Blue Mars Part 7

Sax decided to skip the synaptic supplements. Saving Ann's life was one thing, changing her mind another. Random change was not the goal anyway. Acceptance was. Happiness- Ann's true happiness, whatever that might be- now so far away, so hard to imagine. He ached to think of it. It was extraordinary how much physical pain could be generated by thought alone- the limbic system a whole universe in itself, suffused with pain, like the dark matter that suffused everything in the universe.

"Have you talked to Michel?" Ursula asked.

"No. Good idea."

He called Michel, explained what had happened, and what he had in mind to do. "My G.o.d, Sax," Michel said, looking shocked. But in only a few moments he was promising to come. He would get Desmond to fly him to Da Vinci to pick up the treatment supplies, and then fly on up to the refuge.

So Sax sat in Ann's room, a hand to her head. A b.u.mpy skull; no doubt a phrenologist would have had a field day.

Then Michel and Desmond were there, his brothers, standing beside him. The doctor was there too, escorting them, and the tall woman and others as well; so everything had to be communicated by looks, or the absence of looks. Nevertheless everything was perfectly clear. Desmond's face was if anything too clear. They had Ann's longevity package with them. They only had to wait their chance.

Which came quite soon; with Ann settled into her coma, the situation in the little hospital was routine. The effects of the longevity treatment on a coma, however, were not fully known; Michel had scanned the literature, and the data were spa.r.s.e. It had been tried as an experimental treatment in a few unresponsive comas before, and had been successful in rousing victims almost half the time. Because of that Michel now thought it was a good idea.

And so, soon after their arrival, the three of them got up in the middle of the night, and tiptoed past the sleeping attendant in the medical center's anteroom. Medical training had had its usual effect, and the attendant was sound asleep, though awkwardly propped in her chair. Sax and Michel hooked Ann up to the IVs, and stuck the needles in the veins on the backs of her hands, working slowly, carefully, precisely. Quietly. Soon she was hooked up, the IVs were flowing, the new protein strands were in her bloodstream. Her breathing grew irregular, and Sax felt hot with fear. He groaned silently. It was comforting to have Michel and Desmond here, each holding an arm as if supporting him, keeping him from falling; but he wished desperately for Hiroko. This was what she would have done, he was certain of it. Which made him feel better. Hiroko was one of the reasons he was doing this. Still he longed for her support, her physical presence, he wished she would show up to help him like she had on Daedalia Planitia. To help Ann. She was the expert at this kind of radically irresponsible human experimentation, this would have been small potatoes to her....

When the operation was finished, they took out the IV needles and put the equipment away. The attendant slept on, mouth open, looking like the girl she was. Ann was still unconscious, but breathing easier, Sax felt. More strongly.

The three men stood looking down at Ann together. Then they slipped out, and tiptoed back down the hall to their rooms. Desmond was dancing on his toes like a fool, and the other two shushed him. They got back in their beds but couldn't sleep; and couldn't talk; and so lay there silently, like brothers in a big house, late at night, after a successful expedition out into the nocturnal world.

The next morning the doctor came in. "Her vital signs are better."

The three men expressed their pleasure at this.

Later, down in the dining hall, Sax had a strong urge to tell Michel and Desmond about his encounter with Hiroko. The news would mean more to these two than anyone else. But something in him was afraid to do it. He was afraid of seeming overwrought, perhaps even delusional. That moment when Hiroko had left him at the rover, and walked off into the storm- he didn't know what to think of that. In his long hours with Ann he had done some thinking, and some research, and he knew now that Terran climbers alone at high alt.i.tude, suffering from oxygen loss, not infrequently hallucinated companion climbers. Some kind of doppelganger figure. Rescue by anima. And his air tube had been partially clogged.

He said, "I thought this was what Hiroko would have done."

Michel nodded. "It's bold, I'll hand you that. It has her style. No, don't misunderstand me- I'm glad you did it."

"About f.u.c.king time, if you ask me," said Desmond. "Someone should have tied her down and made her take the treatment years ago. Oh my Sax, my Sax-" He laughed happily. "I only hope she doesn't come to as crazy as you did."

"But Sax had a stroke," Michel said.

