“And what about atmospheric pressure?” Demeter objected. “Won’t your free oxygen and water vapor just leak off into space?”
“Sure, some of it will,” Jory said with a frown. “Still, the lower elevations will build up a favorable balance eventually. It’s going to take a long time; these von Neumanns work real slowly. But our calculations show it can happen.”
“Ayuh!” Demeter said aloud.
She went back to the work of stripping out the Stage 1 von Neumanns and looking for Stage 2 candidates.
Jory obviously believed what he was saying, although Demeter’s briefing with the Texahoma Martian Development Corporation had stressed that most Martian colonists were skeptical of terraforming in principle. Just another Earth-crazy boondoggle, they said, designed to let the politicians back home claim they were actually making something of this new frontier that had taken big chunks of taxpayer money to open up.
The average Martian, G’dad Coghlan had told her, was a lazy sort. The colonials were content to plant their paltry crops under plastic bubblepack, hack out a few more cubic meters of rock for themselves each year, and play V/R games all the livelong day. Long-term planning, coordinated action, and perseverance were not in their foolish natures.
But here was evidence—out in plain sight and openly shared with a casual from Earth—that the Martians had their own plan for making over the surface of their world. It wasn’t going to be as quick or impressive as the Texahoman strategy, which included crashing a few stony asteroids and carbonaceous chondrites into the southern highlands to create a global dust cloud that would heat up the atmosphere. That in turn would encourage massive outgassing of water vapor from the permafrost layer. The computers in Dallas estimated it would rain for half a year—half a Martian year, that is—after just two such episodes…
Demeter wondered who was this “we” that Jory spoke about. “Our calculations,” indeed! She hadn’t seen enough government here on Mars—aside from the busy-bodies who ran around tagging you for wearing perfume and stole from your bank account doing a medical exam you really didn’t need—to pack a decent-sized church social, let alone plan for long-term weather modification and soil transformation on a planetary scale.
After the two of them had shucked seventy or so of the von Neumanns, reducing the pile by about a third, and released maybe a dozen of the Stage 2’s, Jory put aside his collection bags, stretched, and sank down on the sand, sitting cross-legged. Demeter consulted the clock function built into her V/R gear and found that the morning had gone.
“Ever tried V/R sex?” the Creole asked with elaborate casualness.
“Huh? With you?” Demeter tried to maintain her composure. “Are we talking hump-the-terminal here? Or something with electronic bodysuits? Just what are you suggesting?”
“It’s done with skin electrodes—there should be a pair back in your hotel room,” he explained. “Everything happens inside your head, of course. Just like in real sex. Except you can be anything you want, do it any way you fancy. You can even be the guy, if that suits you. I’m flexible…”
“Are you making a pass at me?”
“Not—well—just—with electrodes…you know?”
“Jory, are you blushing?” Demeter cranked the head of her proxy around to get a tight focus on his face. The ultraviolet-barrier in the boy’s artificial skin made sensitivity analysis almost impossible. That didn’t stop Demeter Coghlan, though. “I believe you are!”
“Forget I said anything,” he grated.
“No, Jory, that’s one thing I won’t do…Well, three things I won’t do, actually. First, I don’t do it with machines. Second, I definitely want to play the girl’s part. And third—you started it!”
The Creole glanced up at her proxy’s lenses from under his bony, slick-skinned eyebrow ridges. He was grinning at her. Suddenly, Demeter was glad that, physically, Jory was several kilometers away and on the wrong side of an airlock; he looked randy enough to mount the proxy itself. She had places to go and things to do today. But Demeter was going to have a lot to tell her diary tonight.
Chapter 4
Making New Friends and Influencing People
Office of the Civil Administrator, Solis Planum, June 9
The room had upholstered chairs, finished with a brown organic plastic that was molded and stitched to look like real leather. Somebody had paid good money to import the dyes that could work this effect on vat-grown fibers. The two-square-meter desktop was cast out of a yellowish resin grained with coal-black stripes. The grain appeared to go remarkably deep into the surface…
It took Roger Torraway a full minute to realize he was looking at a hunk of real wood, not an optical simulation. That was impressive. Every stick of wood on Mars had to be brought up as freehold cargo—that is, imported at personal expense.
