Complete Short Fiction, page 127
But it could be reactivated by someone who had reason to do so. If someone from the outer satellites wanted to take advantage of the confusion following Phobos to mount an assault on the Union forces around Mars, this would be an excellent staging point.
Kingsman gave that event a possibility of one in three within the next six months. That was high enough that he had had no trouble in persuading command to fund and staff his operation.
“No big water here.” Tutun stopped in the middle of one of the endless featureless tunnels. It was a spot as good as any other. “No waterfalls.”
“No,” Kingsman said. “We’ll be running our water through our bodies on the average of once a week.”
“You know, I could do without the statistics once in a while.”
Tutun was one of several of Ferhat’s troops who had decided to go with Kingsman after the end of the Phobos expedition.
“Pick a spot,” Kingsman said. “Pick it carefully. You’re going to be in it for a long time.”
Six months was a long time to spend buttoned up in survival pods. Elise had been right about what he needed. The idea that some of the troops who had served with him in Phobos were willing to undertake the difficult duty under his command, on a one-third chance that they might face an immensely superior force far from any possible reinforcement and support, gave him a feeling unlike any other. The most difficult part of the operation would be maintaining total detection discipline. As the weeks went by, and no assault manifested itself, the temptation would be to let small things go, to turn on some light and heat in a small room somewhere deep in the rock. The hardest part of Kingsman’s job would be maintaining morale when that moment came.
Kingsman settled back against the side of the survival pod. Tutun snored to his right. To his left, Gupta watched something on a tiny screen, grunting occasionally. He wanted to tell her to stop. The unpredictable rhythm of her grunts drove him crazy.
Time enough for that later. He was sure that in a few weeks they would all want to kill each other. Meanwhile, it was time for a nap.
Bad Day on Boscobel
Dunya stopped just outside Phineus’s unit to calm herself down. Otherwise she would burst in and start screaming at him. That was no way to start a check-in meeting with one of her refugees.
That gave her a chance to realize that she looked like hell. She’d already had one fight that morning, with her daughter Bodil, and afterwards she had rushed out, unsnapped and unbrushed. It was hard enough to manage someone like Phineus, all Martian and precise, without giving him more ammunition about how lax things were here, among the asteroids.
She stepped out of the foot traffic, pulled out her kit, sharpened her eyebrows, got her pale hair in some semblance of order, and cleaned sleep and tears out of the corners of her eyes.
They’d put Phineus low down, not far above actual rock, in a line of wooden cubicles along a root. Leaves rustled overhead. But there was no dramatic view up past the trunks to the spreading branches of the famed Boscobel axis, just some fibrous safety panels and a moving ladderway. Phineus sometimes grouched about what it said about his status.
There. Bodil had gone straight to bed after their fight. Dunya had a full day ahead of her. Looking good might be poor revenge on an ungrateful child, but that was what she had. And it had relaxed her enough. Now she was ready for that idiot.
When she got into his narrow space, her most difficult refugee sat on his bed, bony knees against his chest. Phineus’s cliff of a face swept up into an impressive brow and forehead. It was almost too big for the room.
“I didn’t expect you for a couple more days,” he said.
So she’d been getting predictable. And he wanted her to know it, which was interesting. “I have something to talk to you about.”
“Am I in trouble?” He smiled.
She didn’t answer.
“Look,” he said. “I’m happy to see you. It’s kind of a treat. Not a lot happens down here.”
“I was just over in Lower Cort. In the Wendell Beech, about a third of the way up.”
“Nice spot,” he said. “If you’re the sort who likes nice spots, that is. I never pegged you for the type.”
“The branches sag down there,” she said. “Thick growth. If you climb up bough 73, then slide a bit down the branches there, you’ll find a bunch of these.” She flipped something across to him. He caught it. “All hanging from strings, blowing in the breeze. They’re getting tangled up in the twigs. Someone should have given them a bit more weight in the lower parts.”
