The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (17 page)

“Brenda, this is not the best time.”

“I know, Emil. I of all people know that.” She showered her show biz smile on all of them, as if they were cameras. “But these are the times that fry men’s souls and I simply
have
to do something to help.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you Brenda, but we are coping as best we can.”

“I want to give a concert.”

A slightly unreal beat. Rogers’s communication rang. He answered it.

“Hello,” he said.

“I want to give a concert for the refugees,” Brenda went on, raising her voice to a loud stage whisper but very kindly ignoring the interruption which had ever so slightly thrown off her timing.

“The Brenda Woolley Concert for the Refugees,” she announced in quotation marks and wafted her hands in the air vaguely as if sketching out a poster.

Nobody knew what to say. Rogers found his jaw open. “I’ll call you back,” he said.

“Good, isn’t it?” said Brenda. “I bet none of you thought of
that
.” She seemed pleased with the effect she had created. Sometimes she moved even herself. She waited for approval, head lowered in that genuinely humble way she had rehearsed so often. There was a slight pause.

The short terrierlike woman with the artificial red hair stepped forward and said aggressively, “I think it’s a terrific idea.”

“It is a good idea,” said Keppler diplomatically. “A wonderful, touching, intensely
human
idea,” said the small terrier woman. She stressed the word
human
and looked around challengingly as if the rest of them were somehow not human.

“It
is
a wonderful idea,” said Brenda Woolley eventually after a little thought, as if someone else had suggested it.

“Yes, I like it. I like it very much,” she said with warm approval. “No, don’t stop me, Emil,” she waved away all possibility of denial. “I am up to this. I can do it. You are very sweet, but in times like this we must all do that we can. And if it costs me my last breath, I shall do it.”

If she was waiting for applause, she didn’t get it. Keppler looked helplessly over at Rogers.

“As soon as we finish the search-and-rescue,” said Rogers, “I’m sure that would be fine.”

She waved away the search-and-rescue.

“Details,” she said. “Talk to Pauley.”

The terrier looked suddenly important.

“So do we have a deal here or what?”

“Once we have everyone bedded and fed,” said Keppler, “we’ll organize it.”

“Will you announce it now, Emil dearest?” asked Brenda coyly.

“Now?” said Rogers.

“Yes. Can you make sure it’s in the press reports on the H9 thing?” barked the terrier, her hair an odd shade of gypsy red. “There’s bound to be a lot of news coverage on something like this.”

“Well okay, we’ll certainly mention it to the news crews.”

“I think Brenda would be available to do a certain amount of press on this.”

Brenda nodded her approval. Terrier thought so.

“I’ll get on to the news crews myself,” said the terrier. “This is important.”

They swept out in a flurry of fur with the air of people who have achieved something really vital at some personal sacrifice.

No one said anything.

Hubble made God look small. He has never quite recovered from that.

—
De Rerum Comoedia

“
Mayday. Begin emergency transmission. All frequencies
. PS Johnnie Ray.
Request help immediately. Two male crew: Alex Muscroft and Lewis Ashby. Two H9 evacuees: one child female, Tay Ashby; one adult female, Katy Wallace
.”

Carlton had managed to fix the radio. They were, in theory, no longer alone. Their local life-support systems had started up easily enough. Most of these were not broken, they had merely tripped. Circuit breakers were burned out everywhere, of course, but once these were replaced, they had a steady supply of air, water, and emergency lighting. But they were still without main power.

Tay was very quiet. Lewis was worried about her, but none of them had much time to sit with her during those first hours. There was just too much to do to ensure their survival. Alex had shown her the games room and her eyes lit up.

“Wow,” she said, “are all these yours?”

“Yes,” he said with a proud little smile, “and you can play with them when we get the power back.”

Now she sat quietly drawing by the low wattage of emergency lights. Lewis looked in now and again.

Once she said, “It’s okay, Daddy, I’m fine. Really.”

Another time she asked him about her mother. He gave her a big hug.