Of course, with the Civil Administrator, it might be hard to tell what was freehold and what government requisition. Technically, Bogan Dimelovich Ostrov was a personal employee of the mayor of Solis Planum, capable of being hired and fired at leisure. He was supposed to be something more than a secretary and less than a deputy. But Roger figured that mayors might come and go with each election—the current officeholder was a woman, Ludmilla Petrovna Sar-something—while the Civil Service went on forever.
“Frankly, Colonel Torraway, I don’t think you understand the magnitude of the request you are making.” Ostrov smiled broadly, meaning to take away any sting his comments might leave. “Importing fifteen hundred kilograms of refined deuterium-tritium is well beyond the means of this administration.”
“Cost about as much as that desk of yours,” Torraway commented internally. Then, guiltily, he checked to see that his backpack’s link with the grid was currently inactive.
“I understand the costs involved,” Roger said aloud, forcing his thin lips into a return smile. “But, of course, I’m not seeking charity. In exchange for Solis Planum’s grant of an Earthside purchase order and import license, I’m prepared to offer exclusive rights to my memoirs as Mars’s first citizen. That would include survey notes for areas of the planet that human colonists have not—”
“We have no interest in publishing, Colonel.” The administrator grimaced. “Martians don’t read. They don’t buy books, not even to look at the pictures. Everyone’s too busy.”
“Then I would be…willing to…” Roger spoke slowly, fully understanding the implications of his next offer. “…to turn my recorded sensorium into a virtual-reality experience. That way your citizens could get a feel, full sound and visuals, of what it meant to be the first man to walk on the surface of—”
“We already have that record, of course.” Ostrov shrugged. “I’ve played the Torraway Game a time or two myself. My personal favorite is the module ‘Outwit the Mad Computer.’ Right up there with ‘Survival on the Polar Frost.’ Very exciting stuff. But the market is saturated with bootleg versions by now, all of them more exciting than you could ever produce from your own life experience. Can you imagine Colonel Lindbergh’s first transatlantic flight—the cold, the boredom, the anxiety—trying to compete with the thrills of an aerial dogfight? Which would you rather play?”
“All right then,” Torraway said, imagining how his teeth would be gritting by now—if he still had any in his titanium-wired jaw. “You people in the colonies seem to be beset with competing territorial claims from Earth-based states. I still have some stature with those governments. After all, they paid billions to put me here. As your representative, I could—”
Ostrov was shaking his head again, that smile still fixed on his wide, rubbery lips. “Colonel Torraway, it’s obvious to all of us that you served your purpose—served it with distinction, I might add—but that was fifty years in the past. With the situation now—”
“But if you would just let me contact the National Aeronautics and Space—”
“Isn’t anymore.”
“Then the successor agency! Which state would that be? Let’s see, our la
b was in Oklahoma but NASA was originally based out of…Houston. So that would be in Texahoma either way,” Roger concluded. “The Space Administration must have some continuing legal function, if only on a regional—”
“The Texahoma Martian Development Corporation, yes.” Ostrov looked sour. “They are one of our biggest headaches. But there’s nothing that you can do for us in that regard, Colonel. The TMDC assumed all of NASA’s residual claims anywhere in the Solar System about half an hour after they foreclosed on the Space Center in Houston. Now I’m not a legal expert, but I would guess that you, your body, your equipment, and your recorded experiences are included in those claims. As an investment worth a couple of billion prewar—‘dollars’ is the term?—your ass is simply not yours to sell, sir. If we tried to play you back Earthside as some kind of ambassador or negotiator, they’d slap a lien on you so fast, you’d think your backpack there had shorted out.”
“I see…” Roger Torraway sat upright in the lavishly upholstered chair and fixed Ostrov with his mildest stare. The Cyborg smiled to himself, although not a muscle of his face moved.
