The Long Mars

Mac was the closest, Snowy the fastest. Between them they hauled Cutler away from the window, and Mac forced the weapon out of his hands.

Cutler stopped struggling, and they released him. ‘All right, show’s over.’ He was breathing hard, his face flushed; he glowered a look of pure hatred at the beagle, then turned to Maggie. ‘Decisiveness, Captain Kauffman. That’s a quality usually attributed to me, in the face of danger—’

‘The only danger here came from you and your weapon. Get off my ship, you idiot.’ She deliberately turned her back. Then she approached Snowy and Mac, who were standing awkwardly side by side. ‘Good teamwork, you two.’

The beagle nodded gravely. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

Mac just shrugged.

Maggie said, ‘Good work, in spite of the fact that you avoid each other like the plague. So, you going to tell me what’s going on between you two?’

Snowy said reluctantly, ‘Matter of – honou-hhr . . .’

‘Honour? What about?’

‘Murde-hrr my people.’

‘Who? Mac? Are you serious? . . . Ah, look, we need to sort this out. In the meantime – Mac, with me.’

‘Yes, Captain.’

She led him to the window and looked down. She could see the snake where it had landed, twisting, struggling. ‘We’re supposed to be explorers. We only just show up here, we don’t even get out of the ship, and we start shooting. Killing. Except we didn’t kill that thing.’

‘No, we didn’t.’

‘Badly wounded, though. And it’s in a lot of pain, in my nonmedical opinion.’

‘Can’t disagree with that, Captain.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, get down there and fix it, that’s what.’

‘How the hell am I supposed to do that? You heard Gerry describe its life system. What do I use for anaesthetic, battery acid?’

‘Figure it out. You’re the doctor. Think what you might learn about the anatomy of these creatures.’ More softly she said, ‘And think what an impression you’d make on the crew, after Cutler’s performance.’

He opened his mouth, closed it, and, very visibly, began to think. ‘Hmm. Well, if Hemingway is right about the ecosystem here, an animal like that must live off some combination of the plants’ products, regardless of what they are. I’d need Harry Ryan to knock me up canisters of hydrogen sulphide, sulphur dioxide.’

‘Ask him.’

‘And I’ll need thick gloves. Thick, thick gloves . . .’ He walked away. ‘Hemingway, you’d better come give me a hand down there.’

Maggie looked down once more at the writhing acid snake, then turned away and returned to work.

There were more acid worlds, many more, in a belt that turned out to be millions of steps wide, a good fraction of the width of the great belt of complex water-solvent biology worlds that encompassed the Datum itself, and containing just as much diversity of form. A belt dominated by a form of life whose existence had been entirely unsuspected, before this mission.

And still they sailed on.

28

SO, WITH LOBSANG’S urging to find out more about the anomalous outbreak of intelligence among mankind ringing in his ears, and with memories of previous encounters stirring in his memory, in the spring of 2045 Joshua went to see Paul Spencer Wagoner.

Nine years after Paul had first been admitted to the Home, he was still in Madison, in fact still based at the Home. Now aged nineteen, Paul had been allowed to stay on in an informal capacity of ‘care assistant’. It had been similar for Joshua. Even as he’d grown to a young adult Joshua had needed the shelter of the Home, or so he’d felt, to keep his own stepping ability private. Did Paul, with his abnormal intellect, feel that way too?

‘But there was no harm in you, Joshua,’ said Sister Georgina, now an old lady, all but immobile, with a smile like a sunbeam. ‘There’s no harm in him. Inasmuch as there’s no harm in the hurricane, or the lightning strike. Nothing intentional. Not really . . .’

Joshua had seen Paul a few times in the years since the boy had been brought here, whenever he called in to the Home. They found they shared a morbid sense of humour, and would play jokes on the long-suffering Sisters, often involving the detaching of Joshua’s artificial hand. But you had to be careful. Not all Paul’s jokes were a lot of fun for other people.

And now, as soon as Joshua got to the Home, somehow it wasn’t a surprise to see a young girl come ru

Paul let Joshua take him for a coffee in downtown Madison West 5, on a pale imitation of the old Datum city’s State Street. Paul insisted on paying, however; he had a wallet full of credit cards.

Across the table, he eyed Joshua. ‘So, good old Uncle Joshua. Honorary uncle, anyhow. Back to check up on me, are you?’

The challenge wasn’t serious, Joshua saw. Nor was it playful, quite. It was more of a probe, a test. This wasn’t the Paul Spencer Wagoner Joshua had known before. He had hardened. Joshua saw a young man who was growing up to look like his father – ordinary-looking, really, not too handsome, not too plain. His thick dark hair was his best feature. His clothing was a jumble, with no evident sense of style or colour coordination, not that Joshua was any kind of fashion guru. It looked like he had raided the spare clothing locker at the Home and come out wearing whatever suited, whatever was practical for the day.

He had beefed up, filled out, and Joshua wasn’t surprised; no matter how smart he was, or rather because he was so smart, a kid like Paul needed to be able to defend himself physically. Once Joshua had even taken him to some sparring sessions. Joshua himself had sparred with Bill Chambers and other buddies as a boy – scenes later replayed with Lobsang, in much stranger circumstances. But Paul had scars he was always going to bear: one misshapen eyebrow, a broken nose, the remains of a nasty laceration on his neck.

Joshua just ignored Paul’s opening sally. He asked instead, ‘So, who was she? The girl at the door. What’s the story?’

‘The girl?’ To Joshua’s surprise, Paul had to think for a moment before he dug up her name. ‘Miriam Kahn. Local family, met her at a barn dance. Always liked barn dances, you know.’

‘You? Really?’

‘Is it so surprising? They were always big on barn dances out at Happy Landings. Well, there wasn’t much else to do. And with the fiddle players working away, and the trolls singing their rounds . . . I mean, the events are trivial, the repetitive music, the baby steps, but it is such a joy to throw yourself into the physical from time to time, isn’t it? We are not after all disembodied intelligences. Dancing and sex. Great sport, both of them. A kind of animal madness comes over you.’

‘So. Is that all that Miriam Kahn meant to you? “Sport.” Is that what you said to her?’

‘Oh, of course not. Well, not in so many words. Joshua, we love sex. My kind, I mean. And sex between us is the best of all, a union both physical and mental, of equals.’

And Joshua wondered: My kind?

‘But the trouble is there still aren’t many of us around. And so we turn to other partners. Look, Joshua, I know you’re less easily shocked than most. But that’s what I think poor Miriam picked up on. Sex with her, with one of you – well, can you imagine having sex with a dumb animal, a beast? I don’t mean some bizarre High Meggers thing, a lonely comber with his mule . . . Like mating with Homo erectus. Have you heard of that species? Fully human from the forehead down, anatomically. But from the eyebrows up, the brain of a chimp, more or less, scaled up for the bigger body. Can you imagine coupling with one of those? The animal thrill of the moment – the beautiful, empty eyes – the crashing shame you’d feel when it’s over?’