CHAPTER 4
Western Valles Marineris Gorge
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 4. 7. 08:08
Outpost Fisher One, formerly known as Heaven, was once the hub of Martian commerce and space travel. Before the population left the subterranean outposts to build gleaming habidome towns closer to the equator, towns that became cities that left the outposts behind. But now, Heaven is a forgotten storage bin. The Orthocracy converted its space into thousands of dusty storage bunkers full of packaged foodstuffs, bolts of unused fabric, crates of machine parts, and an infinite number of quarantined shipping containers riveted shut and welded tight to prevent the escape of the plague. The disease decimated Earth. Because of Orthocracy controls on commerce. Mars fared much better.
Today the bunkers are almost empty. The woman who emptied them takes an elevator from the surface to the bottom level. Here is where the food is kept. So are the quarantined containers. Her scavengers have already stripped the upper levels of their treasure. Fabric and spare parts for her connections with the black market. Raw materials to be bartered for transport and good favor. And now, food.
Food can buy anything. It is the rarest commodity, and even better, her crew has no use for packaged, dehydrated meals. Only blood can whet their appetites.
“Start with the last bunker,” she commands a group of twenty raiders as the elevator stops and she twirls out. “Leave nothing behind. Not a scrap. Not a crumb.”
She is a sliver of a young woman sporting jet black tresses that almost reach her tailbone. Ringlet curls frame a delicate, heart-shaped face with alabaster skin so fine that it seems translucent. She lifts the hem of her dress as she exits the elevator, keeping the gossamer fabric from dipping in the dusty floor. Her feet are those of a child. They are bare. As she sweeps toward the raiders, the air fills with the smell of her musky perfume, and underneath it, like a murmur, the unmistakable scent of blood.
Slowly bowing low, their long, matted hair drooping to the floor, they supplicate themselves in response and chant, “Yes, my queen.”
“Dr?u make such good pets,” she says, watching them scamper down the long rows of padlocked bunkers. Children were born here. Grew to adulthood. Lived and died and were cremated here, their ashes strewn on the surface to aid the terraforming. They are gone now—as worthless as the dust that drifts from the decaying walls.
“Every little bit helps,” the queen whispers, recalling the mantra of the original settlers. A whole life lived in a hole in the ground. Rubbish. Sacrifice for future generations. Rubbish. The Orthocracy? Rubbish. The CorpComs? Rubbishier rubbish.
She is going to change all of that. A little more time. A few more raids.
In a few hours, she thinks, this last level will be empty. Then the true treasure hunt begins. The Dr?u are hungry. A fortnight has passed since fresh meat was on the menu, and the lack of food has made them surly. Difficult to control. Dr?u are splendid warriors, beautiful in their anger and drive to devour everything in their path. Wild. Furious. But like any animal kept on a tight leash, they begin to chafe and soon turn that ferocity on one another. Twice in the past two days, fights have broken out among them. One bad boy even gnawed the meat from his own fingers. He had to be punished to understand the errors of his actions.
Lost in thought, she taps her palm with an electrified prod. It is almost a meter in length when fully extended. Made of titanium. On the tip is a hard steel ball the size of an eyeball. She smiles ironically. Funny, the bad boy’s punishment was to lose an eyeball. She removed it herself. With the prod. Then ate it. It was disgusting, but the lesson had to be learned. Pain is such a gifted clarifier.
Down the corridor, a group of Dr?u reaches a bunker marked with a large red X.
“Leave those be,” she calls. “Your queen has no interest in spreading the plague.” Unless it becomes necessary, she thinks. When one is planning to overthrow the government, one must never exclude possibilities just because they lead to a global pandemic.
Behind her, an elevator door opens. The occupant’s scent is well known to her. “Kuhru,” she says without turning around. “You have delicious news for your queen, no?”
“Yes, my queen,” he growls, a sound that sets her nerves on end.
For a woman reared listening to the splendid melodies of Chopin, the florid operas of Mozart, and the sanguine ecstasies of Masahiro, the steel-on-glass screech of Kuhru’s voice is an affront to the ears.
“Yes what?” she says, back still turned. “Details, please, Kuhru. Did you deliver my message to the occupants of Fisher Four?”
Fisher Four is the only other outpost left standing. A volcanic eruption destroyed Fisher Two a decade after it was built, and Fisher Three was closed due to flooding. However, if the Orthocracy filled Fisher One with forgotten treasure, then ipso facto, Fisher Four should be a trove as well. The only complication was the miners, a pesky group of humans who would not desert the mines, even under the threat of death.
“Yes, my queen,” he says. “I delivered your message.”
The queen notes a change in his voice, a higher pitch that indicates he is lying by omission. “How many did you kill? Kuhru, don’t lie to me.”
“Two.”
“Just two?”
“There were only three humans, my queen.”
“And if you had killed all three, there would be no one to deliver my message? Very good, Kuhru. Your reasoning skills are improving. Now, did you bring the leftovers to me like I commanded?”
Kuhru says nothing. She turns. Her face is calm, the alabaster skin showing no blush of anger, no signs of emotion. “You didn’t!”
“The journey was long,” he growls, trying to soften his voice to evoke sympathy. “My Dr?u were hungry.”
Her voice rises, taking on a singsong quality that almost hides the ferocity of her anger. “Your Dr?u? Your Dr?u?”
Kuhru falls to one knee. He bows so low, his broad, thick nose touches the floor. “Forgive me, my queen. I misspoke. All Dr?u belong to you.”
She taps the electric prod against her thigh. “Do not think a little bowing and scraping will incur my sympathies. Your queen gave you very explicit orders. One: Give the message to the miners. Two: Bring any kills back to me.”
He fawns before her. “Please, my queen. Do not punish your faithful servant. I—I brought you this.” From the inside of his coat he pulls a small, flat shell. The outside is dappled brown, and the pattern looks like rows of interlocked triangles. He holds it at arm’s length. “Kuhru thought you would like it. It is pretty. The queen likes pretty things.”
“Idiot!” she screams, and swats the shell from his hands.
It hits the concrete floor. For several seconds it spins in the dust. When it stops, the queen sees a pattern on the shell—one that should no longer exist on the planet.
She gasps and snatches it up. Takes a closer look and lays a palm on the outside of the shell. Her eyes roll into her head.
Ecstasy.
“It’s fresh,” she says, and smiles as if intoxicated. Inside, she feels intoxicated. “Kuhru, darling. Where did you find this carapace?”
“Cara—?”
“This shell! Where did you find it?”
“Took it. From the human girl that was left.”
“Impossible.” She cradles the empty shell to her breast, fondling it like a stuffed toy. “They are all dead. Exterminated. But this shell is fresh. And it’s small. A hatchling! That can mean only one thing.”
She shoves the tip of the prod into Kuhru’s nostril. He squeals in pain, although he is half a meter taller and outweighs her by a hundred kilos. “Gather the raiders. You must travel to Fisher Four.”
“Because of a shell?”
“No, you imbecile,” she says, and twitches the prod to pull him most painfully to his feet. “Because the miners have more treasure than I ever dared dream.”