"Well," Sax said, concerned to set the record straight, "actually I was somewhat eccentric before."

His two friends nodded, mouths pursed. They were in high spirits, though the situation was still unresolved. Then the tall doctor came in; Ann had come out of her coma.

Sax felt that his stomach was still too contracted by tension to take in food, but he noted that he was disposing of a pile of b.u.t.tered toast quite handily. Wolfing it down, in fact.

"But she's going to be very angry at you," Michel said.

Sax nodded. It was, alas, probable. Likely, even. A bad thought. He did not want to be struck by her again. Or worse, denied her company.

"You should come with us to Earth," Michel suggested. "Maya and I are going with the delegation, and Nirgal."

"There's a delegation going to Earth?"

"Yes, someone suggested it, and it seems like a good idea. We need to have some representatives right there on Earth talking to them. And by the time we get back from that, Ann will have had time to think it over."

"Interesting," Sax said, relieved at the mere suggestion of an escape from the situation. In fact it was almost frightening how quickly he could think of ten good reasons for going to Earth. "But what about Pavonis, and this conference they're talking about?"

"We can stay part of that by video."

"True." It was just what he had always maintained.

The plan was attractive. He did not want to be there when Ann woke up. Or rather, when she found out what he had done. Cowardice, of course. But still. "Desmond, are you going?"

"Not a f.u.c.king chance."

"But you say Maya is going too?" Sax asked Michel.

"Yes."

"Good. The last time I, I, I tried to save a woman's life, Maya killed her."

"What? What- Phyllis? You saved Phyllis's life?"

"Well- no. That is to say, I did, but I was also the one who put her in danger in the first place. So I don't think it counts." He tried to explain what had happened that night in Burroughs, with little success. It was fuzzy in his own mind, except for certain vivid horrible moments. "Never mind. It was just a thought. I shouldn't have spoken. I'm...."

"You're tired," Michel said. "But don't worry. Maya will be away from the scene here, and safely under our eye."

Sax nodded. It was sounding better all the time. Give Ann some time to cool off; think it over; understand. Hopefully. And it would be very interesting of course to see conditions on Earth firsthand. Extremely interesting. So interesting that no rational person could pa.s.s up the opportunity.

Part Three

A New Const.i.tution

Ants came to Mars as part of the soil project, and soon they were everywhere, as is their way. And so the little red people encountered ants, and they were amazed. These creatures were just the right size to ride, it was like the Native Americans meeting the horse. Tame the things and they would run wild.

Domesticating the ant was no easy matter. The little red scientists had not even believed such creatures were possible, because of surface area-to-volume constraints, but there they were, clumping around like intelligent robots, so the little red scientists had to explain them. To get some help they climbed up into the humans' reference books, and read up on ants. They learned about the ants' pheromones, and they synthesized the ones they needed to control the soldier ants of a particularly small docile red species, and after that, they were in business. Little red cavalry. They charged around everywhere on antback, having a fine old time, twenty or thirty of them on each ant, like pashas on elephants. Look close at enough ants and you'll see them, right there on top.

But the little red scientists continued to read the texts, and learned about human pheromones. They went back to the rest of the little red people, awestruck and appalled. Now we know why these humans are such trouble, they reported. Humans have no more will than these ants we are riding around on. They are giant meat ants.

The little red people tried to comprehend such a travesty of life.

Then a voice said No they're not, to all of them at once. The little red people talk to each other telepathically, you see, and this was like a telepathic loudspeaker announcement. Humans are spiritual beings, this voice insisted.

How do you know? the little red people asked telepathically. Who are you? Are you the ghost of John Boone?

I am the Gyatso Rimpoche, the voice answered. The eighteenth reincarnation of the Dalai Lama. I am traveling the Bardo in search of my next reincarnation. I've looked everywhere on Earth, but I've had no luck, and I decided to look somewhere new. Tibet is still under the thumb of the Chinese, and they show no signs of letting up. The Chinese, although I love them dearly, are hard b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. And the other governments of the world long ago turned their backs on Tibet. So no one will challenge the Chinese. Something needs to be done. So I came to Mars.

Good idea, the little red people said.