From time to time Alex checked on Katy Wallace in the sick bay. She was still unconscious. Alex’s beaky face would appear at the round window to see if she had woken yet. He wasn’t quite sure what they should say to her. Was she really responsible for the death of Sammy? It made him angry to think of it, and yet, looking at her lying there, helpless, breathing gently, he felt sure there was a reasonable explanation.

Carlton went in periodically to turn her.

The third time Alex’s face appeared in the window, Carlton beckoned him inside.

“She hasn’t woken yet.”

“Thank you, Carlton, I can see that.”

“You should see this,” said Carlton. “It’s quite something.” He began pulling the sheet back, revealing her naked body underneath.

“Carlton!” said Alex, shocked.

“It’s okay, she’s quite unconscious.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. Oh my god.”

The shock of her beauty took his breath away. And then he winced. She was lying facedown, her hair sprawling over the pillow. Her naked back was a mass of bruises.

“Someone beat her.”

Carlton nodded.

“Who did that to her?”

“Persons unknown.”

“Why?”

“Maybe they wanted to prevent her revealing something.”

“How come?”

“Well they left her in the Rialto to die. See here.”

There were tiny marks on the upper part of her thigh. Little needle tracks.

“Someone pumped her full of Corazone,” said Carlton. “She would never have got out alive. She couldn’t even walk.”

“Corazone?”

“A highly effective memory suppressant and a total muscle relaxant. She’ll probably sleep for a week.”

He covered her up gently with the sheet.

“She is like the Sleeping Beauty,” said Carlton. “Perhaps you should try waking her with a kiss.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Is that funny?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not funny at all. This woman knows something.” He looked down at her sleeping face. She seemed so innocent.

When I am very sad I make a comedy, and when I am very happy I make a serious drama.

—
Billy Wilder

Comus was chained to the metal wall of a bulkhead. He looked about seventy, with grey hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He was scrawny, though he might once have been powerful. Now he looked tired. His eyes were red with fatigue as he warily watched Pavel come in. Josef was leaning over him.

“I’m afraid our friend Comus is being very unhelpful,” he said. “He refuses to say anything at all, which is a pity, as it leaves us no alternative. Get the needles, Pavel.”

“You can’t do that, Josef.”

“He’s endangered the whole damn operation and I want to know why.”

“He’s Comus, for God’s sake,” Pavel pleaded.

“It’s all our lives at stake. If we’ve been compromised, we need to know.”

“But jeez, Josef, it’s Comus.”

“You have a better idea?”

Pavel shrugged and went and got the spike. He held it up for Comus to see.

“Do you understand what this is?”

Comus just looked at him. He didn’t even turn away as Pavel shot him up.

Pavel waited five minutes and then hooked Comus up to a small reactor box. A wide band ran from his arm to the machine. It would monitor his reactions. Josef walked over and looked at the old man for a minute.

“You understand why we are doing this?” Nothing.

“Listen, we don’t have to do this. You can just tell us the truth. Nobody wants to harm you.” Comus simply stared at him.

“Why did you try and leave the ship? You had no business on H9. Just the watchers and the detonation mob. You knew that? So why this other thing? I don’t get it.”

If he was hoping for a confession, it was not forthcoming.

“Have it your own way. The drug will help you remember.”

“I have done nothing to compromise the security of the operation.”

“Well, good. That’s good to know. So let’s start at the beginning shall we and see what we can establish for a fact.”

The sound of the word “fact” chopped like a sharp ax in the room.

Josef pulled out an eight-by-ten of Katy Wallace.

“Who’s this?”

“You know perfectly well.”

“Please just answer the question.”

“Her name is Katy Wallace, I believe.”

The needles jumped on the meters.

“When did you meet her?”

“I have never met her.”

A flicker of reaction indicated a possible untruth.

“All right, why did you arrange to meet her?”

No response.

“Why did you tell her to go to the Rialto?”

Again no response.

“Was it to meet you?”

A long pause. Then a nod.

“Good. What was the purpose of the meeting?”

“It was personal.”

“Personal.”

“A private matter.”

“Are you aware of her relationship with Emil Keppler?”

“Of course.”

“Was that why you met her?”

“I didn’t meet her.”

Josef pulled out a picture of the Ganesha.