If the Civil Administrator enjoyed playing simulated games, then let him try the Statues Game, especially the module called “Will Somebody Please Get the Cyborg Colonel Out of My Office?” Roger could sit rigid for hours, for whole days at a time. In fact, not a muscle in his body except for his lips, jaw, and mechanical larynx had moved in the past ten minutes. If Ostrov called in a pair of roustabouts to come and try to lift Torraway out of the chair—aside from the fact that Roger’s modified body weighed almost one hundred and thirty kilograms—they would have to sweat and strain with a package that was all locked knees and elbows angled into elaborately awkward positions.
So the Cyborg just sat there, fixing Ostrov with his ruby-red glare, all flecks and glints, without a shred of humanity in the softly glowing facets of his eyes. His trump card of last resort: becoming an indignant paperweight.
“This isn’t going to help anything, Roger,” Dorrie said. She was sitting in the chair next to his and put her warm, moist palm on the back of his hand. He could feel it through the impervious skin layers.
“This man can’t do anything for you—even if he wanted to,” she went on. “He has already talked with his superiors. They have already heard about your fusion generator. It is they who have forbidden him to help you.”
“Who are they?” Torraway asked inside his head. “The mayor? The other colonies? The Texahoma people?”
Dorrie looked troubled. Her signal started to break up, sending jags of interference across her pretty face. “I can’t…don’t know, Roger.” Her signal cleared momentarily. “Just that becoming petulant with this little man won’t get you anywhere…” And then she was gone without even a carrier hum.
Torraway relaxed, unbent his knees, and shuffled his feet, as if preparing to rise. “I understand, Mr. Ostrov. The matter is out of your hands.”
A look of pure relief flooded the Civil Administrator’s face. “I assure you, Colonel, the people of Solis Planum have the greatest admiration for you. Anytime you want to tap into our mains—”
“I’ll be sure to take you up on a generous offer like that.”
Without moving to shake hands, Roger turned and walked toward the door, any door, that would take him out of this oppressive atmosphere and back to the clean, cold near-vacuum of his adopted world.
Hoplite Bar & Grill, Commercial Unit 1/7/7, June 9
“You ought to meet some friends of mine,” Jory said, suddenly dodging left into a commercial foyer.
Demeter guessed that Jory had only that moment spotted his friends. Like everything else with the young Creole, the thought of introducing her had just occurred to him.
Sitting at one of the tables—this establishment provided chairs for its patrons, as well as real-human service—were a man and a woman. He was fair-skinned and tall. Nearly two meters, Demeter estimated, from the way his shoulders, elbows, and knees overhung the edges of the chair. He was slouching on his tailbone and looking out on the world from under a thick set of blond eyebrows. As he sipped his small, pale-brown drink and eyed the doorway, he reminded Demeter Coghlan of a three-card monte shark in a Galveston saloon on payday.
The woman was slender and dark, almost as tall as he was. She had long, black hair that went across her shoulders, down her back, and tucked under her rump. Her hair glistened in the subdued lighting every time she turned her head. The woman’s features showed the exquisite curves of a Polynesian or other Pacific Islander, with the sun-browned skin coloring to match.
“Lole! Ellen!” the Creole called from the entry arch. The two of them looked over. “Boy, am I glad I caught you!” Jory pushed his way between the tables, Demeter trailing behind him.
“Demeter Coghlan, I’d like you to meet Lole Mitsuno and Ellen Sorbel. They’re hydrologists with the complex’s Resources Department. Sometimes I help them out with surface assignments.”
“Hi there,” from the woman.
“Howdy, ma’am,” from the man.
Coghlan figured he must be the “Lolly” of the pair, because he sure didn’t look like any “Ellen.”
“Demeter is a tourist up from Earth,” Jory explained “From Texahoma State, to be exact,” he added with a meaningful glance at Mitsuno.