Yes, the Dalai Lama agreed, but I must admit I am having a hard time finding a new body to inhabit. For one thing there are very few children anywhere. Then also it does not look like anyone is interested. I looked in Sheffield but everyone was too busy talking. I went to Sabishii but everyone there had their heads stuck in the dirt. I went to Elysium but everyone had a.s.sumed the lotus position and could not be roused. I went to Christian-opolis but everyone there had other plans. I went to Hiranyagarba but everyone there said we've already done enough for Tibet. I've gone everywhere on Mars, to every tent and station, and everywhere people are just too busy. No one wants to be the nineteenth Dalai Lama. And the Bardo is getting colder and colder.

Good luck, the little red people said. We've been looking ever since John died and we haven't even found anyone worth talking to, much less living inside. These big people are all messed up.

The Dalai Lama was discouraged by this response. He was getting very tired, and could not last much longer in the Bardo. So he said, What about one of you?

Well, sure, the little red people said. We'd be honored. Only it will have to be all of us at once. We do everything like that together.

Why not? said the Dalai Lama, and he transmigrated into one of the little red specks, and that same instant he was there in all of them, all over Mars. The little red people looked up at the humans crashing around above them, a sight which before they had tended to regard as some kind of bad wide-screen movie, and now they found they were filled with all the compa.s.sion and wisdom of the eighteen previous lives of the Dalai Lama. They said to each other, Ka wow, these people really are messed up. We thought it was bad before, but look at that, it's even worse than we thought. They're lucky they can't read each other's minds or they'd kill each other. That must be why they're killing each other- they know what they're thinking themselves, and so they suspect all the others. How ugly. How sad.

They need your help, the Dalai Lama said inside them all. Maybe you can help them.

Maybe, the little red people said. They were dubious, to tell the truth. They had been trying to help humans ever since John Boone died, they had set up whole towns in the porches of every ear on the planet, and talked continuously ever since, sounding very much like John had, trying to get people to wake up and act decent, and never with any effect at all, except to send a lot of people to ear nose and throat specialists. Lots of people on Mars thought they had tinnitus, but no one ever understood their little red people. It was enough to discourage anyone.

But now the little red people had the compa.s.sionate spirit of the Dalai Lama infusing them, and so they decided to try one more time. Perhaps it will take more than whispering in their ears, the Dalai Lama pointed out, and they all agreed. We'll have to get their attention some other way.

Have you tried your telepathy on them? the Dalai Lama asked.

Oh no, they said. No way. Too scary. The ugliness might kill us on the spot. Or at least make us real sick.

Maybe not, the Dalai Lama said. Maybe if you blocked off your reception of what they thought, and just beamed your thoughts at them, it would be all right. Just send lots of good thoughts, like an advice beam. Compa.s.sion, love, agreeableness, wisdom, even a little common sense.

We'll give it a try, the little red people said. But we're all going to have to shout at the top of our telepathic voices, all in chorus, because these folks just aren't listening.

I've faced that for nine centuries now, the Dalai Lama said. You get used to it. And you little ones have the advantage of numbers. So give it a try.

And so all the little red people all over Mars looked up and took a deep breath.

Art Randolph was having the time of his life.

Not during the battle for Sheffield, of course- that had been a disaster, a breakdown of diplomacy, the failure of everything Art had been trying to do- a miserable few days, in fact, during which he had run around sleeplessly trying to meet with every group he thought might help defuse the crisis, and always with the feeling that it was somehow his fault, that if he had done things right it would not have happened. The fight went right to the brink of torching Mars, as in 2061; for a few hours on the afternoon of the Red a.s.sault, it had teetered.

But fallen back. Something- diplomacy, or the realities of battle (a defensive victory for those on the cable), common sense, sheer chance- something had tipped things back from the edge.

And with that nightmare interval past, people had returned to east Pavonis in a thoughtful mood. The consequences of failure had been made clear. They needed to agree on a plan. Many of the radical Reds were dead, or escaped into the outback, and the moderate Reds left in east Pavonis, while angry, were at least there. It was a very uncomfortable and uncertain period. But there they were.

So once again Art began flogging the idea of a const.i.tutional congress. He ran around under the big tent through warrens of industrial warehouses and storage zones and concrete dormitories, down broad streets crowded with a museum's worth of heavy vehicles, and everywhere he urged the same thing: const.i.tution. He talked to Nadia, Nirgal, Jackie, Zeyk, Maya, Peter, Ariadne, Rashid, Tariki, Nanao, Sung, and H.

