The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (39 page)

“It’s desert.”

“It’s desert to you. We live there. Why is this wicked and not that?”

“Josef, this is madness.”

“No it’s not. People always say it’s madness when they mean they don’t like it.”

“Five minutes to show time,” said a voice, echoing round the cage. “This is it, boys and girls. Opening number. Places, please. We are live in five minutes.”

“And now if you will excuse me,” said Josef. “That is my cue.”

Happy is the man who hath never known what it is to taste of fame—

to have it is a purgatory, to want it is a Hell!

—
Edward Bulwer-Lytton

The show was going live throughout the solar system. Well, as live as you can get. As you are clearly smart enough to observe, there is no simultaneity in space. Even the sun isn’t “live,” since it takes 8½ minutes for its light to reach Earth, and about 12 minutes for that light to reach Mars, and about 79 minutes for that light to reach Saturn. Indeed, it takes light about 12 hours to cross the entire solar system. And that’s just one tiny corner of one small galaxy. The speed of night indeed. In every direction we are always looking into the past.

“Unfortunately, Brenda Woolley, the star of our show, cannot be with us tonight. As you may have heard, she was shot this afternoon.”

Stunned gasps from many in the audience.

“She is at the moment fighting for her life. I know you would want to send her your support, just as she would want this show to continue.”

Heartfelt and prolonged applause from the audience, many in tears.

Brenda was lying on her back, floating, full of happy chemicals. It all seemed so far away. At her feet Boo loomed in and out of focus. He was watching her on-screen, a previously taped segment with her and the old man Comus, wrapped in a blanket.

“Hey, Brenda, you’re looking pretty good on the show.”

She smiled. “Dear Boo,” she mouthed, but no sound came out.

What was he doing holding the hand of a dying diva? Sentimental fools, comics. Her entourage was camped outside, bickering sullenly. Their meal ticket on the line.

“Hello, who’s this?” said Boo.

On-screen, and onstage, a short, pale, thin figure emerged from the wings and walked slowly to center stage. The audience murmured.

“Shall I turn it up a little?” asked Boo, but she was drifting in and out.

“This concert is about refugees,” said Josef. “About the displaced. And let me tell you all about that, for we know all about that. We are the displaced. We are Silesian patriots, forcibly removed from our homesteads. We are made refugees in our own land by our own government. Well, there is a time to stand and say no. No, we won’t go quietly along with what your bureaucrats have decided. No, you may not plan us out of existence.”

“Is this guy for real?” said Boo. But Brenda had slipped into sleep. This wasn’t about her.

“So I have a message for the government of Mars. The Iceman project must be stopped. Forthwith. This project must be abandoned right now. Today.”

“How can this work?” asked Rogers, puzzled. They were watching the monitor in the secure room.

“They’re Silesians,” said Dunphy, “it’s what they do. Project Iceman. They hunt for icebergs in the asteroid belt, board them, then a small controlled explosive device sends them off like a pool shot towards Mars. They have to be very careful, nothing too big. The asteroid that destroyed Earth’s dinosaurs was less than three miles wide. Sometimes they break ’em up first. Anyway, they send ’em off to where they are captured by Martian gravity. Then, very carefully—the coordinates have to be extremely carefully worked out—the icebergs are sent through the atmosphere to crash on target into the new Silesian Sea. Naturally they burn up a bit in the atmosphere, lose about a quarter of their body weight, which becomes water vapor, adding to the oxygen content of the growing atmosphere. It’s very ingenious. Unless someone alters the coordinates. Then you’ve got a gigantic snowball heading for a major city.”

“Why can’t Mars simply shoot it down?”

“There are usually several icebergs in orbit at any one time. Which one do you target? But more importantly he’ll be monitoring them. The minute he sees them launch, he can send the snowball. They use heat-seeking missiles. Even if they can reach the iceberg in the three minutes it takes it to plunge through the atmosphere, they will go after the heat source, which is the burning-up tail. The main frozen body of the berg will get through.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“We demand the immediate abandonment of Project Iceman. So now you have our text. You have our context. You have thirty minutes.”

There was a stir in the audience. They sat stunned by what he had told them. Witnesses to history.

