The Empress of Mars (26 page)

“And grant us a permit for a little modest ecumenical work,” added Mother Willow.

“Well, I . . . I suppose there’d be no harm in that,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, wondering what
ecumenical
meant exactly. “We can certainly grant that much, can’t we, Mr. Nennius?”

“Of course we can, sir,” said Mr. Nennius. He whipped out Mr. Rotherhithe’s buke and punched up a document. Mr. Rotherhithe opened his mouth in surprise, for he was fairly certain he had left his buke in his wardrobe; but there, Mr. Nennius was beaming and presenting him with a lease agreement already made up.

“A standard form. Just apply your thumb there, sir. Good. Ladies? Just here, if you don’t mind. Good.
And
here. And here we are . . .” Mr. Nennius tapped in a code and a sheet of veltex spewed from the buke’s printer slot. He tore it off and presented it to Mother Glenda with a bow.

“You will be blessed, young man,” said Mother Willow, tears of happiness in her eyes.

“And now, General Director, it is our turn,” said Mother Glenda. With an arch smile, she drew out her own buke and called up a document. She turned it so that Mr. Rotherhithe could see the screen. “Do you know what that is, General Director?”

“Er . . . no,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, peering at the pixelated calligraphy.

“That is a formal request for excommunication proceedings to be initiated. Let’s see if Ms. Griffith can retain her standing in the Neopagan community
now
,” said Mother Glenda, and transmitted her request to Luna.

“Another Martian milestone!” Chiring announced, for the benefit of the
Kathmandu Post
. “Capitalism comes to the Red Planet, in the form of the first big-chain retailer of consumer goods! High-ticket luxuries, or essential supplies for the Martian colonists, and the first sign that the Martian economy is finally about to come to life?”

He backed away to better frame the image on his handcam: a gleaming new Tube extension, vizio clear as untroubled spring water, and at the end the new lock above which shone the brightly lit sign:
EMPORIUM DI VESPUCCI
. He moved closer again, the better to pick out faces in the crowd of people standing patiently at the lock.

“Let’s hear from some prospective shoppers!” Chiring switched from Nepali to PanCelt. “Good morning, sir! Would you care to give your name for the viewers Down Home?”

“Malcolm MacBean of Clan Morrigan,” said he, a little disgruntled at having a camera shoved in his face.

“And what are you hoping to find at Emporium di Vespucci?”

“Cheaper air filters than you can buy at the BAC PX.”

“So you see this as a definite challenge to the British Arean Company?”

“I don’t know. Piss off or I’ll break that thing.”

“Well, what about you, madam?” Chiring swerved his camera into
the face of a lady who, being English, held up her hands in a gesture of incomprehension. He repeated his question in English for her.

“Oh. Er. I heard they were going to have an omniband station for downloading holoes,” she said. “And I just, you know, well, it’s something
new
up here, isn’t it?”

“So you’re here for the novelty! And would you care to give us your name?”

“Not really,” she said apologetically. “I work at . . .” She jerked her head in the general direction of Settlement Base. “You know.”

“Thank you,” said Chiring, tactfully stepping away. Next in line were Mr. Crosley and Eddie the Yeti. Eddie beamed into the camera lens.

“Stanford’s going to buy me some sweeties!”

“Is that right?” Chiring trained the camera on Mr. Crosley.

“That is correct. Furthermore, Mr. Peebles and I are looking to expand our business ventures, and we’re investigating the logistics of purchasing supplies.”

“We’re going to be dentists,” Eddie informed the world.

“How useful! Good luck, gentlemen.” Chiring spotted Alf the Hauler and trained the camera on him. “Mr. Chipping! Always a pleasure. What brings you to Emporium di Vespucci?”

“Want to see if dey got peaches in syrup,” said Alf. “I been dreaming about peaches in syrup for ten years.”

“A nostalgic taste of Old Earth! And now, I think—yes—we’re about to open!” Chiring turned and raised his handcam high to catch Ottorino emerging through the lock, beaming.

“My friends, Emporium di Vespucci is at your service,” he said with a bow. The crowd gawked. He had clearly washed and neatly combed his hair—most colonists had simply gotten into the habit of wearing dreadlocks—had a red silk rosebud clipped to the collar of his psuit, and was altogether the most cosmopolitan and debonair figure any of them had seen in years.

