The Empress of Mars (15 page)

“But—” Cochevelou paused and took a drink. “Don’t bet the BAC
doesn’t know. They’ve been watching us closer these past weeks, seemingly. Why, only this morning there came some new clerk of theirs sniffing around, asking questions. Wanted to know all about Perrik’s biis.”

“They’re only just finding out about the biis?” Mary looked contemptuous. “Well, and doesn’t that show how slow on the uptake they are? Likely they noticed when the patent applications came through.”

“But they haven’t, yet,” said Cochevelou. “Perrik wasn’t planning on filing until he’d got them all the way he wanted, so to speak. Blue ones and yellow ones and red ones and I don’t know what all. He has a grand plan for them, see? But this new man was demanding to talk to him, wanted to know everything about them.”

“Good luck to a stranger trying to talk to Perrik,” said Mary. She shoved Mona out of the way and took her place on Cochevelou’s knee, bringing her gimlet stare, and her bosom, closer.

“It all proves we’ve got to stand by one another as fellow Celts. Think of it, darling man,” she said. “Think how we’ve been robbed, and kept down, and made to make do with the dry leavings while the English got the best of everything. Haven’t we always triumphed by turning adversity to our own uses? And so it’ll be now. Your ironworks and your strong lads to provide the drilling rig with my money and Mars’s own hot heart itself beating for us in a thunderous counterpoint to our passion!”

“Passion?” said Cochevelou, somewhat dazed but beginning to smile.

“She’s got him,” Chiring informed the rest of the staff, who were lurking in the kitchen. Mr. Morton gave a cheer, which was promptly shut off as Manco and the Heretic clapped their hands over his mouth. Chiring put his eye to the peephole again.

“They’re shaking hands,” he said. “He just kissed her. She hasn’t slapped him. She’s saying . . . something about Celtic Energy Systems.”

“It’s the beginning of a new world!” whispered Mr. Morton. “There’s never been money on Mars, but—but—now we can have Centers for the Performing Arts!”

“We can have a lot more than that,” said Manco.

“They could found a whole other settlement,” said Chiring, stepping back. “You know? A city! What a story this is going to be!”

“We could attract artists,” said Mr. Morton, stars in his eyes.
“Culture!”

“We could be completely independent, if we bought vizio and water pumps, and got enough land under cultivation. I could grow
real
roses,” Manco pointed out. A look of shock crossed his face. “If we built a real city . . . we could get more money for terraforming. I could build the canals, at last.”

“You could,” Chiring agreed, whipping out his jotpad. “
Interviews with the Locals: What Will Money Mean to the New Martians?
By your News Martian. Okay, Morton, you’d want performing arts, and
you’d
develop Martian horticulture and jumpstart the terraforming effort.” He nodded at Manco and then glanced over at the Heretic. “How about you? What do you hope to get out of this?”

“A better place to hide,” she said bleakly, raising her head as she listened to the rumble of the next shuttle arriving.

“It’s very kind of you to take all this trouble on my behalf,” said Ottorino as he limped along the Tube. He had fashioned a cane for himself out of a discarded iron strut.

“Not at all,” Mr. De Wit replied. “I must say that, in my profession, I don’t encounter many romantics. It’s refreshing.”

“Who wouldn’t be a romantic up here?” said Ottorino, waving his cane at the landscape beyond the Tube. “Such ferocity, and yet such beauty! Like my Rowan. Though perhaps I ought not to call her that just yet. Maybe I presume too much. Do you think?” He held up the courier pouch and peered into it again.

“No, I think you’ll be fortunate,” said Mr. De Wit solemnly.

“She is a little reserved,” said Ottorino. “Which I suppose is to be expected in this wild place. But she likes me, in spite of her modesty. I can tell.”

“What the bloody hell’s wrong with him?” Mary demanded. “He’s polite, he’s clean, he’s a big strapping man of his hands. And he’s clearly smitten with you. So what if he doesn’t speak PanCelt? He’s got money, for Goddess’s sake!”

Rowan set her mouth in a stubborn line and went on polishing the bar. After a moment she said: “He’s got money
now
. What’ll he do when he’s spent it all? Go out prospecting for another diamond? Get himself frozen somewhere out in Daedalia? Or maybe he’ll decide he wants to be a Hauler. Then I’d see him twice a month, if I was lucky. No, thank you.”

“‘No thank you,’ she says! And what are you saving yourself for, may I ask? Who d’you think’s going to come along that’s any better? I’ve seen you watching him when he was asleep. I know what a girl looks like, when she fancies a man. Why don’t you trust your heart?”

