The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (18 page)

Rogers had stepped outside for a second. He was conferring with Kyle, who had brought him the initial damage report. “This says the destruction came from inside?”

“Looks that way, man.”

“But that’s crazy.”

“Insane, ain’t it,” agreed Kyle. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Something got out of control.”

“Out of control? They couldn’t have caused more devastation if they’d tried.”

He glanced back inside the stateroom at the screen. “Love is the answer,” Brenda Woolley was saying. “Get me anything you can. List of dissidents. Throw me something, Kyle.”

Kyle nodded and moved off in that loose, easy way of his.

Rogers leaned against the wall and thought for a moment.
Someone planned this
. The thought was too horrendous.

Inside, Brenda Woolley preached on.

“It’s all too easy for us to say, ‘I can’t cope, Brenda.’ ‘This thing is too big for me, Brenda.’ ‘What difference can
I
make, Brenda?’ But we
can all
make a difference. I’m
here
to
help you
all make a difference. It is time to stand up and be counted.
Together
we can make a difference.”

“Hallelujah!”

She glanced at Pastor Abraham, a tubby man with curly white hair. He beamed at her through rows of gleaming teeth and added in a deep voice, “Praise the Lord!” One or two of the choir were tempted to join in, but Brenda froze them with a smile. Brenda did not care for unscripted hallelujahs.

“Tune in to the Brenda Woolley Disaster Relief Experience and together let’s make a difference.”

The choir began to tap their tambourines, Pastor Abraham to shake his booty. She would have to have a word with him about taste, thought Brenda, then launched herself into a gospel version of her theme song.

I’d cross the Universe for you, my darling

I’d sail across the Galax-sea…

“Turn that shit off,” said Rogers, returning.

“That’s not shit,” said Boo. “That’s Brenda Woolley. That’s cream of shit.”

“Shut up,” said Kyle.

“Yes, boss,” said Boo cheekily. He flicked the control. Brenda Woolley’s image reluctantly faded.

“They’re working on it,” said Kyle in response to Rogers’s unspoken question.

A florid gentleman in an eccentric tweed suit hurried in, mopping his brow with a red silk handkerchief. “Forgive my tardiness, gentlemen, I was consulting upon another matter.”

“Who the fuck’s this?” asked Rogers.

“I, sir, am Charles Jay Brown. I have the honor to represent this strangely gifted young man and I hope soon”—and here he bowed in the direction of the Amazing Keith—“to represent the dangerous talent of this very explosive young man.”

“Fuck you,” said Keith not unpleasantly.

“He has, as you can see, suffered from mismanagement hitherto,” said Charles Jay Brown, not in the least fazed by outright rejection.

“This is a police matter—we don’t need agents.”

“Ah, agents, I quite agree with you, but I am management, sir. I intrude into every corner of my artists’ lives. There is no detail that escapes me. I represent the entire man.”

“Worse than a lawyer, ain’t he?” said Boo with a tolerant smile.

Kyle scowled at him.

“Sorry,” said Boo. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“You’re a comedian,” said Kyle. “Right?”

“That’s what they say,” said Boo modestly.

“And this is the explosives guy?” said Rogers.

Keith nodded.

“So where were you when H9 went up?”

“What, are you crazy? You think I blew up H9? You think I’m an idiot?”

“Scratch that,” said Boo. “They
know
you’re an idiot.”

“Shut up,” said Rogers. “This isn’t funny.”

“How often have I heard that,” said Boo sadly.

Rogers nodded to Kyle, who tapped Boo lightly over the head. Half a pat, half a warning.

“Okay. I get it,” said Boo. “Humor is inappropriate.”

“Well?” said Rogers to Keith.

“I was here on the
Di
.”

“Are any of your stores unaccounted for?”

“You mean did someone steal my stuff?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Did you sell or lend any explosives to anyone?”

“You think I’m nuts?”

“They’re not questioning your sanity, Keith,” said Boo nicely. “It’s your housekeeping they’re interested in.”

“Nothing’s gone missing. I’d know.”

“Will you check again?”

“Sure.”

“And we’re going to have to lock up the rest of your stock.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want any civilians getting their hands on explosives. Okay?”

