Defying Mars (Saving Mars Series-2) (7 page)

Jess’s mother, her face pale white, rose slowly from her chair. “You talk to her,” she said to Jess’s father. “I can’t.” Lillian walked out of the room.

Jessamyn’s father frowned, uncertain whether to follow his stricken wife or remain with his daughter.

“What is going on?” asked Jess. “I thought Mom would be grateful.”

His decision made, he sat with his daughter. “Ever since the announcement about the lasers was leaked, there’s been a contingency … a faction, if you will, who argue we should use this opportunity to renew trade relations with Earth.”

“Why?” asked Jess. “We fought a war with them.”

“Yes,” said her father. “And now there’s an idea that it’s time to put all of that behind us. That a more prosperous future awaits us if we can re-engage in trade. Things we need in exchange for tellurium.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” said Jess. “Has everyone on Mars suddenly forgotten what Terrans are like? Because I’d be happy to provide a refresher course.”

Her father shook his head. “The ideas are taking hold in people’s minds, Jess. The hope for a brighter future.”

“Our future looked plenty bright last time I checked,” said Jess.

“People don’t want to wait.”

“People are
idiots
in that case,” said Jess hotly. “What makes anyone so sure Terrans wouldn’t blow us out of the sky
from Earth
instead of Mars if we went there to converse about trade relations?”

“Hope,” her father said simply. “People—
some
people—want to speed up the timeline for terraforming. Some want a better quality of life. Some are just struck with Terran-fever, I guess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with our quality of life,” said Jessamyn.

Her father smiled sadly. “Says the girl who’s seen life on Earth.”

“Yes, I have seen it. And it sucked. We don’t want anything to do with the water planet, trust me. They are all crazy over there.” She frowned, thinking of Pavel and Brian Wallace. “Well, most of them are crazy. My point is, we do not need that kind of crazy interfering with life here on Mars.”

“Your mother and I agree with you,” he said. “But all of this Terran-fever means Mei Lo is rather overwhelmed at the moment. It’s not a good time to request a return mission.”

Jessamyn sat silently. She wasn’t going to argue the point with her father. Nor did she intend to drop the subject with Mei Lo.

“I need to go sit with your mother,” her father said softly.

“Of course,” said Jess. She stayed where she was. She couldn’t handle her mom. Not right now.

Down the hall, Jess could hear her father’s soft voice. A sense of disappointment filled Jessamyn as she examined the empty space surrounding her. This was not the homecoming she’d imagined. Nothing was right.

I just want things to be like they used to.

She wanted her brother back. She wanted a version of her mom who hugged. And now a bunch of greedy Marsians were standing in the way of everything she wanted. A
faction
, her father had called them. She wasn’t certain what it meant, but the word sounded horrible.

Pounding a fist upon the rations table, Jess rose and exited the front airlock, stepping into her walk-out suit and passing out of her dwelling.

Everything was horrible.

8

A PREDILECTION

By the end of her first few weeks at the New Timbuktu Gold Processing and Re-educational Center for the Retirement of Criminals, Harpreet Mombasu had made quite a name for herself. If you were depressed, prisoners advised, you should speak with Harpreet. Anxious? Consult Harpreet. Worried about your future? Harpreet. All of which tended naturally to: Have a yearning to confide desperately secret information? Harpreet will listen.

Not that she had forgotten her own sorrows or concerns. But on the twelfth day of her captivity, Harpreet had awoken from a dream with the certainty that the
Red Galleon
would touch down safely upon Mars.

“Well, that is most welcome news,” she said upon awakening. She didn’t question the information, simply took her dream as proof-positive the event would transpire.

Which tended to make her even more open to listening to the sorrows and concerns of others.

To date, she had heard the confessions of not one but two individuals who claimed to have formerly served as Head of Global Consciousness Transfer.

The fact that their stories, told individually, corroborated one another made it hard for Harpreet to doubt what either reported. The second (Harpreet thought of him as Number Two) told of how he’d agreed to assume the body of the first and to keep secret this deception. The first (Harpreet thought of him as Number One) expressed dismay at having awoken in prison, in a new body, only to see his former body accompanying Lucca Brezhnaya as if nothing had happened. The same body had apparently
now
been delivered to a third Head of Global Consciousness Transfer (whom Harpreet thought of as Number Three.)