Phineus looked expressionlessly at the doll in his hand. It was made from human hair, looped and woven together, with the loose ends bursting from the top of its head in a huge fall. Its face was miserable, with downturned mouth and squinted eyes, like a child with a stomach ache. It might have been almost cute, but it was all held together by something thick and sticky.
“You know that’s blood, right?” she asked.
“Look, I don’t—”
“It’s gang sign, Phineus. Green Burnings. They jump the boughs around here. Sometimes keeping order, sometimes tearing it up. They’re Root & Branch party supporters, field workers, and enforcers. Things have been fairly balanced lately. But if the Green Burnings push up into Five Boughs, there’s going to be trouble with the Trunk. I don’t know how things are on Mars, but it’s not just about gang territory here on Boscobel. It’s always got another dimension. The Trunkers are losing support from small businesses who think the party’s not protecting their interests. Burnings jumping through Five Boughs will only make that more obvious. Things might get rough.”
“I still don’t understand local politics,” he said.
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t be messing around with it.”
“Me? What do I have to do with it?”
That expression of outraged innocence was the last straw. Dunya snatched the doll from his hand, startling the old Martian corridor fighter with her speed, and stuck it back in her pocket. “You know them. Hang out with them. Give them a bit of training. Just keeping your Martian hand in? Or something more? In any case, you’re going to get into trouble. Not just with some rival group. With me.”
“How did—”
“My sources are none of your business.” She wasn’t going to reveal that she had learned it entirely by chance, by fighting with her daughter just that morning, not because she had previously had any interest in what he was doing.
“You’ve got the wrong guy. I see that detritus, sure. Green Burnings, whatever. They flip off branches above me while I’m catching some breakfast out at Kumar’s. We got to talking. So maybe I gave them some tactical tips, just to keep my hand in. But I don’t drill them or anything like that. Maybe they hired from outside. I mean, there are Martians hanging around Preem Bough. Maybe they’ve set up a school or something.”
This was unexpected. “You’re the only Martian in Boscobel.”
“Piece of information, Dunya: there is always another Martian. We’re tricky that way.”
“So you’ve seen other Martians out there?” she said.
“Oh, you know, rumors. Someone uncomfortable with all the plant life is up there, looking for trouble. It would be nice to see someone from the old dustball.” He looked bleak. “But it’s probably false. I’m the only Martian here. Stuck down in the roots, going nowhere.”
Once Phineus started feeling sorry for himself, he usually went all the way and ended up lying face down on the floor, refusing to respond. It could last for days.
She didn’t have time for that. “Phineus. Let me be clear. No more combat training. From now on. And no contact with anyone who jumps with Green Burnings. It will endanger your status if you do. Do you understand?”
“What does that mean? Say I want to go up to Kumar’s. If a Burning comes in and gets coffee while I’m there, do I have to pack it up and leave?”
“If you’re going to ask, I’m going to tell you. Yes. Don’t even share a common space with them until I say otherwise.” Phineus kept himself clean, but his room was a mess, with clothes shoved places that must have taken more work than just putting them away properly. He even had a couple of noodle-parlor containers under a cushion. She resisted the urge to lecture him about it. “You like to bring your food home. If you see a gang member, just do that. Any more questions?”
“If I ask, I’ll find out I have to stay in my room. So, no.”
“Smart man. Just find yourself a better hobby.”
He didn’t raise his head as she left.
Bodil had sauntered in that morning just as Dunya was getting ready to leave for work. She smelled of trees far from where she was supposed to be, with a couple of girlfriends: every spot in Boscobel had its own combination of gums, saps, pollens, nectars, and oils. Bodil relied too much on the fact that her mother wasn’t a native, and sometimes had trouble with the more subtle signals.
When Bodil tried to just brush past her mother on her way to her room, Dunya had blocked her path with an outstretched leg. First Bodil had denied she had been anywhere. Then she said she’d told her mother about it, but she, distracted and too busy, had forgotten. Then she denied that her mother had any authority that meant anything.
