Greg bear, p.12
Greg Bear, page 12
blame on the mission designers. Three is too small a communi-
— ty for a three-year mission in space. Hell. Space has been billed
as making children out of us all, eh? A two-edged sword.
I have (as certain passages above might indicate) been
thinking about the Bible lately. My old childhood background
has been stimulated by the danger and moral dilemmas—hair of
the dog that bit me. The maps of Mars, with their Biblical
names, have contributed to my thoughts. We’re not far from
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Eden as gliders go. We sit in fabled Moab, above the Moab-Marduk range, Marduk being one of the chief “baals” in the Old Testament. Edom Crater—Edom means red, an appropriate name for a Martian crater. I have red hair. Call me Esau! Mesogaea—Middle Earth. Other hair, other dogs.
Back on the recorder again. Time weighs heavily on me. I’ve retreated to the equipment bay to weather a bit of grumpiness between Linker and Cobb. Actually, it was an out and out argument. Linker, still the pacifist, expressed his horror of committing murder against another species. His scruples are oddly selective—he fought in Mexico in the nineties. Neither has been restrained by rank; this could lead to really ugly confrontations, unless danger straightens us all out and makes brothers of us. Three comrades, good and true, tolerant of different opinions. Oh, God, here they come again! I’m looking out the equipment bay port, looking east. They must number five or six thousand, lining a distant hill like Indians. That many attacking… Cobb can have his way, and it won’t matter, we’ll still have had the course. If they rip a section of wing sylar larger than we can stretch by hand, we’re stuck.
That was close. Cobb fired bursts of the surveyor’s laser over their heads. Enough dust had been raised by their movement and by the wind to make a fine display. They moved back slowly and then vanished behind the hill. The laser is powerful enough to burn them should the necessity arise. Linker has as much as said he’d rather die than extend the sin of Cain. I’m less worried about that sin than I am about lifting off. We have yet to brace the sled pad. Linker’s out below the starboard hatch now, rigging the sling that will keep one section of the slider body level when the RATOs fire.
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A Martian Ricorso
More dust to the east now. Night is coming slowly. After the sun sets, it’ll be too cold to work outside for long. If the Winter Troops are water-based, how do they survive the night? Antifreeze in their blood, like Arctic fish? Can they keep up their activity in temperatures between fifty and one hundred below? Or will we be out of danger until sunrise, with the Martians warm in their blankets, and we in our trundle-bed, nightmaring?
I’ve helped Linker rig the sling. We’ve all worked on the sled pad. Cobb has mounted the laser on a camera tripod—clever warrior. Linker advised him to beware the fraying power cable. Cobb looked at him with a sad sort of resentment and went about his work. Other than the few bickerings and personality games of the trip out, we managed to keep respect for one another until the last few days. Now we’re slipping. At one time, I had the fantasy we’d all finish the mission lifetime friends, visiting each other years after, comparing pictures of our grandchildren and complaining about the quality of young officers after our retirement. What a dream.
Steam rises from the hoarfrost accumulated during the night. It vanishes like a tramp after dinner.
Should we wish to send a message to Willy now, we shall have to unship the laser and remount it. The hash has increased and Willy says our signal is deteriorating.
More ice falls during the night. Linker kept track of them. My insomnia has communicated itself to him—ideal for standing long watches. Ice falls are more frequent here than on Earth—the leavings of comets and the asteroids come through this thin atmosphere more easily. A small chunk came to within sixty meters of our site, leaving an impressive crater.
