The Empress of Mars (28 page)

“They came down an hour before sunrise,” Manco informed him next morning,
sotto voce
. “They brought nothing with them. I watched them all the way down the mountain. They went into the fifth lock, straight to Settlement Base.”

Mary watched their exchange, sipping her tea. It was a blessed relief, for once, to have someone else worrying about dangers to the house. All the same, she made a mental note to corner Ottorino that night when he came home from the shop, and find out what the latest threat might be.

She allowed herself to relax, leaning back. There was Manco up near the ceiling, just vanishing into his loft for a well-earned rest. What had he been doing? And Rowan had seemed a little distant with Ottorino this morning, why was that? Too soon for morning sickness . . . or was it? She’d have to have another talk with Rowan.

There was Alice, stacking a tray with mugs to take out for cleaning. There was Eliphal, jumping up from his buke to take the tray from her. There was Chiring at
his
buke, composing his latest dispatch to the
Kathmandu Post
. There was Mona at
her
buke, looking cross as she struggled with her long-distance sixth form geometry lesson. There was Mr. Morton behind the bar, filling little bowls with salted peanuts as he sang a romantic air from
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
.

There was . . .
wasn’t
the Heretic, banging pans in the pitch-dark kitchen. Frowning, Mary got up and went to the kitchen door. She peered in. “Hello? Hiding this morning, are we?”

But Mary heard no reply, not even the little whirring sound the Heretic’s ocular implant made when she was uneasy. Muttering to herself, she stalked out into the middle of the Empress and peered up at the tiny high opening to the Heretic’s loft. It was impossible to see anything at this distance, so Mary went to the tie-off hook and sorted through the lines until she found the Heretic’s. After clipping it on, she bent her knees and jumped. The reel shrieked as it took her sailing up to the mouth of the loft.

Grasping the ledge, she peered in. There was a rumpled mound of bedding visible. It shifted slightly as she watched. Mary cleared her throat.

“Ahem! Good
morning
,” she said pointedly.

There was a whine as the ocular implant emerged from the blankets and angled in her direction.

“Sorry. Can’t come down today,” said a muffled voice.

“Oh, you can’t, can you?” said Mary in exasperation. “A little under the weather, are we?”

“No,” was the reply. “He says I can’t come down. It isn’t safe.”

“Not safe,” said Mary. “Did he say what the rest of us are going to do about meals, then?”

“He said you could cook.”

“Did he?” said Mary. “I see. He’s clearly never eaten my cooking.”

There was a violent movement under the blankets. The harsh strange voice spoke:
“She-wolves roam the streets! The mountain’s angry. Bitches bare their teeth. He raises his iron club.”

“If you say so,” said Mary, and, cursing silently, she descended.

She had to rig a utility light in the kitchen before she could find anything with which to begin preparations for lunch. Mona was only too glad to be pulled away from her lessons to help.

“How the hell does anyone eat this stuff?” growled Mary, slicing up Proteus. “It looks like paste.”

“That’s only because it’s the chicken-flavored, Mum,” said Mona, stirring Bisto granules into a saucepan. “No, wait, it’s the fish-flavored is white and the chicken’s yellow. Then there’s the sort of porky veal that’s pink, and there’s a red beef-flavored.”

“Pah! So this is supposed to taste like fish?”

“I think. Don’t taste it, Mum!” added Mona, for Mary had been raising a crumb to her lips. “Taste horrible until it’s fried.”

“So we’re supposed to fry it?”

“The Heretic always does.”

“Right, then.” Mary peered down at the blue-white slabs of synthetic protein. “Just like this? Or is it supposed to be dipped in batter first?”

“I don’t know. I think it sort of exudes its own batter if it comes up to room temperature.”

“That’s rubbish! I never heard of anything making its own batter. Bloody hell, I’d better go ask—” Mary started out of the kitchen, just as the lock opened and two young women entered. They were on the large side, with a lot of wavy blonde hair that sprang out as they pulled their masks off and shook their heads. They looked clean-scrubbed and healthy. Their stares were blank.

“May I help you?” said Mary.

“We want to speak to Sister Amphitrite,” said one of them.

“Sorry,” said Mary, with a sinking feeling. “Nobody by that name here, my dears.”