“And where is Dad?” Bodil had said, through too-ready tears. “Why isn’t he ever here? What’s he trying to get away from?”
Bryn was away a lot. Dunya didn’t like it either.
But the fight had come with one unexpected benefit. After Dunya had started in about Bodil’s on-again, off-again boyfriend Unray, who jumped with the Green Burnings, Bodil had burst out with a defense of his capabilities. “He’s the one who figures out their tactics. He’s learned a lot, don’t think he hasn’t. Martian stuff, not like the other gangs. It’s a whole other level of activity. You should see how he’s marked their territory over at Wendell Beech . . .”
Her mother’s sudden interest told Bodil she’d made a mistake boasting about that. But it was too late. Dunya connected that information with other things she’d learned, and understood something of what Phineus was up to. She let her daughter go, already planning a detour to Lower Cort on her way to Phineus.
Bodil could try to use Bryn as a weapon, she thought now, as she climbed to her next appointment. It would still be just the two of them for quite some time. They’d have to fight it out on their own.
She rose through several layers of the great branches that made up the dwelling levels of Boscobel. Sometimes the view went out a great distance, revealing a group of people at a table, a prowling cat, a vortex of rain renewing pockets of water in the great branches. Usually it was compacted, held in by leaves and lattice. She finally stepped off onto a busy pathway and made her way between shops and the small personal gardens people here kept in front of their units.
No matter where you were, most of Boscobel was invisible, but from this level, about a third of the way up, you got the best feel for what this world was. Boscobel was trees, the biggest trees in the solar system. They stuck their roots deep into the crust, flung themselves across the axis of the spinning cylinder of the asteroid, and then plunged into the opposite side, where their upper branches became roots. In between, vast boughs spread, providing living and production areas. Some had developed leaves meters across or complex meshes of interlaced branches. Though they still bore names like sycamore and juniper, they had only slight resemblances to their earth-rooted ancestors.
“I started out late,” she said, as she came up to Fama’s dining area. “I’m not catching up.”
“That’s okay, you can help me get things ready. Let’s roll this out.”
Dunya pushed hot tables loaded with steaming pots out onto the balcony that looked out over a wide opening among the trees. Nothing dramatic, but a nice spot. It was shaded by a couple of gigantic leaves, each of which had bugs scurrying in its furry underside. To any asteroid-dweller eye, Boscobeli or not, that was comforting. It meant that, no matter what else happened, you wouldn’t starve.
Fama was a big woman who seemed to wear all of her clothes at the same time. The outer garment was always different, but Dunya thought she recognized a couple of the layers underneath. It was cooler than average here, where a breeze came down from the distant North Pole. But she didn’t think that was the explanation. Fama was still ready to flee, and wanted to make sure she had everything she needed with her when the time came.
“Any shakedowns recently?” Dunya asked.
“None, thanks to your suggestion.”
Dunya tried to remember what she had come up with. “Ah, Strop.”
Fama shrugged. “He knows his food, I’ll give him that.”
Merv Strop was an agent of the Office of Adversary Knowledge, Boscobel’s internal security force. Fama had been getting harassed by some low-level thugs from the Dead Roots, competitors to those Green Burnings Phineus gave tactics classes to. Dunya had suggested that she invite agent Strop to dine, in a visible way. The Dead Roots had moved off to find an easier target, while Strop had stayed.
“He’s actually got a real crime to solve, I hear,” Fama said. “Someone took off with an ancient emergency kit from some secure area. It’s sweating his skull, making him ornery.”
Dunya had to get to business. “I’m curious about someone. In the area. A Martian, I’ve heard.”
“Anything else? Martians don’t got red dots on their foreheads to make them easy to spot.”