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TANGENTS
Another break. Willy has relayed a message from Control. They managed to pick up and reconstruct our request for instructions on first contact. They must have thought we were joking. Here’s part of the transmission: “We think you’re not content with finding giant vegetables on Mars. Dr. Wender advised on Martians…(hash)…some clear indications of their ability to fire large cylindrical bodies into space. Beware tripod machines. Second opinion from Frank: Not all green Martians are Tharks. He wants sample from Dejah Thoris—can you arrange for egg?” I put on a pressure suit and went for a walk after the disappointment of the transmission. Linker suited up after me and followed for a while. I armed myself with a piece of aluminum from the salvaged pad. He carried nothing, Swift Plateau is about four hundred kilometers across. At its northern perimeter, an aqueduct had once hoisted itself a kilometer or so and vaulted across the flats, covering fifteen kilometers of upland before dropping over the south rim into the Moab-Marduk Range. Our landing site is a kilometer from the closest stretch of fragments. Linker followed me to the edge of the field of green and blue grass, keeping quiet, looking behind apprehensively as if he expected something to pop up between us and the lander. I had a notebook in my satchel and paused to sketch some of the piers the Winter Troops hadn’t yet brought down. None of them were over four meters tall. “l’m afraid of them,” Linker said over the suit radio. I stopped my sketching to look at him. “So?” I inquired with a touch of irritation. “We’re all afraid of them.” “I’m not afraid because they’ll hurt me. It’s because of what they might bring out in me, if I give them half a chance. I don’t want to hate them.”
A Martian Ricorso
“Not even Cobb hales them,” I said. “Oh, yes he does,” Linker said, nodding his head within the bulky helmet. “But he’s afraid fbr his life. I fear for my self-respect.” I shook my helmet to show I didn’t understand. “Because I can’t understand them. They’re irrational. They don’t seem to see us. They run around us, fulfilling some mission.., they don’t care whether we live or die. Yet I have to respect them—they’re alien. The first intelligent creatures we’ve ever met.” “If they’re intelligent,” I reminded him. “Come on, Mercer, they must be. They build.” “So did these,” I said, waving a gloved hand at the field of shattered green bottles. “I’m trying to make myself clear,” he said, exasperated. “When I was in Mexico, I didn’t understand the nationalists. Or the communists. Both sides were willing to kill their own people or allow them to starve if it won some small objective. It was sick. I even hated the ones we were supporting.” “The Martians aren’t humans,” I said. “We can’t expect to understand their motives.” “Comes back double, then, don’t you see? I want to understand, to know why—” He suddenly switched his radio off, raised his hands in frustration, and turned to walk back to the lander. Our automatic interrupts clicked on and Cobb spoke to us. “That’s it, friends. We’re blanketed by hash. I can’t get through to Willy. We’ll have to punch through with the laser.” “I’m on my way back,” Linker said. ‘TII help you set it up.” In a few minutes, I was alone on the field of ruins. I sat on a weather-pocked boulder and took out my sketchbook again. I mapped the directions from which we had been approached and attacked and compared them with the site of the eggs we had
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I turned to Linker, focusing on his uncertain finger and the garnet. “What are you doing?” “I’m not sure, Dan,” he answered calmly, face blank. “I have a firm conviction, that’s all I know. I have to be firm. Otherwise I’ll be just like you and Cobb.” “I have a conviction, too,” Cobb said. “I’m convinced you’re nuts.” “You’re seriously thinking about breaking that garnet?” I asked. “Damned ‘ ” serious. “We can fight them off with other things if we have to,” I reasoned. “The assay charges, the core sample gun—” “Don’t give Cobb any more ideas,” Linker said. “But we can’t talk to Willy if you break that garnet.” “Cobb saw two of the Winter Troops. He was going to take a potshot at them with this.” Linker lifted the laser, face still blank. I blinked for a few seconds, feeling myself flush with anger. “Jesus. Cobb, is that true?” “I was sighting on them, in case there were more—” “Were you going to shoot?” “It was convenient. They might have been a vanguard.” “That’s not very rational,” I observed. “I’m not sure I’m being rational, either,” Linker said, fully aware how fragmented we were now, the sadness we all felt coming to the surface. His eyes were doglike, searching my face for understanding. “I’ll do anything necessary to make sure we all survive,” Cobb said. “If that means killing a few Martians, then I’ll do it. If it means disobeying the mission commander, then I’ll do that, too.” “He refused to put the laser down, even when I gave him a direct order. That’s mutiny.”