“Then we want to speak to Doris Stubb,” said the other.

“Never heard that name either, sorry.”

“Then we want to speak with your cook,” said the first girl who had spoken. Mary held out her hands, which were gummy with raw Proteus.

“
I’m
my cook. See? Now, what is it you young ladies are after really, eh?”

“We want to speak with Sister Amphitrite, who has one eye and
works as your cook,” said the second girl, frowning at Mary. “We know she’s here; a lady in Clan Morrigan told us so. Don’t lie to us! Is that her, in the kitchen?”

“No,” said Mary, and then shouted, for the two shoved her aside and strode into the kitchen.

“Sister Amphitrite!”

Mona screamed as they grabbed her and pulled her out into the main room. “What? What? Who are you? Who’s Sister Ampi—Amphi—who?”

“Let go of my daughter, you pair of bints!” Mary got both her hands in one full head of blonde waves, and yanked as hard as she might. Mr. Morton, holding the Hong Loong Restaurant Supply Big Value Drum o’ Peanuts as a shield, edged out from behind the bar toward them.

“Er—ladies—ladies, I think you’d better go—”

“Hey!” Chiring leaped to his feet and grabbed up his handcam. He started filming as Mary, still pulling hair, yelled: “How DARE you? Look at her, you idiots! She’s got
two
eyes!”

The one who still had hold of Mona looked, and released her. Mona ran back into the kitchen, just as Manco, having rolled out of his loft, came flying down on his line. He wore only Spider-Man thermals, but was brandishing a machete.

“Get out,” he ordered sternly.

“Where is she?” cried the girl who was not sobbing and trying to claw Proteus morsels out of her hair. “You have no right to keep her here! She belongs to Holy Mother Church!”

“For the last time, the person you want isn’t here,” said Mary. “And even if she was, we wouldn’t turn her over to the likes of you, my girl. Go on, get out of my house!”

“You’re
evil
!” said the weeping girl. “You’re evil, and the Goddess will punish you!”

Mary seemed to swell visibly with wrath. “Okay! See that? That’s a camera! And see
him?
” She stabbed her pointing finger in the direction of Mr. De Wit, who was watching all this with his mouth open.
“He’s
a lawyer!
My
lawyer.”

“That’s right!” Alice affirmed, grabbing his arm possessively. “
Now
you’ll be sorry!”

“Er—ahem. Ladies, consider this your official notice to leave these premises immediately,” said Mr. De Wit. “From this point on, you’re trespassing—and I could easily make a case for felony assault and attempted kidnapping—and—er—”

Sister Morgan-le-Fay (for it was she) grabbed Sister Lilith by the arm and pulled her away toward the lock. “You’ll be sorry!” she said. “Holy Mother Church will get her back! The Goddess will show us a way!”

“Bet She doesn’t!” said Mary, advancing on them threateningly. “Now you get out of my house before I snatch you bald-headed.”

They fled through the lock. Mary raised both her fists and gave a primal roar of triumph. Turning and heading back to the bar, she looked at her hands in distaste.

“Must wash these. Come on out, Mona, don’t be a silly. It’s perfectly safe now. Where did you get Spider-Man underwear, Manco?”

“The Emporium, where else?” said Manco, with dignity. “I’m going back to bed now, okay?”

“Nice machete,” said Mr. Morton. “Did they have Nemesis the Warlock thermals? I always thought it would be sort of neat to be Nemesis.”

“Thank you,” said Manco, blushing a little as he hitched up his pants. “I always thought it would be neat to be Spider-Man. Only, like, a wrestler, you know?”

“Oh, he’d make a good wrestler,” agreed Mr. Morton.

“Anyway, no, they didn’t have Nemesis thermals. But they had Judge Dredd thermals.”

“Oh. I never wanted to be
him
. But thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Manco, and flew back up to the ceiling.

There were few shoppers in the Emporium at this hour of the morning: a Sherpa who was deliberating at some length between a hammer with a red handle and a hammer with a green handle, a newly arrived prospector who was there to buy gear he’d forgotten to bring up with him, and a British Arean Company clerk who was plugged in at the omniband station downloading the 350th season of
Eastenders
. Ottorino prowled the aisles restlessly, stepping out now and then to the Tube, where he peered up and out at the place where the strangers had kept vigil.