“To help you make up your minds, here are some images of our homeland. Run the footage.”

A carefully edited selection of images began to run. Women and children working in the fields, looking up in alarm, running inside. That sort of thing. Plus icebergs, lots of them, huge glistening chunks of ice, hitting the atmosphere, vaporizing, turning into fiery comets leaving behind long streaming trails of vapor. Then the enormousness of the splashdown as the iceberg disintegrates, its force driving a deep hole into the Martian surface. The familiar shape of the mushroom cloud emerging, rising slowly into the sky. A mushroom cloud of mud and water that would fall as rain onto the evergrowing sea. The footage ended. There was a stunned silence from the audience.

“You have fifteen minutes,” said Josef quietly to the watching millions.

The Silesians stared at Josef on the screen, saying nothing. Rogers looked at them. They showed no emotion. Stubble on their chins, their dark eyes staring brightly.

Wonder what they’re on? he thought.

Keith was restless. His foot drummed relentlessly.

“Someone has to be monitoring Mars,” said Dunphy. “They have to be watching for their response.”

“McTurk in the control room.”

Dunphy nodded. “Yes, the control room makes sense.”

They were startled by Josef’s voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to inform you that the Government of Mars has just agreed to suspend the Iceman project effective immediately.”

Cheering broke out amongst the Silesians.

“As soon as we have confirmation, the show will proceed. The snowball will be maintained as a guarantee that they will keep their word.”

“Jeeze, they’re not going to like that. That’s having a gun to your head.”

“What can they do?”

“
I’d cross the Universe for you, my darling…
”

The opening bars of Brenda Woolley’s great anthem filled the hall. Josef looked temporarily disconcerted.

“Turn that thing off,” he said irritably. Then he froze in astonishment. The audience gasped. Brenda Woolley had appeared at the top of the stairs behind him.

“
I’d sail across the Galaxy
.”

She was descending the broad white staircase towards him. This was madness. She was supposed to be dying.

“Stop that,” said Josef. “Stop that at once.” But he was drowned out, first by Brenda and then by the audience, which was now applauding wildly. Most were on their feet cheering loudly. Josef looked helplessly towards the side of the stage. He seemed uncertain what to do.

“Sven, how did she get here?”

Sven in the wings shrugged. How should he know.

“I’d walk a million miles

For one of your smiles…”

“All right, that’s enough. I am warning you.” Josef pulled a gun. People in the audience screamed. But Brenda did not stop. She continued singing and walking towards Josef with her arms wide. Brenda was unconcerned by his gun. Because, of course, it wasn’t Brenda. It was Brenda’s voice. It was Brenda’s dress, and Brenda’s wig, but it wasn’t Brenda, gentle reader. It was Carlton.

“He’s very good,” said Lewis.

“Isn’t he?” said Alex proudly. “A natural dragbot.”

“Maybe we can use him in the act?”

This isn’t too bad, thought Carlton. Why do they make such a fuss about performing?

For Josef it was horrible. A nightmare. A ghastly woman singing at him, advancing on him, live in front of millions of people, just on the very verge of his triumph. How had she recovered so quickly? How was he supposed to deal with her? What was he supposed to do? Levity was exerting a strong pull.

Carlton, lip-syncing Brenda’s touchingly banal lyrics, advanced towards Josef, his arms outstretched in supplication.

“You are my heart’s desire,

Come to me!”

“Stop right there. I’m warning you. Come no nearer.” But still she advanced on him, smiling. He began to wave his gun. “He’s going to fire,” said Alex. “No question,” said Lewis.

In the medical bay Brenda Woolley was looking at herself onscreen in amazement.

“Boo dear,” she said, “did I die?”

“Not yet,” said Boo, “and not at all if I can help it.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said, taking his hand. She smiled as she watched her image on the screen.

“Aren’t I good?” said Brenda.

Onstage, Josef fired. There was a metallic sound as the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off Carlton’s chest into the wings. Not so harmlessly really, as one of Harbottle’s Performing Dogs gave a yelp and keeled over. Josef fired again, but dammit, she didn’t drop, just kept coming towards him, singing. He fired again, but still she kept advancing. He glanced for help towards the wings, but Sven was no longer there. A lot of other people were though. They were all looking at him.