“Did you give her this?”

He shook his head. The needles leapt.

“Now that was a lie,” said Josef. “Any idea what this is?”

“It’s a Ganesha, a Hindu god of good fortune.”

“Good fortune for whom? Not for Sammy Weiss, that’s for sure. Do you know how she came to get hold of it?”

Comus shrugged. He was tired of this. Josef and his stupid games. That’s all they did, play games, usually with people’s lives. He was sick of it all. He had been in the struggle too long. And what did the struggle amount to? A simple philosophical choice. Kill or be killed. This is the issue: is it worth dying for a belief? And the nasty lurking underside of this simple question: is it worth killing for a belief? Legions of saints and martyrs and heroes of church, state, and revolution had all fought and died for such issues. Was any of it worth a toss? He stopped listening for a moment as Josef explained the workings of the Ganesha. A postman, yeah, yeah, yeah. A miniature transmitter, blah, blah, blah. The watchers had been monitoring Comus for his own security, bugging him electronically to see if he was being “painted” by any detection devices. Once he had tried to go to H9, he had been prevented, blah, blah, blah.

Now Josef was outlining the way the watchers had followed Katy to the Rialto. They had called McTurk in when they picked up a faint signal from the Ganesha. Sammy Weiss had activated it. For Sammy it was a fatal mistake. Within minutes they were in her apartment. They had found sensitive search requests on her screen. That was enough.

“Did you give the postman to Katy Wallace?”

“No. I never met her.”

“Okay, you had it delivered to her?”

“Yes.”

“And it contained a message to meet you?”

“Yes.”

“To which she could reply at a distance?”

“If you say so.”

“Who did she give the Ganesha to?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“But it was to confirm the details of your meeting on H9?” Hesitation. “Yes.”

“Okay, so you wanted to see her?” Nod.

Josef leaned forward. “Why?” A long pause this time.

“Why in the middle of an operation did you meet with the mistress of a man with whom we are doing business?”

Nothing.

Josef persisted. “Was it to warn her? Or were you doing some other deal? Perhaps a little insurance? Information in exchange for…what exactly? Not money, not you, not now. Help me here. I just can’t understand why you were meeting her so secretly?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything else.”

“What a pity.”

He said nothing.

“What a pity we can’t ask her.”

The old man looked up. What was he talking about?

“We can’t ask Katy Wallace because, you see, she is dead.”

They watched him come apart.

Famous people are very often traumatized individuals with a deep-seated sense of unworthiness…They believe that fame will mean an end to pain, and access to love.

—
Pamela Helen Connolly

Brenda in a white gown. Brenda in a white light. Brenda in front of a large white screen with the single word “Disaster” behind her. She is talking to us or, as she puts it, “speaking with each and every one of us.” An organ plays gently behind her honeyed words of wisdom.

“Love is the answer. Love is the key. Love will heal everything. With the power of love…Shit. Yes?”

“With the power of love the healing can begin.”

A suntanned, overweight, roly-poly man in a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt steps forward, prompting her. He is Brenda’s creator of special material. What used to be called a writer.

“‘Let it begin now the healing,’” he continues. “‘Let it begin inside each and every one of us.’ And then the choir goes ‘A-men’ and they start the hand clap and we’re into the Gospel Chorus.”

“Brilliant, Raymond. I love it.”

“Can you see the prompter?”

“I can now. Thank you, Nora.”

“All right, everyone, we’re ready to go live,” says a man in headphones. “And going live in ten seconds. Five, four, three, two…”

“Hello everybody, I’m Brenda Woolley. The H9 disaster has hit us all pretty hard here on the
Princess Di
. As we continue the heartrending job of search-and-rescue, looking for the many hundreds of poor people still lost out there, we remember and thank God for the larger humanity of which we form a part.”

“She’s finally flipped,” said Boo. “She thinks she’s the pope.” He was watching on a monitor in the stateroom that had become Rogers’s temporary HQ. Currently, Boo’s hair was bright orange. Beside him the Amazing Keith, pale-faced, his skinny body squeezed into a lime jumpsuit, was staring off into space.