“She likes to maintain the appearance of stability,” lamented Number Two. “But her government is rife with instability.”

Harpreet nodded and listened.

The Chancellor, it seemed, had a predilection for sending top government personnel to this particular prison. The hard labor wasn’t as likely to be the end of you as, say, the camps in Antarctica or Devon Island. Of course, Lucca had no problem summarily ending the lives of those she deemed of no further usefulness. Or those who simply angered her on a bad day. The political prisoners in New Timbuktu thus had some hope of being of further use to their former employer.

“And it is your desire to work once more for so corrupt an individual?” Harpreet often asked those who brought her their confessions.

The answers varied. Some swore they would die before aiding Lucca again. (Harpreet even believed some who said this.) Others said they would jump at any chance to leave New Timbuktu. No one, however, refused to answer Harpreet’s innocent-sounding question. Harpreet was too easy to confide in.

Thus the Mars-born woman began to form a list of the stories of those who wished to see a different sort of government upon Earth. She had no means of knowing if her information would ever prove useful; she simply gathered it as one might gather and sort interesting-looking rocks back home. And at the same time, she appreciated the opportunity to be of use and encouragement to those who were part of her new life.

One day, she made the acquaintance of Kazuko Zaifa, a scientist who had formerly worked in Budapest at the facility governing the satellites circling Mars.

“They accused me of leaking information to inciters,” she explained. “Information which allowed the inciters to breach security and infiltrate the building.”

“Ah,” said Harpreet. “And you were innocent.”

Kazuko nodded. “But they needed to blame someone. From what I’ve heard here, the Chancellor does not respond well to scenarios concluding without blame and punishment being assigned.”

Harpreet nodded. “It is a common failing of the dictatorial.”

“I’m lucky to be alive, really,” said Kazuko. “And luckier to have escaped interrogation with the Chancellor’s office. Security just threw me in here after asking a few questions about how it was possible for my system to have been hacked.”

“There is a mercy, certainly, in the discovery that we—or our life’s work—might be less significant than we had believed,” said Harpreet.

Kazuko laughed softly. “I suppose so. If I’d worked anywhere that really mattered to the government, I’d be dead.”

“Indeed,” replied Harpreet. “My friend, you have never asked how I came to be here.”

Kazuko flushed. “It felt like bad manners to ask you.”

“You are here today as a result of crimes committed by me,” said Harpreet. “Should I find myself someday able, I shall procure your freedom. In the meantime, I crave your forgiveness.”

Kazuko sat still for several minutes, digesting the news. Then she looked at Harpreet’s soft eyes and murmured, “You’ve been the truest friend I’ve known. There’s nothing to forgive.”

Not everyone shared Kazuko’s qualms about manners, but few ever thought to ask why Harpreet had been imprisoned. Harpreet was not surprised. She knew from long observation that most people were more interested in talking about themselves than listening to others.

So she gathered and listened, sorted and waited.

9

LOOKS LIKE DIRT

The weeks following Pavel’s new alliance with Ethan and Brian Wallace were challenging ones. Pavel had never faced considerations as basic as “Where will we sleep?” or “Where does food come from?” It had come as a shock to Pavel to learn that he was financially destitute. He had credits aplenty, but he had no safe means by which to access them if he wanted to remain hidden.

Ethan, of course, had no credits in his acquired body. Brian Wallace, however, was a very wealthy man, who had laid careful plans to be certain he was
never
cut off from his credits.

Unfortunately, Brian’s wealth could not buy the three shelter from among his former acquaintances. After a few hours, or a night at most, former friends confessed their reluctance to act in a way that would set them at odds with Brian’s cousin, the head of Clan Wallace.

“I’m sorry, truly, but I can’t risk her disfavor,” ran the responses time after time.

“I’m fine living on the ship,” Pavel declared, stoic.

“Aye, lad, but
he’s
not,” replied Brian, indicating Ethan.

“I will adapt,” said Ethan in a flat voice that little suggested how difficult it might be.

And so the three lived on their stolen ship, using Brian Wallace’s credits and planning for Ethan’s attempt to complete his mission.