In the secure room the Silesians watched the monitor in amazement. McTurk suddenly appeared at the door brandishing a very large weapon. He yelled savagely at the Silesians.

“Come on, you fuckers, don’t just sit there, can’t you see he needs help?”

They hesitated.

“This way,” he said, “or everything is lost. Move it! Now!”

They began to move out.

“What about these people?”

“I’ll take care of them,” said McTurk, cocking his weapon. The sound echoed menacingly. Rogers winced. Should they make a run for it? He felt Dunphy’s hand on his arm restraining him. Dunphy shook his head. Did he have something else in mind? In a minute it would be too late. McTurk was even now turning towards him with his weapon. Jesus, was this it? So suddenly. He could feel McTurk’s finger tighten on the trigger. McTurk looked straight into Rogers eyes. Then he winked and squeezed the trigger.

The Silesians had halted outside the cage, as if unsure which way to run.

They heard the sound of gunfire from inside the secure room. Then silence. Then McTurk emerged grimly.

“Don’t just stand there,” he yelled. “Into the service elevator.”

A clattering of heels as they raced for the elevator.

“Everyone here?” asked McTurk.

“Except for Sven.”

“He’s taken care of,” said McTurk. He counted six of them. “Right. Sweet dreams.”

He pressed the button and the elevator doors slammed shut. As they closed, he rolled a small metal gas grenade inside at their feet. He could hear the hissing begin and pandemonium breaking out. They banged on the metal walls. They punched desperately at the buttons, but the elevator would not move. One by one like trapped insects they fell to the ground.

Just a couple of yards behind Dunphy, Rogers raced for McTurk.

We’ll never get to him, he’s gonna take us out, were his thoughts. He was still baffled and deafened by the shooting. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t dead. His heart was thumping and his body pumping adrenaline. Then he stopped in amazement as he watched Dunphy hugging McTurk. They both began to jump up and down, yelling wildly.

“Did you have to hit me so fucking hard?” said Dunphy.

“Hey, that was acting.”

“What about the control room?”

“Oh, they’re all sleeping soundly,” said McTurk with a grin. “I put them to bed early.”

Onstage, Josef was screaming. He waved the gun menacingly. “I am warning you,” he yelled in mounting impotence. “If you do not stop, I shall order the Snowball to…”

But he got no further as he found himself lifted bodily into the air by Brenda Woolley. The audience gasped, then laughed.

“Activate the Snowball,” he screamed.

But in the control room no one was listening; everyone was sleeping, just as McTurk had said. It could have been fatigue, or it could have been his gas grenade.

Carlton held Josef high above his head.

“How strong I am,” said Brenda.

Carlton lifted Joseph to his full extent and shook him bodily. Bits of metal fell out of his pockets. The gun bounced harmlessly away. The Ganesha rolled into the wings. Two hands reached for it.

“It’s mine,” said Katy. “I saw it first.”

“You gave it to me,” said Alex, “and if you want it back, you’re going to have to earn it.”

“Oh. How do I earn it?” said Katy. Her voice was low, trembling with suggestion. “Like this?” She licked his cheek.

“Uhm, that’s the sort of thing,” said Alex.

“Like this?”

She held his head with both her hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Will you two break it up, this is a public place,” said Lewis in mock disgust. But they wouldn’t stop. He held her; she grasped him as if her life depended on it. Their tongues found each other.

In the world around them the audience was going wild, standing, applauding, cheering as Carlton, in Brenda Woolley’s finest gown, carried the helpless Josef off-stage, high above his head in his outstretched arms.

“C’mon,” said Alex. “There’s a dressing room close by.”

“No,” said Katy, “this isn’t the time.”

“C’mon,” he said, urgently pulling her away by the hand.

He pushed her through the door of the dressing room. Oh well. Hell, she wanted this man. She reached round to undo her zipper.

“Surprise!” said Alex, beaming.

Her father was sitting in a chair watching the monitor.

“Daddy,” she said.

The old man was looking at them like he had woken out of a dream.

“Are you going to make me go away?” he said.