X. Borazjani. He talked to Vlad and Ursula and Marina, and to the Coyote. He talked to a few-score young natives he had never met before, all major players in the recent unrest; there were so many of them it began to seem like a textbook demonstration of the polycephalous nature of ma.s.s social movements. And to every head of this new hydra Art made the same case: "A const.i.tution would legitimate us to Earth, and it would give us a framework for settling disputes among ourselves. And we're all gathered here, we could start right away. Some people have plans ready to look at." And with the events of the past week fresh in their minds, people would nod and say "Maybe so," and wander off thinking about it.

Art called up William Fort and told him what he was doing, and got an answer back later the same day. The old man was at a new refugee town in Costa Rica, looking just as distracted as always. "Sounds good," he said. And after that Praxis people were checking with Art daily to see what they could do to help organize things. Art became busier than he had ever been, doing what the j.a.panese there called nema-washi nema-washi, the preparations for an event: starting strategy sessions for an organizing group, revisiting everyone he had spoken to before, trying, in effect, to talk to every individual on Pavonis Mons. "The John Boone method," Coyote commented with his cracked laugh. "Good luck!"

Sax, packing his few belongings for the diplomatic mission to Earth, said, "You should invite the, the United Nations."

Sax's adventure in the storm had knocked him back a bit; he tended to stare around at things, as if stunned by a blow to the head. Art said gently, "Sax, we just went to a lot of trouble to kick their b.u.t.ts off this planet."

"Yes," Sax said, staring at the ceiling. "But now co-opt them."

"Co-opt the UN!" Art considered it. Co-opt the United Nations: it had a certain ring to it. It would be a challenge, diplomatically speaking.

Just before the amba.s.sadors left for Earth, Nirgal came by the Praxis offices to say good-bye. Embracing his young friend, Art was seized with a sudden irrational fear. Off to Earth!

Nirgal was as blithe as ever, his dark brown eyes alight with antic.i.p.ation. After saying good-bye to the others in the outer office, he sat with Art in an empty corner room of the warehouse.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Art asked.

"Very sure. I want to see Earth."

Art waggled a hand, uncertain what to say.

"Besides," Nirgal added, "someone has to go down there and show them who we are."

"None better for that than you, my friend. But you'll have to watch out for the metanats. Who knows what they'll be up to. And for bad food- those areas affected by the flood are sure to have problems with sanitation. And disease vectors. And you'll have to be careful about sunstroke, you'll be very susceptible-"

Jackie Boone walked in. Art stopped his travel advisory; Nirgal was no longer listening in any case, but watching Jackie with a suddenly blank expression, as if he had put on a Nirgal mask. And of course no mask could do justice to Nirgal, because the mobility of his face was its essential characteristic; so he did not look like himself at all.

Jackie, of course, saw this instantly. Shut off from her old partner... naturally she glared at him. Something had gone awry, Art saw. Both of them had forgotten Art, who would have slipped out of the room if he could have, feeling like he was holding a lightning rod in a storm. But Jackie was still standing in the doorway, and Art did not care to disturb her at that moment.

"So you're leaving us," she said to Nirgal.

"It's just a visit."

"But why? Why now? Earth means nothing to us now."

"It's where we came from."

"It is not. We came from Zygote."

Nirgal shook his head. "Earth is the home planet. We're an extension of it, here. We have to deal with it."

Jackie waved a hand in disgust, or bafflement: "You're leaving just when you're needed here the most!"

"Think of it as an opportunity."

"I will," she snapped. He had made her angry. "And you won't like it."

"But you'll have what you want."

Fiercely she said, "You don't know what I want!"

The hair on the back of Art's neck had raised; lightning was about to strike. He would have said he was an eavesdropper by nature, almost a voyeur in fact; but standing right there in the room was not the same, and he found now there were some things he did not care to witness. He cleared his throat. The other two were startled by his noise. With a waggle of the hand he sidled past Jackie and out the door. Behind him the voices went on- bitter, accusatory, filled with pain and baffled fury.