Something of a breakthrough for Ethan’s mental health came one morning when Pavel woke to the sound of a monotone humming.

“Eth?” murmured Pavel.

No response.

“Ethan?”

Ethan broke off humming and, after a long minute’s struggle, spoke. “I am finding confinement difficult,” he confessed.

From the rear of the ship, Elsa whined above Brian’s snores.

“You and the dog, both,” said Pavel. “Listen man, I’m sorry.” He reached back to release the lock upon Elsa’s crate. “This is no life for either of you.” Pavel ruffled Elsa’s fur, but the dog darted to Ethan, licking his hands, his chin.

“Elsa,” murmured Ethan. Pavel had successfully reattached muscle, ligament, tendon, and bone in Ethan’s injured limb such that he now had the use of both arms. Ethan dug his two hands deep into Elsa’s coat. Her tail thumped noisily upon the ground.

“The dog relaxes you,” Pavel said to Ethan. His years at the hospital had made him a keen observer of physiology.

Ethan’s brows drew close. “Yes,” he replied. “I believe you are correct.”

From that day, Pavel began monitoring Ethan’s wellbeing, offering frequent prescriptions of “Elsa-time” to his Marsian friend.

Brian noted the improvement in Ethan’s mental health with a woeful pronouncement. “Me credits come in handy,” Brian said, “But it’s clear enough the real reason ye tolerate me is because of me dog. Ah, well. That’s good enough for me, I suppose.”

“We’re both exiles, man,” said Pavel, smiling sympathetically. It was a turning point in their relationship.

Pavel’s friendship with Wallace was cemented a few days later, following a disagreement over what sort of escape vehicle they ought to use for their upcoming mission to the satellite facility.

“My aunt’s ship is a worthless piece of junk,” declared Pavel. “It’s time we buy something with some real muscle.”

“‘We,’ indeed,” muttered Wallace.

“Muscle?” asked Ethan.

“Figure of speech,” replied Pavel and Brian in unison. They’d grown accustomed to Ethan’s confusion over non-concrete descriptions.

“We want something that can outrun security,” continued Pavel, growing animated. “Something with some actual power under the hood.”

“There’s no
need
to outrun security with an untraceable ship,” argued Brian Wallace.

Ethan disagreed. “The need for speed could become more paramount in an escape situation,” he said.

“Exactly,” said Pavel, grinning broadly. “If they can’t catch you, it doesn’t matter if they can trace you or not.”

“That is incorrect,” said Ethan.

“Come on, Ethan. Whose side are you on?” asked Pavel.

“Figure of speech,” murmured Wallace.

Pavel rolled his eyes. “Look. All I’m saying is this ship is slow. And now, when we’re planning to break into a secure facility, is the kind of situation where speed could be important.”

In the end, Wallace allowed himself to be persuaded when a ship was found which had the ability to jam tracking technologies.

“And ye’re certain it has to be this one, lad?” asked Brian Wallace, looking at the sleek, reflective silver of Pavel’s choice—a Hercules-class flyer.

“It’s got seven times the power of Lucca’s old dust-sucker,” said Pavel. His grin ran ear-to-ear as he dumped the specifications of the new vehicle on Wallace and Ethan. “Just look at her! She beat out the Novum Oddysseum by seventeen minutes in last year’s Singapore Classic. Now,
that
is a ship, my friends.”

“Aye, lad,” sighed Brian Wallace. “It’s a ship that says, ‘Notice me, if ye please.’ I don’t care for it.”

“C’mon, Wallace,” said Pavel. “You don’t think the Chancellor’s ship says, ‘Notice me’?”

Ethan was staring at both of them with a puzzled look. “Figures of speech?” he asked.

The pair nodded in response.

“Sorry, man,” said Pavel.

“Conversations with the two of you are most educational,” replied Ethan. “Brian Wallace, the racing ship is approximately twenty percent less likely to gather notice than the Chancellor’s luxury vehicle.”

“Ye don’t say?” asked Brian, surprised.

And so the trio flew away in a newer, faster, and very much shinier Hercules-class craft that afternoon, Pavel whooping at the helm as he put the ship through her paces.

“Thanks, man,” said Pavel to Brian Wallace, grinning broadly.