Chiring elbowed his way forward to be part of the first group let in through the lock. The aperture in front hissed open, and they stepped forward as one.

There came a long-drawn-out “Oooooohhh” in unison from the Martians at what they beheld. There, arranged on rows and rows of shelves, were
things to buy
. Shovels, pickaxes and other tools, new and sharp; not one but three Rovers on a dais, their red paint gleaming under the display lights; boots, in all sizes and no fewer than three colors; thermal underwear and glossy-looking new psuits on racks. Touch-screens glowed from the walls, displaying catalogue merchandise for ordering: dome kits complete with hookups and built-ins, hydroponics gear, tractors and big rigs, more Rovers. Farther in were the racks displaying gustatory delights, Chlorilar pouches of preserved fruits and vegetables, blocks of Proteus, stacked pyramids of pannetoni! Chiring panned slowly across it all, making a mental note to score in some sort of classical fanfare for the audio track.

A second “Oooohh!” followed the first reaction, for by then the crowd had taken their first breath.

“It doesn’t
stink
in here!” said the Englishwoman tearfully. She tore off her mask and gulped in warm, dry air, faintly perfumed with luxury but no least trace of methane.

“Of course not,” said Rowan, stepping forward. She held out a tray of complimentary sugared almonds, and, clearing her throat, inquired: “Are you being served?”

Alf the Hauler pushed past her, having spotted his heart’s desire. Moaning with happiness, he seized a pouch of peaches in syrup from its rack. He tore it open and lifted it on high, tilting his face back. The golden hemispheres cascaded down slowly, onto Alf’s face, into his mouth and hair and beard, the syrup streaming like the light of a long-ago summer afternoon.

“So it was a success, was it?” said Cochevelou, lifting his pint to his lips.

“It was that,” said Mary happily, leaning on the bar. “Sold out most of the foodstuffs. Our Ottorino’s had to place an emergency order Down Home to restock. Ever so many tools sold, too, and air filters by the boxful. Pots of money, they made. Plummy days, Cochevelou!”

“Maybe,” said Cochevelou shortly. “New days, that’s for certain. Seen the new Ephesian temple that’s going up, down by the transport strip?”

“I have,” said Mary. “Been around your place, have they?”

“They were,” said Cochevelou. “Rounding up our ladies and exhorting them and all. Trying to tithe for the new temple. I had to sign over a fair bit of clan’s funds, I can tell you. Grasping old bitches.”

“They didn’t get as far as asking for money with me,” said Mary with a chuckle. “Stalked out of here with their noses in the air. Much I care!”

“Yes, well, you might care,” said Cochevelou. “They didn’t have good words for you, believe me. Telling our girls it was a sin to come up here, and you were a shameless hypocrite and all and next thing to a heretic. And that reminds me! They were asking around about your cook, had anyone seen her and did anyone know where she lives and so forth. Of course our ladies told them all about her. Hard not to know where she is; only one one-eyed person on Mars anyway.”

“No, there’s Squatty Pachacamac, hauls the North Pole route,” said Mary, but distractedly. “Wears an eyepatch.
What
did they tell about her?”

“Only one-eyed woman with an ocular implant, then. I don’t know what all they said, but likely it was just what everyone knows. Didn’t seem like they were trying to bring her up on charges or anything. And it isn’t as though she’s out there ranting and preaching heresy, is it? So I shouldn’t worry about
that
. But afterwards some of our ladies were muttering about me coming up here so much.”

“Were they, now?” Mary shrugged. “As though any woman’s going to tell Maurice Cochevelou what to do!”

“Damned right,” said Cochevelou. He drank deep and pushed his empty pint glass away. He kept his eyes on it, drumming his fingers on the bar. “You know, though . . . There’s talk that diamond you found had a curse on it.”

“Oh, of all the nonsense I ever heard, indeed! What have I had but excellent luck, ever since it came out of the ground?” Mary cried. “Pots of cash, and two of my girls married off!”

“True enough, but what’s become of the clan?” said Cochevelou. “Lawsuits to ruin us, and my boy run off into hiding. And what good are we getting out of Celtic Energy Systems, they’d like to know?”

“A big cut of the profits, once we start developing my mountain,” said Mary angrily. “As you well know, Cochevelou!”

