I was pretty good at slip-slide walking by now and managed to stay in contact with the oil-stained deck. It vibrated as Roller Three advanced over another half-inch of Martian soil. We passed through door number two and entered a hall that was wide enough to accommodate the machinery used to build it. Airtight doors lined both sides of the corridor and were closed against the possibility of a blowout. Each bore an electro-sign. Eventually, after a trip up multiple flights of stairs, and down what seemed like miles of heavily traveled corridors, legends like “Machine Shop” and “Cybernetics” gave way to more administrative titles like “Logistics” and “Records.” The corporal ordered me to stop in front of a sign that read “Executive Offices.”
Frankenstein frowned, punched a code into the keypad located by the door, answered a question over the intercom, and stood aside as the door opened. The corporal gestured for me to enter, and I obeyed. I saw a receptionist backed by an entire compartment full of freelance number-crunchers. Most were wired to their computers and didn’t bother to look up as we entered. The receptionist was a scrawny little guy with an artificial arm. It whirred as he jerked his bionic thumb towards the other end of the room. “Park him in the conference room.”
The corporal was not one to waste words. She motioned with her head. “Move.”
I moved.
A weary-looking zombie sat chained to a console. A jumper cable connected his brain to a mini-comp. He followed our progress with dull, uninterested eyes. No one else even glanced in our direction.
It made me wonder if prisoners were so common that their comings and goings were regarded as normal, or were these men and women so dedicated to the Marscorp bottom line they cared for nothing else? Both possibilities were equally depressing.
The conference room door had been decorated with fake wood grain. It had peeled along the edges and I wanted to tear it off. The door slid out of the way and we stepped inside. I saw Sasha and felt my heart leap into my throat. She was alive! Tired, edgy, but alive!
In spite of the formal nod, and the noncommittal expression, I saw relief in her eyes. It made me feel warm inside.
The corporal gestured for me to take the chair next to Sasha, and I did. The room had no decorations to speak of and didn’t need any. A large picture window took care of that. A dust storm moved across the distant horizon. It drew the eye like the flames in an old-fashioned fireplace, filtering the landscape through a reddish-brown haze, and shifting with the wind.
The door swished, and I turned in that direction. A man had entered. Either Mother Nature or the biosculptors had been very good to him. He had a handsome face, ruddy complexion, and snow-white hair. His body was tall and athletically graceful. Energy crackled around him. He smiled and I smiled back. It was impossible not to.
“Mr. Maxon! Ms. Casad! Thanks for coming.” The way he said it removed us from the category of prisoners and made us feel like honored guests.
The man turned to the corporal and treated her to one of his high-voltage smiles. “Thanks, corporal. I’ll take it from here.” The corporal, trained killer that she was, smiled bashfully, said something incoherent, and pushed Frankenstein towards the door.
The man leaned across the tabletop to shake hands. His grip was cold and limp. I let go as quickly as I could. He smiled. “Howard Norton, General Manager, at your service.”
“Max Maxon. Glad to meet you.”
He turned to Sasha and offered his hand. “Ms. Casad. Welcome to Mars. How’s your mother?”
Sasha looked hopeful. “She was fine the last time I talked with her. You know my mother?”
Norton nodded and sat down across from us. He leaned forward. A tidal wave of cologne rolled over me. “Yes, your mother and I worked on a project prior to the war. Different disciplines, of course, but she struck me as a competent scientist, and I was impressed by the quality of her ideas.”
“Mom’s impressive, all right,” Sasha said evenly. “We are, or were, on our way to see her.”
Norton nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I’m sorry about the ambush. Marscorp had nothing to do with it. While we are aware there are differences of opinion between Trans-Solar and the Protech Corporation, we have positive relationships with both companies, and would like to keep it that way. That’s why we put the surviving Trans-Solar people on a ship and sent them back to Earth.”
“And the greenies?”
Norton looked my way. The smile was predatory. “We have a labor shortage. The tree-huggers were convicted of assault and assigned to a variety of functions.”
I nodded. “Such as hauling cyborgs across the surface of Mars.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow but I chose to ignore it. Norton cleared his throat. “Yes, Marscorp would like to apologize for the unfortunate mix-up. Someone had the crazy idea that you were connected with the greenies. By the time my office learned of your whereabouts and sought to intervene, you had arrived at the crash site and were headed back. Safely, thank god.”
I started to say something, started to object, but stopped when I saw Sasha frown. The signal was clear. Go along with the program and shut the hell up. I forced a smile. “Mistakes do happen.”
“Exactly,” Norton said smoothly. “Thanks for your understanding. Although Marscorp does not wish to take sides, we will do everything we can to smooth the way, and remove barriers that might otherwise prove troublesome.”
We must have looked relieved. Norton smiled. “You might be interested to know that no less than three different parties inquired about your health immediately after the ambush.”
Sasha beat me to the punch. “Who were they?”
Norton’s eyes were icy blue. They twinkled merrily. “A representative from Trans-Solar, a woman since identified as a greenie sympathizer, and Colonel Charles Wamba, Mishimuto Marines retired. He claimed to be a friend of Mr. Maxon’s.”
The name had a familiar ring, but I couldn’t place it. The idea that I might have a friend seemed strange indeed. Sasha looked at me and I looked at her. We needed help, and the choice seemed obvious. Colonel Charles Wamba.
11
“If you take care of the city, it will take care of you.”
One of countless morale holos set free to roam Roller Three’s corridors
Your average corpie may be a money-sucking, power-crazed jerk, but they aren’t necessarily stupid, and Roller Three proved it. After all, why build cities near natural resources, only to have the resources play out? Forcing the very ground travel you sought to avoid? Especially on a planet where travel consumed time, money, and lives? No, a mobile city made a lot of sense.
But, sensible though it may have been, Roller Three took some getting used to. It was on the lowest level referred to as “Deck One” where fusion-derived power fed gigantic drive wheels and steel blades funneled ore onto high-capacity conveyor belts.
Deck two was home to the massive crushers, sorters, mixers, and furnaces, where humans and androids worked to convert ore to finished metal.
Deck Three housed the multiplicity of machine shops, electronics labs, hydroponics equipment, and computer gear required to keep the whole complex running.
Deck Four was split between living quarters, office space, recreational facilities, cafeterias, a communications center, hospital, and the ever-so-pleasant jail.
And Deck Five, the topmost level, was given over to the landing strip, cranes, and other gear I had seen in the documentary. Or so our guide said, and I believed him.
He was tall by normal standards and came all the way up to my shoulder. His name was Burns. He had carefully combed hair, expensive clothes, and the sort of eager-beaver attitude that bosses love. He was a glorified gofer but hoped to be a lifer some day and never stopped trying. That’s why Burns put all doubts aside and led two rather dubious VIP’s down into the bowels of the beast, where the eccentric Colonel Wamba had taken up residence.