“You always did, didn’t you?” said Rowan. “And look where it got you. When something looks too good to be true, that’s because it isn’t true. Do you want history to repeat itself? If you think I’m going to get married to the first big, good-looking, sweet-talking adventurer without an honest penny to his name, just because of some infatuation I’ll probably regret this time next year—”

“And what
about
his name?” said Mary. “I’ve been reading up on his people, my girl. Vespucci Imports is one of the biggest employers in Europe. You marry that one and it doesn’t matter if it turns out a mistake; the alimony would be enough to set you up for life.”

“And you
could
talk him into getting you offworld,” said Alice smugly, as she loaded mugs into the scouring tray.

“You’re being horribly mercenary,” said Rowan to her mother, blushing. “And you stay out of this!” she added, glaring at Alice. “You’ve never loved anybody.”

“I have so!”

“Mercenary, am I?” Mary said. “If you don’t care for that tune, here’s another: get him to set up a branch of the family business on Mars, why don’t you? That way he’d be settled down in a nice steady job and home of nights.”

“You manipulative old bitch!” cried Rowan, turning on her with blazing eyes. “He’s just a means to an end for you, isn’t he?”

“So you
do
care for him!” said Mary. “And just you think about this: a nice shop is just what the planet needs, isn’t it? Some place besides the bleeding British Arean Company’s PX? Haven’t we been making do with scavenging any old crap from the British Arean Company’s rubbish tips, and ending up with faulty wiring and psuits they’ve thrown out because of defects? But if there was someone up here selling first-class stuff at reasonable prices, now,
that
might save a few lives!”

Rowan turned away again, too furious to speak. At that moment the airlock hissed, and a moment later Ottorino entered with Mr. De Wit.

Mary watched critically as Ottorino went straight for Rowan, holding her in his earnest gaze. Awkwardly he knelt before her and, placing his hand on his heart, began to utter something mellifluous and fervent.

MOST RADIANTEST OF FLUTE FEMALES, I HAVE REVERENCED YOU FROM THE TIME PERIOD I UNPORTED MY EYES AND LOOKED YOUR FACE. YOUR TENDER ATTENDANCE ON ME WHEN MY RECOVERY MAKE DEEPER MY AFFECTIONS. IF I AM ABLE PULL MY ALIVE SPIRIT OUT OF MY CHEST AND DONATE HER TO YOU, I DO. IF I AM ABLE PULL MY CURE FROM MY CHEST AND TOO DONATE HER, I DO. BUT I AM ABLE ONLY DONATE THIS LITTLE TRINKET YOU. PLEASE TAKE AND LISTEN MY SINCERITYEST QUESTION: YOU ESPOUSE I?

He held up a ring, massy gold, set with an immense red diamond in the shape of a heart.

Mary pressed her lips tight shut. She glanced at Rowan, who looked . . . despairing? Surprised? Resigned? What was the girl thinking, for Goddess’s sake? Mary crossed her fingers for good measure and waited what seemed an eternity before hearing Rowan say: “Yes. Thank you.”

EXCLAMATION
. Beaming, Ottorino struggled to his feet. He took her left hand and slipped the ring on her finger.
GOOD, EXCLAMATION, GOOD. WHILE MY CURE THRASHES IN MY CHEST, SHE IS YOURS
. He kissed her. Rowan returned the kiss, as far as Mary could see, without regret; in fact she appeared to melt in Mr. Vespucci’s arms.

Holy Mother, I owe You one
, thought Mary. She glanced across at Mr. De Wit and saw, to her surprise, that he was wiping tears from his face.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” cried Chiring, running in with his reloaded holocam. “Can you do that again? I just put in a fresh battery.”

The double wedding was postponed only long enough for Mr. De Wit to order a ring of equal but separate magnificence for Alice, though hers was set with a massive star sapphire. It reminded her of Earth, so she didn’t mind too badly that Rowan had gotten a ring first.

Barsoom Day came but once a year, at least for those colonists using Earth’s calendar; there was an informal arrangement wherein the twelve Earth months, cropped here and there to balance out, were repeated twice within the Martian year. The years in which December generally fell in summer were called Australian years, and the others weren’t.

This meant that sometimes the annual gathering under Settlement Dome took place at the height of Martian summer, with a pale-blue sky smiling Outside and hardly any winds; sometimes the shrieking gales of winter almost drowned out General Director Rotherhithe’s celebratory speech, and the luckless Hauler chosen to carry a pouch of water out to the original site of the first manned landing arrived there with a lump of ice to set before the commemorative plaque instead, and himself frozen too unless he dialed his psuit’s temperature up as far as it would go.

