Red Planet Blues

TWENTY





Dr. Pickover and I reached the vicinity of New Klondike by mid afternoon. To his credit, Rory had taken a straight path all the way back, with no attempt to disguise the route. Polarizing the fishbowl at night had rendered me almost blind, but here in broad daylight it just made looking out at the world comfortable—so I now had a rough idea of where the Alpha Deposit was.

“Almost there,” said Pickover, via radio. It was astonishing listening to someone who had been running at high speed for hours but wasn’t out of breath. I looked at my air gauge; I still had twenty-odd minutes left. I’d never thought of the dome as pretty before, but it sure looked that way as it came into view, glistening in the sunshine.

“Okay,” I said to Pickover. “No point in making a spectacle of ourselves. Let’s walk the rest of the way.”

The scientist stopped and bent his knees, lowering himself a bit. I hopped off his back. It felt good to not be bouncing up and down anymore.

“We have to go back for her,” Pickover said, as I fell in beside him. “Get more bottled air, get another buggy. Go rescue her.”

I reached over and held his forearm with my suit glove. “Rory, she’s dead by now. She has to be.”

“But if—”

“If what? She had less air than me, and I’m almost empty. Even if she did manage to conserve her oxygen, there’s no way she could still be alive by the time we got back out there.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“But what? She tried to kill both of us.”

“I know. I just don’t want it on my conscience, I guess.”

“I had mine removed years ago,” I said. “Makes things easier.”

We walked on in silence. The dome in front of us was an impressive feat. Building it would have been impossible even forty years ago, but nanoassemblers had constructed the whole thing molecule by molecule, extracting the source silicon dioxide from the Martian soil, modifying it into ultraviolet-opaque alloquartz, and laying it down in the pattern Howard Slapcoff’s engineers had programmed. Its rim was anchored into the permafrost, and its great weight was borne by curving struts and the central support column, all made of carbon nanotubes.

We went through the airlock, and I returned the surface suit. The person who had rented us the suit wasn’t on duty anymore—which was a good thing, since I would have felt obliged to clock him for having revealed the radio-encryption key to Lakshmi. Adding insult to injury, Pickover lost his damage deposit because of the chip out of my helmet.

I collected my little tablet computer, phone, shoulder holster, and gun from the locker, put the tab in my right hip pocket, slipped the phone around my left wrist, placed the pistol in the holster, and draped the holster over my shoulder. My clothes were clean, but Pickover was covered with dust, and he’d gotten a fair bit of it in the exposed workings of his face. I used the john while he went through the cleaning chamber, where air jets blasted dust off him, and vacuum hoses sucked up the stuff that wouldn’t blow away.

When Pickover was done, we headed out onto Ninth Avenue. “What now?” he asked.

I gave him an appraising look. “You’ve been missing most of your face for God knows how long, and you’ve got two holes in your chest. I’m thinking it’s time you visited NewYou.”

He shuddered. “I get so angry when I think about what they did. A bootleg copy of me!”

“I know. But the people who did that are gone, and so is the bootleg—and you do need to get fixed up, and they’re the only game in town.”

“All right,” he said. “But will you come with me?”

“You’re the client; I charge by the hour. You really want to pay someone to hold your hand?”

“Please, Alex.”

I’d been hoping to go home, have a shower, change, and then maybe go see Diana. But I said, “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

I made Pickover wait for me while we stopped at a shop so I could buy a sandwich; the ones I’d bought before had gone up with the buggy. Meat was synthesized directly—no need for messy, smelly animals—and the place we went into printed a passable roast beef on an algae bun. I ate it as we walked along. We had to cross right through the center of town, since NewYou was on Third and about halfway out to the other side of the dome. Before we went in, I think Pickover would have liked to have taken a deep breath to steel himself—so to speak—but he couldn’t.

We were greeted inside by Horatio Fernandez, he of the massive arms. “My God,” he said, looking at Pickover, “what happened to you?”

I spoke before Pickover could answer. “Little accident with some climbing gear.”

“And your face?” asked Fernandez.

“Cut myself shaving,” Pickover replied.

“Jesus,” said Horatio. “Let’s get you into the workshop.”

Pickover looked at me. “I’ll wait,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

Fernandez called out, “Reiko!” A woman came through a doorway to mind the store. Fernandez headed into the back, and Pickover followed.

I remembered Reiko Takahashi from the Wilkins case, and so I went over to say hello. She was petite, about twenty-eight, and very pretty for a biological.

“Hello, Mr. Lomax,” she said, smiling perfect teeth.

I was pleased she remembered my name. “Alex,” I said.

“Alex, yes. Hi.”

“Hi.”

She moved closer and looked around, making sure we were alone, I guess. “Are you working on another case?”

“My friend needed some maintenance, and I’m keeping him company.”

“Ah.”

Reiko had long black hair that went halfway down her back. Three streaks of orange went through it, one behind each ear, and the third exactly down the center. She had brown eyes, and eye shadow that matched the streaks, and was wearing a dark gray pantsuit over a silky blouse that was also the same shade of orange. “What brought you to Mars?” I asked, making conversation.

She smiled mischievously. “A spaceship.”

“Ha ha. Seriously, though?”

She looked at me for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she wanted to confide something. But then she simply said, “Something to do.”

I turned on the patented Lomax charm. “Well, I’m glad you came.” I gestured at the front window. “This planet is so dreary; we can use all the beauty we can get.”

She dipped her head a little, pleased. Then she looked up at me without straightening her neck back out. “I’m glad you dropped in,” she said.

“Thank you.” I dialed it up a notch. “I’m certainly glad I did, too.”

Her voice grew tentative. “I’d been thinking of coming to see you, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’m . . . forgive me, but I just wasn’t sure you were the right man.”

I put a finger under her chin and lifted her lovely face. “Of course I am. Why don’t we go somewhere and talk?”

She looked around. “No, this will do. We’re alone.”

“We are indeed,” I said.

“You see, there’s a matter I need help in investigating.”

Oh. “And what might that be?”

She looked at me for several seconds, sizing me up. “Okay,” she said. “But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Tell anyone what?”

It was amazing how many people would ask you to pledge silence then go on even when you hadn’t. I was feeling pleased about that insight when she started speaking, but by the time she’d finished, I’d found myself taking a step backward.

“It’s just this,” she said. “Denny O’Reilly was my grandfather.”