Keith shrugged. “If you say so.”

“What about you?” said Rogers to the waiting Boo.

“Me? Hey, I haven’t left the ship. I bin here too.”

Charles Jay Brown confirmed it with a barely perceptible nod to Rogers.

“Okay, you can go.”

Boo looked disappointed.

As they left the stateroom, they were watched from the far end of the deck by a tall dark man with a heavy mustache. A red-haired boy handed him a message. He scanned it and nodded.

“Better let them know right away,” said McTurk.

Everyone has his price.

—
Napoleon

Ping. It was a misdirected mail message. He was being copied on something. Carlton paused in his work repairing the power center to check the incoming signal. It was good news as far as he was concerned. It confirmed their communication system was working.

Misdirected Mail.

—Intercept request by Sammy Weiss. Subject. Katerina Walenska.

—
We have attempted to deliver your search request several times. The address you gave is no longer valid or responding. Would you like us to forward the results of our search to this address?

Good heavens, thought Carlton, the Weiss woman must have intended to copy me on what she found. But she was killed before the results of her search request could get back to her. He pondered a minute and then selected okay. Within minutes the file came through.

KATERINA WALEWSKA

Katerina Walewska was born Maria Laczinska in Poland in 1789, the year of the French Revolution. In 1805 at the age of 16 she was married to Count Walewski—who was at the then incredible age of 68. She became the Countess Walewska, and despite the enormous age difference seems to have been happy. One day when she was only 17, the great hero Napoleon rode through the village of Bronia on his way to Warsaw. He was about to destroy the Austrians at the battles of Wagram and Austerlitz. He was cheered from the rooftops and hailed by the Poles as a liberator. He noticed a beautiful young woman watching from a window, and sent an aide to find out who she might be. Discovering that she was the Countess Walewska, he sent an invitation for her to attend a ball honouring him in Warsaw. She modestly declined. The Poles were mortified and told her to accept, which after much persuasion she did. At the ball Napoleon asked her to dance, but she said she did not dance. He had conquered all Europe but not her. Next day he sent her a note which read, “I saw no one but you, I admired no one but you, I want no one but you. N.” She ignored it. He sent her diamonds, and flowers, but she returned them. Delegations of Poles beseeched her to give in to his demands, for Napoleon had made his attitude quite clear: “Your country will be dearer to me, once you have had pity on my poor heart.” He was determined to win her, even if it meant blackmailing Poland itself. She seemed genuinely to want to hold to her marriage vows, despite heavy pressure from the Court and histrionics from Napoleon. Learning that two of his young aides had been seen flirting with Maria, he promptly transferred them to the front lines. He showed her a valuable watch which he then smashed to the ground as a demonstration of his desire for her. Eventually she had no choice but to succumb. She became his mistress, and his love. In May 1810, she bore him a son, Alexandre Walewski. She saw him for the last time in exile on Elba, before Waterloo. In 1817, aged 28, she died in the house in Paris that had been the Emperor’s gift. Her last word was “Napoleon.”

Carlton was totally puzzled. What the heck was all that about?

His buzzer sounded. Sick bay.

When he got there, he found Katy Wallace awake. She was hunched up under a blanket, knees drawn up, eyes wild and staring. Alex was trying to calm her down.

“Where am I?”

“You’re safe.”

She was shivering.

“What have you done to me?”

“Carlton found you whacked out of your head in the Rialto.”

She winced and looked over her shoulder. She touched the terrible marks gingerly.

“You’re badly bruised.”

“How do you know?”

“Carlton showed me.”

“Nice.”

“Katy, we want to help you. Who beat you?”

“I don’t remember.”

Was she lying, or acting, or did she really not remember?

“Try and think, Katy, we need to know.”

“What is this, an interrogation?”

“We have to know what’s going on.”

“How did I get here?”

“Carlton found you in the Rialto. What were you doing there?”

“I can’t remember anything,” she said.

“He saved your life.”

“Who asked him to?”

“You’d be dead if he’d left you.”

“What am I supposed to do, thank him?”

“You might consider it. H9 blew up.”

“What?”

“It’s gone.”

