The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (20 page)

“Someone…I don’t remember.”

“Oh come on.”

“I don’t remember, just leave me alone.”

“Goddammit, Katy…”

He raised his arm. She jerked and screamed.

Alex came running in.

“Did you hit her, man?”

“No.”

“I swear to God, if you hit her…”

“I didn’t hit her, Alex,” said Lewis.

“Look at her,” said Alex, “she’s terrified.”

“It’s the Corazone. Someone beat her badly then shot her up. The body remembers things the mind doesn’t. It’s memory struggling to get back. Look.”

Lewis raised his arm. Once again she twisted and screamed.

“Stop it,” said Alex. “You’re bullying her.”

“I am not bullying her. She knows things she’s not telling.”

“This is not necessary.”

“This is damn necessary. She attacked me with a goddam hypodermic.”

Tay came running in. She looked round the room. Katy lying on the bed whimpering.

“Daddy, why are you yelling at that lady?”

“Tay, I…”

“Don’t yell at her, Daddy. She’s not mommy.”

There was an awkwardness in the room. Lewis couldn’t look at anyone. He felt hot and embarrassed. Oh God, this is what she remembers? Him yelling at his wife. He recalled their arguments, the shouts, the quarrels. Tay was supposed to be asleep. He didn’t know what to say. Katy surprised them all.

“It’s all right, sweetie,” she said. “We were just playing a game. Don’t worry. See, we’re friends.” She put her arm round Lewis and drew him towards her. Lewis had no choice but to pretend to hug her.

“They’re really playing a game?” said Tay uncertainly to Alex.

“Sure they are,” said Alex “and now it’s my turn.” He stepped forward and reached in to hold Katy tight. She made no sound. Just let him hold her. He didn’t let go.

“Good game,” said Alex, “isn’t it?”

“My turn,” said Tay.

“I haven’t quite finished my go yet,” said Alex.

Suddenly there was a loud click, a whoosh, and the air-conditioning kicked on.

Carlton came in beaming.

“Power’s back,” he said triumphantly. Then looked round the room at them puzzled. “What’s going on?”

Alex was holding Katy, Lewis was looking disapprovingly at him, and Tay seemed puzzled.

“We were just playing games,” said Tay.

“Can I play?” asked Carlton.

“No,” said Alex firmly. “It’s only for humans.”

“Daddy, can I go play in the games room now the power’s back?” asked Tay.

“Okay,” he said.

“Yay.” She ran off excitedly.

Carlton’s chest gave a slight
ping
.

“Excuse me,” said Carlton. “I’d better get that, it’s mail. Could be important.”

He followed Tay through the door.

“Okay, she’s gone now,” said Lewis pointedly.

Alex reluctantly pulled away from Katy.

“Thank you, Alex,” she said, “I enjoyed that game.”

“Me too,” he said. “Let’s play it again soon.”

Lewis looked disgusted.

“Can I make a call now?” she asked.

Lewis hesitated.

“Of course you can,” said Alex. “You’re not a prisoner.”

Carlton’s mail was a reply from the Olivetti. It was the results from his search request.

—Bronia: Smalltown near Warsaw. Poland. Earth.

—Bronia: An ammonium solution used in removing solid waste.

—Bronia: The CS Bronia. Shipping Disaster. Rhea. Container ship disaster which effectively outlawed the practice of forcing immigrants into long-term contracts from which they could not escape. A container ship was involved in a collision with severe loss of life. See Board of Inquiry Report.

There were some press cuttings attached. They related to the scandal involved in the container ship disaster. There was a photograph of a young bearded captain, and a headline.
CAPTAIN BLAMES LOSS OF LIFE ON PANIC AMONGST PASSENGERS.
He read through the columns casually. Suddenly a name sprang out at him. Keppler. Keppler was the young captain.

An emotional man may possess no humor, but a humorous man usually has deep pockets of emotion, sometimes tucked away or forgotten.

—
Constance Rourke

“It’s for you, sir. It’s Ms. Wallace.”