“What exactly does a ‘hydrologist’ do?” Demeter asked conversationally, sitting down at one of the free chairs. The Creole rotated one around from a nearby table and squatted on it in reverse, crossing his arms over the back.
“We find water,” Sorbel replied.
“Well, shucks,” the man said. “Ellen here finds it. I just go and dig it out.”
“And I help them, sometimes,” Jory repeated.
“Are you really from Texas?” Mitsuno asked, his grin tightening with unexpected interest.
“Texahoma, actually.”
“You know any cowboys?” He made a twirling motion with his right index finger above his head.
“Lole is very interested in the Old West,” Sorbel explained.
“Well, I know a couple of rig drivers, work out of El Paso. They sometimes carry a load of frozen myolite.”
The tall man knitted his brows.
“Processed protein product?” Demeter suggested. “But like as not they’re carrying rockcandy silicon or liquid propane, you know. Or anything break-bulk.”
“They ever do rodeo?” Mitsuno asked hopefully.
“Not since the Animal Rights Act of ninety-six.”
“Then I guess you don’t have shootouts or—”
“Not since my grandfather’s been in office.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
The conversation entered a barometric decline, with everyone staring at the tabletop. Demeter wondered what she wanted to drink at ten o’clock in the morning, local time.
Jory suddenly looked up and stared at the far wall. He seemed to be receiving messages from beyond it. “Hey! Gotta go!” the Creole announced. “I’m late for the duty roster.” He unhooked his legs from the chair rungs and dashed out.
After he was gone, Demeter and her two new friends resettled themselves in silence. Coghlan glanced at the pair across from her, sensing an easiness about them as if, sitting three feet apart, they still touched at several points. She wondered if they were lovers.
“So…” Demeter began again. “What kind of name is ‘Mitsuno’? I’d have said Japanese, but you look a long way from—”
“Finn,” Lole supplied. “My ancestors came from above the Arctic Circle. I guess that’s why someone thought I’d be good at finding ice.”
“Gosh, do you still speak Finnish at home?” Coghlan asked.
“Nobody speaks Finnish here anymore.” He shrugged loosely. “Russian’s easier to pronounce, and English’s got simpler spelling rules.”
“I see…” She turned her attention to the young woman. “So, how do you find water? Go out in the hills with a witch-stick, or what?”
&nbs
p; “I am a cyber ghost,” Sorbel replied. “After Lole fires a string of sonic charges and brings up a field of data, I sniff around to see if anything looks possible.”
Demeter sort of followed what Ellen was saying. She knew enough about tele-operators to know that ghosts worked in virtual realities which most of the rest of the human race wouldn’t find particularly “real.” Inside molecular structures, say. Or wedged into the laminar flows of a plumbing complex. Or, as here, looking at rocks and soil from the inside out.
Cyber ghosts went beyond the simple-minded rotas of expert systems. They did things that computers in the grid could not do. The computer mind might be able to tabulate sonic echoes and gravimetric survey data into matrices and layers, but it lacked the essential human element—“intuition” was the only word for it—that let an Ellen Sorbel enter the datastream, “sniff around,” and then decide whether that particular formation was worth drilling for ice. In simplest terms, humans could exercise creativity and imagination, while computers just processed numbers.
“And then I go back out in a walker and put down a bore hole wherever she says to,” Lole Mitsuno finished up. “In a way, it’s a lot like wildcatting—if you know what that means.”
“Sure. We’re not so far from our roots, down in Austin,” Demeter acknowledged.
“Well, good!” He gave her a big grin, making Coghlan feel she had just passed some kind of test. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make a contribution to the aquifer.”
“Huh?”
“He means to ‘take a leak,’” Ellen supplied, as Mitsuno unfolded himself and made his way between tables to the convenience.
With just the two of them left, facing each other now, Demeter decided to make a stab at girl-talk. She’d gotten rusty, living so much of her recent life out of a suitcase.
“So…are you and Lole engaged or anything?”
“Define ‘anything,’” the woman returned her volley.