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A Martian Ricorso
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Cobb said. “I won’t vouch for your sanity,” I said to Linker. “Not if you break that garnet. And I won’t vouch for Cobb’s, either. Taking potshots at possibly intelligent aliens.” I remembered the stick. Damn it, they were intelligent! They had to be, advancing on a stranger and giving him a gift…“I don’t know what sort of speculative first-contact training we should have had, but in spirit if not in letter, Linker has to be closer to the ideal than you. “We should be testing the brace on the pad and leveling the field in front of the glider. When we get out of here, we can argue philosophy all the way home. And to get home, we need the laser.” Linker nodded. “We’ll just agree not to use it for anything but communication.” I looked at Cobb, finally making my decision, and wondering whether I was crazy, too. “I think Linker’s right.” “Okay,” Cobb said softly. “But there’s going to be a hell of a row after we debrief.” “That’s an understatement,” I said. This record, even if it survives, will probably be kept in the administration files for fifty or sixty years—or longer—to “protect the feelings of the families.” But who can gainsay the judgment of the folks who put us here? Not I, humble Thoreau on Mars, as Cobb described me. I did not reveal the gift to my crewmates until the laser had been remounted in the lander. I simply laid it on the table, wrapped in an airtight transparent specimen bag, while we rested and sipped hot chocolate. Linker was the first to pick it up, glancing at me, puzzled. “We have enough of these, don’t we?” he asked. “It’s been chewed on,” I pointed out, reaching to run my
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TANGENTS finger along the stick’s surface. I told them about the two Martians. Cobb looked decidedly uncomfortable then. “Did they chew on it in your presence?” Linker asked. “No.” “Maybe they were offering food,” Cobb said. “A peace offering?” His expression was sad, as if all the energy and anger had been drained and nothing much was left but regret. “It’s more than food,” Linker said. “It’s like stick-writing …Ogham. The Irish and Britons used something similar centuries ago. Notches on the side of a stone or stick—a kind of alphabet. But this is much more complex. Here—there’s an oval—” “Unless it’s a tooth mark,” I said. “Whether it’s a tooth mark or not, it isn’t random. There are five long marks beside it, and one mark about half the length of the others. That’s about equal to one Deimotic month—five and a half days.” My respect for Linker increased. He raised his eyebrows, looking for comfirmation, and started to hand the stick to me, then stopped and swung it around to Cobb. Mission commander reintegrating a disgruntled crew-member. A mist of tears came to my eyes. “I don’t think they’ve reached a high level of technology yet,” Linker said. Cobb looked up from the gift and grinned. “Technology?” “They built the walls and structures Willy saw. I don’t think any of us can argue that they’re not intent on changing their environment. Unless we make asses out of ourselves and say their work is no more significant than a beaver dam, it’s obvious they’re advancing rapidly. They might use notched sticks for relaying information.” “So what’s this?” I asked, pointing to the gift. “Maybe it’s a subpoena,” Linker said.
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A Martian Ricorso
While I’ve been recording the above, Cobb has gone outside to see how long it will take to clear the glider path. The field was chosen to be free of boulders—but anything bigger than a fist could skew us around dangerously. The sleds have been deployed. I’ve finished tamping the braces on the pad. The glider and capsule check out. In an hour we’ll laser a message to Willy and give our estimate on launch and rendezvous. Willy tells us that most of Mesogaea and Memnonia are covered with walls. Meridiani Sinus, according to his telescope observations, has been crisscrossed with roads or trails. The white Martians are using the sand-filled black old resin reservoirs for some unknown purpose. Edom Crater is as densely packed as a city. All this in less than two days. There must be millions of hatchlings at work. I’ll break again and supervise the glider power-up.