Keppler had kept to himself since his ship was filled with tiresome cops from H9. Even Mitchell, his captain, deferred to them. So he stayed in his quarters sulking. He had a penthouse filled with antiques. High picture windows provided stunning views of the local star field. He stared out into the galaxy wondering about Brenda. He had never seen her so fired up. She was filled with enthusiasm for her concert. Was this a good time perhaps to talk with her seriously about their marriage? It had no real meaning anymore. Brenda was wedded to her career. She dated her ego. They were inseparable. Nothing could come between them. Keppler had long ago given up trying. He had withdrawn from her bed, and she had neither complained, nor, it saddened him to realize, really noticed. He had sought solace in a series of brief affairs, showgirls mainly, transients who passed through the many Keppler theaters, an occasional dealer from one of his casinos, cocktail waitresses, hostesses. Katy was the first woman to really fascinate him. He had pursued her relentlessly. In some ways he was still pursuing her, for there was always a part of herself she held aloof, a place he could not reach. He was obsessed with her, he realized. When he found she was missing, he went through agonies thinking she might not have made it off H9. He had his people scour the lists of refugees on other ships, with no luck. They broadcast appeals, though he knew the shock wave had knocked out most people’s communications systems. He was beginning to panic that she might never turn up when they picked up the
Ray
’s distress call. Now, finally, she was on the screen. He stared at her pale face.

“Katy? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Emil.”

“I’ve been so worried about you. Why didn’t you call?”

“The Shockwave…”

“Well, where are you?”

She swiftly filled in the details. Alex watched her intently from across the room. She tried to tell Emil she’d call back, but he wouldn’t let her go. He was proposing to bring the
Princess Diana to
pick her up.

“Don’t be silly, Emil.”

“It’s no problem. We’re picking up refugees from all over, there are a dozen requests in your area.”

“But Emil, we’re in an icefield.”

“
And
the Main Beam’s still down, so we’ll come to you.”

“It’s way too dangerous.”

“No, we have the new nav. equipment. We’re heading that way anyway for a ship called…what’s its name?”

“
Iceman
,” said Mitchell.

“Katy, are you really all right? Are they treating you well?”

“Emil, they saved my life.”

“What were you doing on H9?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“No, tell me now.”

She wondered what she had in common with this man. Why did he frighten her?

“No, later,” she said. “I have to go.”

“Why? What’s so important?”

“We’re eating.”

She broke the connection. Grinned at Alex like a naughty schoolgirl. Why had she lied to Keppler? Because Alex looked so sad? Now he was all eager again. Like a little puppy. He practically wagged his tail.

“C’mon,” he said, “let’s go and play some more games.”

Keppler called Brenda.

“Emil, darling, I’m very busy.”

“They’ve found Katy Wallace,” he said.

“Thank you, Emil,” she said, “but there is very serious work to do here.”

She was working on a dance routine with Binky, her personal choreographer. Binky was a little overweight in pink tights.

“I have to run now, Emil, they’re working me to
death
.”

Brenda’s idea of death was breaking a sweat. She didn’t need distracting about people being saved. People were being saved every day. Emil should know that she needed to concentrate all her energies on the Experience. She was determined that this show would be great. It was going to be
the
disaster Experience. The apogee of disaster shows. This would set a new benchmark for disaster charity. Too often it was just a rubber chicken and a bad ballet. This would be a disaster to remember. Brenda had made up her mind. And when Brenda made up her mind, only a sudden whim could change it. She didn’t need to think of that young woman her husband was so fond of. She would draw comfort from the warmth of her public. They loved her. They needed her. They were loyal to her.

“Binky, dearest” she said, panting heavily. “I have to go visit my public now.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Please, Brenda, we could use a little more rehearsal.”

She was heavily out of breath. She could use a break. Let the dancers work.

“My public needs me,” she said firmly.

Her public. Her people. She visited them constantly in the cramped camps and cardboard cities that had sprouted magically all over the parks. They were everywhere, massed in family groups, with temporary bedrolls spread over the floors of gymnasiums and meeting halls. Brenda moved amongst them, handing out glossy photos and tickets for her concert. She saw herself as Florence Nightingale, or Evita, the people’s choice, and the people for their part were very happy she chose them.