“I know,” said Cochevelou. “I’m only telling you what they’re saying, is all. And there’s talk of voting me down. Three votes of no-confidence for a chieftain and there’s a new chieftain.”

“Why, of all the ungrateful, short-sighted—”

“Treacherous.”

“Yes, treacherous worthless gossip-mongering fools! You pay them no mind. You’re still chairman of Celtic Energy Systems, whatever those curs decide.”

“I don’t know that I care anymore,” said Cochevelou. He looked around as the lock hissed and Ottorino and Rowan entered, arm in arm, heading for a booth in which to have a celebratory dinner. “Ah! Where’s my wits? You tell your son-in-law to have a look at the pipe coupling, where it feeds into the wall of his shop. Saw something cloudy from the Tube and thought at first it was a smudge on the vizio, but it wasn’t. There’s a bit of steam coming up off the pipe. A leak in the caulking, maybe.”

Ottorino bent down and felt along the floor. It was warm, as it ought to be, here by the sales counter; no problem with the hypocaust system. He tried a few other sections, but they were equally warm to the touch.

It must be a small leak
, he thought with relief.
All the same, it’s wasting water
. He stood straight and looked around for Rowan, who was arranging souvenirs—little paperweights and novelty figurines, cast by Manco from pink Martian grit—on a display stand.

“I must go Outside for a few minutes, my dearest,” he told her. She nodded, glancing at the clock.

“The half hour until she open. Leave yourself the time to change,” she said. Her Italian was improving, but he found her errors endearing. He smiled at her and walked back into the storage room, where he pulled on a heavy-grade coverall over his psuit and masked up. Fastening his Aercapo into place, he took his toolbox and stepped out through the service lock.

The cold took his breath away for a moment, as it always did, and he regretted not having pulled on his extra-heavy boots. He set out around the curve of the building, steadying himself against the wind with one hand on its outer wall. Within a few paces he spotted the little plume of steam, rising straight from the utility pipes between gusts of wind.
Coming closer he saw also the tiny trickle of rusty water, dripping steadily from the hot pipe, already grown with lichen.

Inspecting the drip, he noted to his relief that the problem was nothing more than a loose coupling. Ottorino set down his toolbox and dug out a wrench. He was stepping close, somewhat gingerly to avoid the little stretch of frozen mire under the drip, when he spotted the footprints.

He studied them, frowning, as he tightened the coupling. Someone had been walking back here, most likely yesterday evening, after the peroxide had boiled off but before the mud had frozen solid. Clear sharp prints in the pocked mud. Whose? No one had any business to be out here now but he himself. And here was a second set, a little larger; two people had been lurking here, then.

He did not recognize the sole prints. They were not any brand he sold; they were sharp and new, and so unlikely to belong to most of the Martian population who had been here a few years. It was a very distinctive sole pattern, spiky geometric shapes arranged to form a tribal design.

Saboteurs? Had they loosened the coupling?

The train pulls into Dodge, and the gunmen step down from the passenger car to the platform. They are lean, dressed all in black like riverboat gamblers, and each wears a holster with a Colt revolver in it. They look around the main street, exchange a wordless glance, and saunter off to arrange for their trunks to be left at the livery stable. Then they head down the street to find a hotel . . .

Eyes narrowed, Ottorino put away the wrench and closed up his toolbox. He had seen this movie before.

“Who?” Mr. Rotherhithe, who had been dozing in his chair, sat up.

“The authorized spokesperson of the Martian Agricultural Collective, sir,” said Mr. Nennius. “He demands to see you.”

“What for?” Mr. Rotherhithe looked around wildly, searching for his shoes. He pulled them on.

“A grievance of some kind, I should imagine, sir,” said Mr. Nennius.

“Well, can’t you handle it? I’m not quite up to speed—”

“He’s asking for you specifically, sir. Shall I show him in?”

“Wait! Wait!” said Mr. Rotherhithe, and just managed to get behind his desk and strike an attitude of efficient serenity before the MAC spokesperson came striding in.

He was another of the same rawboned, shaven-headed type, with angry glinting eyes. “You’d be the general director, then?”

“I am he,” admitted Mr. Rotherhithe.

“Roscoe Ditcher, speaking for the Collective. We’ve been testing the soil on that land you’ve allotted us, and it won’t pass muster. You’ve tried to fob us off with a bloody sterile desert!”