At last he went back to the sales console, where Rowan was setting up a counter display of nougat bars.

“My darling, I need to go Outside for a little while,” he said, unclip-ping the silk rosebud and presenting her with it.

“For why?” She looked up at him, two lines of concern between her eyes.

“To investigate something. I will be careful,” he said.

“And I am to the shop keep watch all myself, with no help?”

“Ask your sister if she will come down and help you,” Ottorino told her, and went into the storeroom to don Outside gear.

Five minutes later he was around the back of the dome, checking the pipe coupling. It appeared not to have been tampered with: no steam,
the dripping had stopped, and the ice puddle had evaporated but left the tracks there, hard-set as fossils. A light opportunistic growth of lichen was softening their edges. Ottorino grunted in satisfaction and set off uphill, climbing easily and steadily.

He kept straight upward for about a kilometer, paralleling at a distance the track the two spies had taken in the night. When he had drawn level with the ledge where they had hidden, he crossed over to it in easy bounds, scarcely disturbing the scree. Reaching the ledge, he crouched at the back and examined it.

Yes. Here, where there was a little wind shelter presented by a boulder, here were boot prints in the undisturbed dust. Tribal pattern, the same print he’d seen behind the Emporium. And here, near the back of the ledge, were a couple of discolored foam-boils in the earth, dust-pocked and bubbled: the lurkers had stayed up here long enough to have to drain their psuits’ urine tanks. And they had been up here all night, in the airless deadly cold, because . . . ?

Ottorino scowled, rising on his haunches to look outward. The view from this spot was breathtaking, Settlement Base and the vivid green of the allotments, and whirlwinds moving titanic columns of pink dust far out on the southern plains. It wouldn’t be nearly so impressive by night, however.

He stood and climbed above the ledge. Here there were several great boulders tumbled together; perhaps the eternal winds had been deflected by them and scoured out the ledge just below. Where two leaned together there was a crevice, glittering with unmelted frost. Cautiously, Ottorino lowered himself into it, and found he was able to crouch down in reasonably good concealment.

He climbed out and went bounding away down the mountainside, forming a plan in his head as he went.

He was, perhaps, insufficiently attentive to his customers during the rest of that day. Twice he fetched the wrong size boots from the stockroom; twice Rowan had to step in and act as translator, when he misheard
requests and directed customers to Home Lighting instead of Preserved Foods, or Entertainment instead of Furnishings.

“What this is?” she hissed at him, at last. “Where your head today? Something is wrong?”

“Something is a little wrong,” Ottorino admitted. “I have more work to do tonight. In fact, I need to leave this afternoon.”

“Why?”

“It’s better you don’t know that,” he said.

She drew away from him, looking at him hard-eyed. She said nothing else to him the rest of the day, other than was strictly necessary for business, and coolly let herself be kissed when he left, in late afternoon, to wolf down a couple of nougat bars and pull on his Outside gear once more.

This time when he went up, he carried a bag with the infrared goggles, the flare gun, and a utility knife.

Alice and Rowan stood side by side behind the Emporium’s sales counter. Rowan was watching Mr. Crosley and Eddie the Yeti, who were lingering by the download kiosk buying music. The transmission from Earth tended to take a while, so they had made themselves comfortable in front of the holocatalogue, idly flipping through the images. Mr. Crosley was dapper in the flashy new jacket he affected, with its animated print pattern, and Eddie wore costly new boots, bought and paid for at the Emporium; so Rowan was not especially concerned about shoplifting. The pretense that she might be, however, was a welcome excuse not to pay attention to Alice.

“. . . and I’m going to buy myself a bathing suit, probably the first thing I get back. And I’ll lie out on the beach, any beach, and get myself a tan. No masks, no psuits, no thermal underwear ever again! And I’ll treat myself to everything I’ve missed up here. I’ll go to cafes on streets lined with trees and I’ll have real food at a table sitting outside in the open air. And I’ll have fresh fruit. Ooooh. Peaches. Cherries. Strawberries. Do you even remember what fresh fruit tasted like?”

“Perfectly well,” Rowan snapped. “You know something? You’ve been nattering on and on and on, and you haven’t so much as mentioned Eliphal’s name once.”