Linker and Cobb are dead. Jesus, that huns to write. We had just tested the RATe automatic timers when a horde of Winter Troops marched across the plateau, about ninety deep and a good four kilometers abreast. I’m certain they weren’t out to get us. It was one of those migrational sweeps, a screwball mass survey of geography, and incidentally a leveling of all the aqueduct-bridges from the last cycle. They gave us our chance. We didn’t reply. Linker had finished clearing the path. They caught him a half kilometer from the lander. I think they just trampled him to death. They were moving much faster than a man can run. I imagine his face, eyebrows rising in query, maybe he even tried to smile or greet them, lifting a hand… I can’t get that out of my head. I have to concentrate. Cobb knew exactly what to do. I think he didn’t mount the laser solidly, leaving a few brackets loose enough so he could
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TANGENTS
unship it and bring it down, ready for hand use at a minute’s notice. He took it outside the ship with just helmet and oxygen on—it’s about five or six degrees outside, daylight—and fired on the Winter Troops just before they reached the glider. There are dead and dying or blinded Martians all along the edge of the path. They paid their casualties no heed. They did not bother with us, just pushed around and through, touching nothing, staying away from the area he was sweeping—the edge of the path. They can climb like monkeys. They dropped over the rim of the plateau. They didn’t touch Cobb. The frayed cord on the laser killed him when he stepped on it coming back in. Where was 17 Inside the glider, monitoring the power-up. I couldn’t hear a thing. It was all over by the time I got outside. The laser is gone, but we’ve already sent our data to Willy. I have the return message. That’s all I need for the moment. The glider and capsule are powered and ready. I’ll launch it by myself. I can do that. When Willy’s position is right. The timer is going. Everything will be automatic. I’ll make it to orbit. Two hours. Less. I can’t bring them in. I could, but what use? There are no facilities for dead astronauts aboard the orbiter. What hurts is I’ll have a better margin with them gone, more fuel. I did not want it that way, I never thought of that, I swear to God. The glider wings are crackling in the wind. The wind is coming at a perfect angle, thin but fast, about one hundred kilometers an hour. Enough to feel if I were outside. I trust in an awful lot now that Linker and Cobb are gone.
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A Martian Ricorso
Maybe it’ll be over soon and I can stop this writing and stop feeling this pain.
Waiting. Just the right instant for launch. Timers, everything, on auto. I sit helpless and wait. My last instructions: three buttons and an instruction to the remotes to expand the wings to takeoff width and increase tension. Like a square-rigger. They check okay, flat now, waiting for the best gust and RATO fire. Then they’ll drop into the proper configuration, dragonfly wings, for high atmosphere. I spent some time learning Martian anatoffty as I cleared the path of the few Cobb had let through. There are still a couple out there. I killed one. It was in the Martian equivalent of pain. Pain/Cain. I hit it over the head with a rock pick. It died just like we do. Linker died innocent. I think I’m going to be sick. Here it comes. RATOs on.
I’m in the first jet stream. Second wing ode—fore and aft foils have been .jettisoned. I’m riding directly’ into the black wind. I can see stars, can see Mars red and lrown and gray below. Third wing mode. All wings jettisoned. Falling, my stomach says. Main engines on capsule are firing aOd I’m through the glider framework. I can see the glare and feel the punch and the wings are far down to port, twirling like a child’s toy. In low, uncertain orbit. Willy’s coming.
Last orbit before going home. Willy lookect awfully good. I climbed inside of him through the transfer tunnel and requested
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TANGENTS
unship it and bring it down, ready for hand use at a minute’s notice. He took it outside the ship with just helmet and oxygen on—it’s about five or six degrees outside, daylight—and fired on the Winter Troops just before they reached the glider. There are dead and dying or blinded Martians all along the edge of the path. They paid their casualties no heed. They did not bother with us, just pushed around and through, touching nothing, staying away from the area he was sweeping—the edge of the path. They can climb like monkeys. They dropped over the rim of the plateau. They didn’t touch Cobb. The frayed cord on the laser killed him when he stepped on it coming back in. Where was 17 Inside the glider, monitoring the power-up. I couldn’t hear a thing. It was all over by the time I got outside. The laser is gone, but we’ve already sent our data to Willy. I have the return message. That’s all I need for the moment. The glider and capsule are powered and ready. I’ll launch it by myself. I can do that. When Willy’s position is right. The timer is going. Everything will be automatic. I’ll make it to orbit. Two hours. Less. I can’t bring them in. I could, but what use? There are no facilities for dead astronauts aboard the orbiter. What hurts is I’ll have a better margin with them gone, more fuel. I did not want it that way, I never thought of that, I swear to God. The glider wings are crackling in the wind. The wind is coming at a perfect angle, thin but fast, about one hundred kilometers an hour. Enough to feel if I were outside. I trust in an awful lot now that Linker and Cobb are gone.