“Why do bad things happen in the Universe?” she asked Binky suddenly.

“Too deep for me, love,” said Binky, whose life revolved round creating the illusion Brenda could dance.

“She has three left feet,” he would scream to his friends in frustration. He kept her surrounded at all times by well-pumped young men who leapt athletically round her.

“Why can’t only good things happen?”

“Why indeed?” said Binky, despairing of saving this routine. Perhaps waving her arms around like that would do. He would rehearse the boys privately. If they moved twice as fast, perhaps no one would notice that Brenda looked less like a dying swan than a sick goose.

“Binky, dearest, I am so terribly tired. Let us revisit this magic later. Keep the boys warm. I must go visit my refugees.”

“As you wish, heart,” said Binky compliantly. “You’re the boss. Take five, boys. Brenda’s going to the
camps
.”

There was a shriek of joy from the dancers at the innuendo.

The refugees had come into Brenda’s life at just the right moment. Recently she had begun to feel as though something was missing from her perfect world. She had acolytes and satellites and sycophants and flatterers in plenty, but when lying awake at night, under her rejuvenating mask, mulling over the events of the day, she felt
something
was absent. Lovers? No thanks. Brenda was not fond of being invaded. Children? God forbid. How could people do that to their bodies? Even when they did the sensible thing and bought babies they were always screaming and yelling and demanding attention. No, what was missing, she realized, was her need to be recognized as something
more
than just a brilliant all-round singing talent. She wanted to be recognized as a
great woman
. Show business was, let’s face it, a tacky pastime, compared with real historical people. That’s what cut the mustard in the grown-up world. Brenda wished to become a World Historical Figure. The refugees were her chance. They provided a vast following who were pathetically grateful for any attention she could bestow on them. They were content with gestures, with expressions of sympathy, and she could do that in her sleep. So she wandered through the camps handing out copies of her albums, and sponsoring volleyball tournaments while listening generously to their thanks. How graciously she did this. Like royalty. I can do so much, she thought. These are my people.

Of course it was all carefully recorded. Cameras followed her everywhere. You cannot be a World Historical Figure without making some sacrifices. And Brenda was prepared to sacrifice almost anyone for her cause. So she generously invited the media into what she called her private life. She let them snap candid photographs of her as she went around secretly doing good. She kindly allowed them some of her time so they could get a glimpse of the very private Brenda (and make it very public). Was there a picturesque child to be comforted, a desolate widow to be stood next to, a homeless family to inspire a photo opportunity? She made sure the opportunity was not missed. They were brought forth and filmed beside her. Properly edited, this footage would look great on the special. She knew exactly what she wanted. The anxious faces looking up at her. The big close-up of her singing something meaningful, her arms raised in comfort. Almost a religious thing. Shots of her walking amongst them, children falling to their knees. Perhaps a close-up of some tiny diseased child (not contagious obviously), smiling at her while she sang, its little life made meaningful by the presence of—yes, admit it—Saint Brenda. That’s what they are calling her in the camps now, she editorialized. She improvised a tribute to herself: Saint Brenda, friend of the refugees. Where was her wretched publicist? It was such a good line. The press should have it immediately. Perhaps she could get endorsements from the Church? But which? That was the problem. There were so many of them and they were all so jealous of each other. Poor petty things. She needed some kind of interdenominational approval. A Judaeo-Christo-Hindu-Muslim kind of thing. Perhaps even an endorsement from the Atheists. No sense in alienating them.

She was startled from her reverie by a most distasteful sight. It was Boo, the strange comedian with the funny hair. What on earth was he doing here? These were
her
refugees. He didn’t even have a camera crew with him. What possible use could he be? Here she was tirelessly promoting them, doing all she could to get this story out into the world, entirely without fee, and he was just
hanging out
with them? Actually he was distributing food parcels, but it amounted to the same thing. She determined to have a word with him.

“I’m not the only one, I see.”

Boo turned and registered the cameras, the support crew, the hairdresser, her wardrobe person, two continuity girls, one personal assistant, and an astrologer.