She was shocked, even he could see that. She looked across at Carlton for confirmation.

“It was totally destroyed,” he said.

“Did anybody…? How many people…?” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“There were hundreds of casualties.”

“Oh my God.” She stared bleakly for a moment and began to cry.

“I’ll get you a coffee,” Alex said gently.

“Thanks.” Tears were in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She was shaking. He put a rug round her shoulders.

“Be right back,” he said.

“It’s just like the
Bronia
,” said Katy, sobbing.

The what? thought Carlton. He had read that word recently. He checked his memory. It was in the Katerina Walenska file.
Napoleon rode through the village of Bronia
. How strange. What could it mean? He put in a search request for
Bronia
and at the same time requested any outstanding search requests from Sammy Weiss. The research computer promised him a speedy response. It was a very old Olivetti Librarian machine.

“You a Bowie?” it said. “Yes.”

“Love your kind.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t make them like you anymore.”

He could hear it humming away as it searched through the files. “Let’s dance,” it was singing. “Let’s face the music and dance. Do
you
sing?”

“Not really.”

“Pity. Ah, here we are. There are two outstanding requests from Sammy Weiss. One for information on Silesians, and another for something called the Gunpowder Plot.”

“Can you copy me?”

“Anything for a Bowie,” it said.

Carlton turned round. Katy Wallace had stopped crying and was watching him.

When Alex returned with the coffee, she had dried her eyes. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, indicating the steaming mug. “Okay, Carlton, I can handle it from here,” he said, nodding towards the door.

Carlton looked puzzled.

“Skedaddle,” said Alex.

“What?”

“Laissez nous seul.”

“Quoi?”

“Vamoose.”

“Say again?”

“Shove off.”

“Shove what?”

“Get lost.”

“Where.”

“Piss off.”

“Use the bathroom?”

“Carlton, fuck off!”

“Oh, you want me to
leave
,” said Carlton. “Right?”

“Right.”

“Sorry.”

Carlton went off intoning, “Scram, take a hike, beat it, shoo, piss off, shove off,” to himself.

“He’s an odd one, your humanoid,” said Katy.

“He’s a Bowie.”

“He saved my life?”

“Carried you all the way from the Rialto.”

“What was I doing there?”

“We kinda wanted to ask you that.”

“If I remember, I’ll tell you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Alex,” she said, “you’re sweet.”

“Was that why you used me as a postman?”

She looked up, surprised.

“What are you talking about?”

“The Ganesha.”

“That was a security device.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit.”

His change of tone surprised her.

“Why did you plant it on me?”

She looked wounded.

“Katy, it was a postman. A sophisticated remote signaling device. We had it scanned.”

“And what did you find?” she asked evenly.

“We found that it was lethal.”

This time she had the grace to look shocked. “Lethal?”

“Yes. The woman we gave it to was killed.”

“Oh.” Her jaw fell open. “I had no idea. I…” She looked blankly at the wall.

“She was a good friend of mine, Katy. Why was she killed?”

“I don’t want to talk about it now,” she said. “I’m sleepy.”

“Sure you’re sleepy,” he said sarcastically.

“Alex,” she said, looking up at him, “I
will
tell you everything I know, honest, but please can I sleep now? I’m so tired.” Her eyes closed. She drifted off. He stared at her for a while and then tiptoed out of the room.

“Well, that was brilliant,” said Lewis, watching the scene on the large floating monitor. “Boy, you really grilled her. Score twenty for Inspector Shylock Holmes.”

Seeing Katy on the screen, Alex looked hard at Lewis.

“You’re bugging
me
now?” said Alex aggressively.

“No,” said Lewis. “I’m bugging her.”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust her.”

“I can handle it,” said Alex. “She trusts me.”

“Sure she does,” said Lewis, “she can wrap you round her little finger.”

“That’s not true, man.”

“So, why didn’t she answer your questions?”

“She’s sleepy.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, if she’s so sleepy, what’s she doing now? Sleepwalking?” He indicated the screen. Alex gasped. Katy had leapt out of bed. She was frantically searching for something. She searched through her handbag, then looked under the bed. Finally she wrenched open one of the pill cabinets.