The Long Mars

‘Let’s just play it low key for now, Mac, and see what he has to say for himself . . .’ And then the door opened.

Black had a team of aides, but only one servant on hand today, Philip the overbearing bodyguard, who gave the two officers a quick guided tour of Black’s suite, glaring at them throughout.

The suite, a grand name for a set of cabins which Black had fitted out at his own expense, was less luxuriously appointed than Maggie had expected. There was a small galley, for Black insisted on having his food prepared for him exclusively, from fresh ingredients where possible – evidently Philip was also the chef. The lounge area was equipped with deep, adjustable chairs and couches, and a bank of information-processing gear, screens, tablets, storage units.

At first glance Black’s bedroom looked to Maggie like a compact intensive care unit, with one big gadget-laden bed draped in a transparent curtain – it was effectively an oxygen tent, Mac murmured – and surrounded by monitors and drip-feeds, even what looked like a telesurgery robot arm. One small cot in the corner, behind a light partition, must be where Philip slept, on guard twenty-four seven.

It was the oxygen tent, Maggie knew, that Mac had an issue with.

Black, at ease in his lounge, sitting in a massively engineered wheelchair, wore a loose, comfortable-looking kimono jacket, silk trousers, slippers. Even in the enclosed submarine-hull artificiality of the gondola he wore his sunglasses. He smiled, his wizened face creasing, as he himself poured them rather good coffee. ‘So – welcome to my lair, Captain Kauffman. That’s the sort of thing people expect me to say, isn’t it? Shall we get down to business? I’m aware that your doctor here has been taking an interest in my welfare, but I have brought my own medical establishment, as you can see.’

‘But,’ Mac growled, ‘on this ship, where I’m chief surgeon, you do fall under my purview nonetheless.’

‘Of course. I bow to your authority; it can be no other way.’

Maggie said, ‘I’m afraid that’s where the friction is coming from, sir. Specifically your use of oxygen.’

‘Captain, I have assured Doctor Mackenzie that I have brought my own supply, my own replenishment and recycling equipment – it’s like a regular little spaceship in here.’

‘You nevertheless are plugged into the ship’s supply,’ Mac said. ‘It’s inevitable, an engineering constraint. And you, sir, are using up a hell of a lot. Captain, I wouldn’t have raised it, but since right now there’s no spare oh-two outside the hull, we need to discuss this.’

‘I don’t understand, Mr Black,’ Maggie said. ‘Why are you using all this oxygen?’

Mac broke in, ‘To fill his hyperbaric chamber all day and all night. You saw the tent over his bed, Captain. He lives in the damn thing, breathing air with an oxygen content whole percentage points above the Datum Earth level.’

‘OK.’ This sounded nothing but kooky to Maggie. She’d had a long day before this meeting, but she wished now she’d got herself better briefed. ‘I’m no medic. Why would you want that, Mr Black?’

‘For the most profound of reasons. To regain the one thing that all my money can’t buy me – not yet, anyhow. You joked about my searching for the fountain of youth, Captain. Well, in a sense – so I am.’

For the next few minutes he ran her through a discourse, complete with a picture show on one of his big tablets, of the treatments he was taking, not just to slow down the ageing of his body but actually to reverse it. Hormones that declined with age were replenished, including growth hormones, testosterone, insulin, melatonin, others, to let them repair and restore body functions, as they would in a youthful body. There had been attempts at genetic repair using retroviruses to make and break DNA strings, removing damaged or undesired sequences. Back in the Low Earths Black was promoting experimental methods involving stem cells to regenerate tissues, even whole organs.

He spread liver-spotted hands. ‘Look at me, Captain. I have always exercised, eaten well, avoided most vices. I have been fortunate in being spared many common illnesses. And of course my decades-long precautions against the ambitions of assassins have borne fruit, so far.’ He tapped his skull. ‘Mentally I seem as sharp as ever, my memory is good . . . But I am eighty years old; my time is ru

‘All right. But what’s that got to do with oxygen?’

‘It’s one of the therapies,’ Mac said. ‘And one of the flakier ones.’

Black inclined his head. ‘I won’t argue with a medical man. But you won’t condemn me for exploring all the options, will you? Yes, the use of excess oxygen is controversial. But – look where we are. Look out the window! There is no oxygen here, and these worlds are all but dead. It is oxygen that promotes the life force. Why, you yourself use it in extremis for a patient, do you not, Doctor? The word is “oxyology”, Captain. The use of a high oxygen partial pressure to promote healing, the rejuvenation of the body. It is cheap, it is easy, and some claim to have proof that it works, on ants and mice and so forth. Why not try it?’

Mac would have argued some more, but Maggie raised a hand. ‘I think I get the picture. But I don’t yet see what kind of “fountain of youth” you’re seeking aboard this Navy ship, Mr Black.’

He would only smile. ‘All I can say is that I will know it when I find it – if it exists.’

Maggie stood. ‘I think we’re done here. Look, Mac, we’re watching our oxygen usage closely, but we’ve a complement of ninety, and Mr Black’s consumption, given his private supply and even with his tent, is going to be only a fraction of that. We can cope, for now. But,’ she said to Black, ‘I’ll put my chief engineer on alert. And if we need to impose any kind of emergency measures I’ll have to restrict you to a regular crew allocation, sir.’

‘Of course.’ He looked faintly offended. ‘I would never let my own interests put at risk a single one of your young charges.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Is our business done? Am I allowed down from the naughty step?’

Maggie laughed gracefully, and nudged Mac until he forced a smile.

‘Then, if you’ve time, let’s have fun. Please, do sit again. Perhaps you’d like to look over the latest package of science updates prepared for me by your kind Lieutenant Hemingway. I’m sure you know it all already, but the images can be startling.’ He nodded to Philip, who got up to make preparations; soon the room’s screens filled up with curtains of purple and crimson. ‘Who would ever have imagined that life even without the power of oxygen was capable of such beauty, such inventiveness of design? Can I offer you more coffee? Or perhaps something stronger . . .’

24

AND SO, OVER THE YEARS, Joshua had kept in sporadic touch with Paul Spencer Wagoner, as the strange little boy grew up into a somewhat stranger young man. He’d felt it was a kind of duty. Joshua was probably the boy’s only contact, save for his immediate family, from his childhood in Happy Landings. Joshua Valienté was always big on duty.

But he was also curious. And in Paul Spencer Wagoner there seemed to be a lot to be curious about.

As far as Joshua could tell, Tom and Carla Wagoner had always tried their best with Paul, and his little sister Judy; certainly they had never hurt the kids. But when their marriage broke up, cracking under the stress caused by the kids, Joshua guessed, Tom was left to deal with Paul alone. And what Tom couldn’t cope with was when his son, growing in knowledge if not in wisdom, and acquiring a certain power mentally if not physically, turned on his father.