ten years he had studied with his teacher, they rarely spoke of it. It was a secret between the two of them, a secret concerning two worlds. His teacher did not speak of Mars. No matter how much film theory and technique he taught Eko, he never showed him any films about Mars.

  Ten years later, Eko was finally face-to-face with the real Mars. The bagpipes played in his mind as he stared at the landscape etched into his memory from long ago.

  * * *

  After a hot shower, Eko sank into a soft chair and stretched his legs. The hotel was very comfortable, and he felt relaxed.

  He liked being alone. Though he could get along with just about anyone, though he was charming at film openings and cocktail parties, though he was required to deal with all kinds of people for his movies, he still preferred to be by himself. When with others, he could never be completely at ease. Always he held his breath and kept his senses sharpened. Only when he was shut in his room was he able to sigh with relief and let the tension in his body fall away, to fully luxuriate in his own existence.

  He leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. Everything on this planet aroused his curiosity. Before arriving, he had imagined all kinds of fantastic scenarios on Mars, but the reality was nothing like his visions. He couldn’t say whether reality was better or worse, but he was sure that the real Mars deviated from his imagination in unexpected ways. He had been dreaming about this place since he was fifteen, wondering how Mars could have kept his teacher away from home for eight years.

  In his mind he had pictured the planet as the last utopia of humankind, a place where crude commercial interests yielded to pure intellect. He knew that this was not how the consensus on Earth portrayed the red planet, but he didn’t care.