But Haulers were for the most part durable Outside, and who especially wanted to hear General Director Rotherhithe’s speeches anyway? The cramped Martian gravity cricket match (IT versus Clerical), squeezed in under Settlement Dome, was moderately fun to watch; though nobody really played very well, the betting was energetic. Afterward all parties who were still in a mood to celebrate tramped up
the Tube to the Empress for a few pints and the closing ritual of the day.

“. . . and a big round of applause for the brave lads of Clerical Division!” Chiring shouted into his megaphone, to scattered cheers. “If you’re going to lose, that’s certainly the way to go about it! And three cheers for the brave bookmakers of Clan Morrigan!”

When the wild screams of approval had subsided, Chiring looked over his shoulder and moved a hanging blanket to peer for a moment into the dark recesses of the kitchen. He nodded, turned back and cried: “And now, fellow Martians, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! He’s come all the way from the frosty Artolian Hills in his jolly sled drawn by eight Lesser Thoats! Let’s give a hearty welcome to
Uncle Tars Tarkas
!
”

The blanket was thrown aside and the Brick emerged with a happy roar. He wore an old psuit that had been painted green; an extra pair of arms dangled from his chest, green fabric stuffed out with cotton batting from an old pillow. Perhaps only someone of the Brick’s size and strength could have worn the cast ceramic headpiece, with its staring eyes and gaping tusked mouth, through which the Brick’s little bloodshot eyes could just be glimpsed peering.

“Hello, boys and girls! Happy Barsoom Day!” bellowed Uncle Tars. “Have you all been good children?”

His inquiry was met with drunken laughter and shouts in the affirmative, with one or two incautious cries of “No!”

“Right, then! Well, I brought you all lovely presents in my sled, but on the way over here a Strawberry hit and blew ’em all the way out to the Great Toonolian Marshes. So you’ll have to content yourselves with their astral projections. Where’s little Mona?”

“Here, Uncle Tars!” Mona came skipping forward, pertly proud to be the youngest person on Mars. “Happy Barsoom Day, Uncle Tars!”

“Happy Barsoom Day, sweetheart. Uncle Tars had
your
present stuck inside his vest, so the Strawberry didn’t get it. Here’s a sock full of Polo mints!”

“Thank you, Uncle Tars!” Mona held up the sock in triumph as she ran back to her seat. There was assorted whistling and stamping as the Brick rubbed his hands together, pulling the other pair of hands with attached strings to double his gesture as he did so.

“Now then! Who have we got nice astral presents for? Ah! Maurice Cochevelou. Where’s the chief? Where are you, little Maurice?”

“Here I am, Uncle Tars!” Cochevelou squeaked in falsetto, waving his hand.

“Uncle Tars has a nice present for you.” The Brick mimed pulling an immense package from an invisible sleigh. “A great big roll of high-grade vizio! And if you look inside, you
might
find a bottle of Jameson’s tucked in there, just because you’ve been an exceptionally good boy. Think fast!” He mimed hurling the imaginary package at Cochevelou.

“Ow! Uncle Tars, you broke my arm!” chirped Cochevelou.

“Shut your gob, you little pommy bastard, or I’ll give you something to cry about. Now, where’s Tiny Reg the Hauler?” The Brick turned his head slowly, taking in the crowd. “Tiny Reg! Uncle Tars has your prezzie right here!”

“That’s me!” Tiny Reg, very unsteady on his fourth pint, finally got to his feet. “Hi, Uncle Tars!”

“Hi, Reg! Guess what Uncle Tars has for you?”

“Dunno,” said Tiny Reg, swaying. “A new tire for Bouncing Bette?”

“Yeah, and even more inflatable fun! Here’s a life-size dolly with realistic hair and durable pump action, for those long lonely nights out in Mare Boreum!”

“Great!” said Tiny Reg, before he fell over with a crash.

“You’re welcome! Who’s next on Uncle Tars’s list?” The Brick pretended to scan a text plaquette. “Why, it’s our very own Amadeus Ruthven Morton! Come on up, little Amadeus!”

Looking sheepish, Mr. Morton got to his feet and was prodded forward to the spotlight.

“And how old are you, Amadeus?”

“Thirty-seven,” Mr. Morton replied.

“Okay! Uncle Tars reckons thirty-seven is plenty old enough to have had time to learn how to read. You like reading, little Amadeus?”