Dunya had found a few minutes to check up on available tourist entries. She had access because tourists were sometimes refugees in disguise—or ended up as refugees when a political shift back home left them unable to return after their relaxing vacation lounging in a tree branch. No Martians had turned up, but there was one good possibility, from the inner-belt asteroid Fortuna. Fortuna had close relations with Mars, and might have been willing to cooperate in screening someone’s identity. If so, this person had some connections to the Martian government, but was probably operating unofficially.
“It’s someone a fairly tough guy would still be nervous about. One possibility is a woman, supposedly from Fortuna.” And Phineus had been nervous. Who knew what enemies Phineus might have made back on Mars?
“I need some critters,” Fama said. “Soup’s kind of bland.”
Dunya helped pluck bugs from the underside of the leaf. Most of them escaped her fingers. Fama grabbed writhing handfuls and dumped them into the steaming pot. Their shells puffed, and their dissolving legs gave the stock the saffron color that marked its quality. A restaurant depended on the diet of its feedbugs as much as it did on the skill of its chef.
“That might actually explain a few things, though.” Fama tasted, and nodded in satisfaction. “That’s enough now. Let the rest go.”
The bugs scurried into the fibers. “You’ve seen someone?” Dunya said.
“Didn’t think ’Martian’ ’til you said. A woman. Tall. Does claim to be from Fortuna but moves like she grew up in gravity. No obvious business. Has a drink here, chats with someone there. But she’s working hard the whole time. No relaxation in her.” Fama was desperate to expand her business, kept her eye on competitors and potential customers.
“Any idea where I can find her?”
“She sleeps at the Moss, I think.”
Fama was looking over Dunya’s shoulder to see who might have come in. She should let the woman get to her business.
“Anything else you need to talk about?” Dunya said.
“Well . . .” Fama was suddenly reluctant. “Tell me. How long did it take you to feel that you fit in?”
“Here in Boscobel?” Dunya made it a principle to be honest with her clients. Sometimes that was difficult. “Most days I don’t feel I fit in at all. But sometimes, when I stand under a dripping leaf and watch the white gibbons jump the gap at Gantan, I think I should never have been anywhere else.”
Fama scooped a bug out of the soup and sucked thoughtfully on its head. “Hope for me yet, then.”
“Hope for us all.”
A couple of clients later, Dunya was at the Moss, a set of rental rooms on stilts above the mosses that gave the name. This woman was after Phineus for something, and Phineus was nervous about it. His casualness had been unconvincing. If she was keeping Phineus under observation, Dunya had a chance to maybe spot her.
Phineus wouldn’t listen to a thing Dunya had told him. He’d go to breakfast, meeting with a Green Burning or two, maybe in a corner, so as not to be obvious. If this woman, whoever she was, meant to keep him under observation, that would be an easy spot. If Phineus then went back to sulk in his unit, the woman might take the opportunity to come back to the Moss to take care of other business. If she did, she would most likely skirt the roots of the big ash tree.
That was a lot of assumptions. But Boscobel was incredibly resistant to travel if you didn’t know it well. Once visitors learned a useful route, they tended to stick to it. Dunya found a spot by a mossy root where she could watch, get work done, and have someone bring her a coffee every now and then.
After an hour or so, she had updated everyone’s files. Just as she was considering giving it up, she saw an odd bit of movement. Someone had started down the stairs from the direction of Phineus, glanced across the open area below, then stepped back. Somehow, Dunya had been spotted.
Now Dunya was even more interested. Who was this woman? And why was she so anxious to avoid an interview?
She’d been successful in predicting the Martian’s route home, at least. Where would the woman go now? She’d probably planned out some escape route and bolthole, for contingencies. Dunya was used to people trying to avoid her.
What choices would have seemed smart to a Martian corridor dweller who hadn’t had the time to work out the intricacies of Boscobel? The main question was: up or down? Right here was a mazelike sprawl of roots. Concealment would seem easier, and it was just the kind of place that would give comfort to a Martian.
But she would have thought past that. She’d try to be unpredictable, at least to herself. And she’d want to use the ways in which Boscobel differed from her home. She’d want things to be interesting. She’d climb.
