“Quiet,” ordered Satomura.
The pieces stopped immediately and froze into tiny statues. Eventually, a few of the soldiers began to shuffle their feet impatiently. A restless knight reared back on his horse. The Czar carefully pulled out a gold watch connected to a fourteen-karat chain and held it at arm’s length. He motioned to Satomura to check the time.
“I know. I know,” Satomura replied. He looked up and down the board. He pulled on the stubbly hairs of his chin. He closed his eyes to concentrate. When they opened several minutes later they were bright and alive. He announced his move in a slow and deliberate voice.
“Queen to bishop two.”
“Ah,” Napoleon said. He pulled a map from his vest and rolled it out on the snow-covered ground in front of him. He studied the map carefully. It was a two-dimensional representation of the chessboard upon which he stood. Josephine bent over and whispered something in his ear. He waved her away. If he had wanted her advice, he would have asked. Moments later, he looked up at Satomura and smiled.
“Pawn takes pawn,” he ordered. He wiped the snow from a pair of leather binoculars, then peered through them to watch the ninth move.
The soldier in question unslung his rifle and readied his bayonet. He pointed it directly at the Russian soldier standing on the white square diagonal from him. The queen’s bishop’s pawn dropped to one knee and readied his gun. He aimed carefully and pulled the trigger as the French soldier charged. The rifle exploded violently in his hands, leaving a pair of bloodied stumps. He was blinded by the hot powder of the blast, and it was not until he attempted to rub his eyes that he realized he had lost his hands. He never saw the bayonet that pierced his heart. He screamed, then slowly faded away. The snow upon which he had stood was sprinkled with brilliant red droplets. The French soldier reslung his rifle, fresh blood dripping down the wooden stock. Napoleon clapped his hands and looked up at Satomura triumphantly.
“Bishop takes knight,” Satomura replied without the slightest hesitation.
“Merde,”
Bonaparte responded, as he swung to his left to watch the battle. There was no need to use his binoculars, the fight would take place only a few squares away.
The bishop, who had been standing perfectly still and perfectly straight, threw back his cape and, with a majestic flourish, produced a long staff. The knight, heavily armored and mounted high on his horse, laughed loudly. Surely, a bishop, a Russian bishop at that, wearing a robe and armed with nothing but a staff, was a poor match against a trained soldier. He turned to his beloved emperor to assure him the battle would be short. And it was. His emperor’s eyes opened wide, and he began to shout something, but the knight never heard the words. With a broad sweep of his staff the bishop swiftly decapitated his opponent. The knight’s head, mouth still laughing, tumbled lifeless to the ground, and his horse reared back in protest. The bishop stepped forward.
Satomura giggled with pleasure.
“Napoleon,” he said, “the defense you’ve chosen was demonstrated to be unsound in the second game of last year’s championship. You don’t stand a chance, my friend.”
The French emperor responded with a grunt and was about to announce his next move when he was interrupted by Vladimir Pavlov entering the room.
“Pause,” ordered Satomura. Napoleon placed his map back inside his vest and commenced to tap his foot impatiently.
“What do we have here?” Vladimir asked.
“A friendly game of chess,” Takashi replied.
“Queen’s gambit declined.”
“Quite correct.”
“A little gruesome, the head rolling across the board like that.”
“I modified the program. A personal touch. Do you like it?”
Vladimir watched the head as it rolled off the chessboard and fell to the ground, where it bounced once, then faded away. He appeared unaffected. The remaining French knight caught his attention, and he bent down to scrutinize the piece closer.
“He is wearing armor,” Vladimir remarked. The tone in his voice expected an explanation.
“Another personal touch,” Satomura responded. It was obvious he was proud of his personal touches. “To me a knight without armor is like a Russian without vodka. Wouldn’t you agree?” He laughed sharply at his own wit.
“Well, yes, I suppose,” Vladimir responded, uncertain whether he should consider the remark an insult. He did not dwell on the matter long. He was wrestling with something that meant far more to him, and he had come to Satomura to find out what he might know.
His suspicions had grown worse, but he was afraid to confront Tanya. He was afraid an accusation, even the slightest hint of an accusation, would infuriate her. She would deny everything of course. She would become angered by his lack of trust. He had to be certain before he spoke to her. Which was why he was standing in front of Satomura looking intently at the oddly dressed soldier, wondering how he should begin or if he should begin at all. He considered how much easier it would be simply to walk out.
“Can I speak to you in confidence?” he began cautiously.
“You can trust me,” replied Satomura. He had anticipated the role of confidant, and he relished it in a perverse sort of way. He was older, an impartial bystander, outside the triangle; it was natural they would come to him. So Vladimir was the first. Well, that was to be expected. He was the one being cheated on.
“What do you think of Dmitri?”
“How do you mean?” Satomura replied.
“What sort of man would you say he is?”
“He is a fine commander.”
“Yes, he is,” Vladimir agreed with a pained smile. He paused and thought to himself that he often wanted to be like Komarov. To accomplish the deeds and to earn the respect of others like Komarov had. To be a national hero. Even to have guiltless love affairs. He was not ready to admit that to Takashi, however. “What else?”
“Perhaps if you were more specific, I could be more helpful?”
Vladimir thought for a moment and decided it was best to be indirect. What if his suspicions were ill founded? He did not want to raise unnecessary concerns in Takashi’s mind. He realized how foolish he had been in thinking Takashi would simply volunteer what he wanted to hear. It appeared Takashi did not even know what he was alluding to. He had not formed a plan beyond simply asking what Takashi thought of Dmitri. For nearly a minute he stood staring at the glistening soldier, wondering how best to proceed.
“I see that something is troubling you,” Satomura said.
“It is probably nothing,” Vladimir said. “It’s just that sometimes I feel he is hiding something from me.”
“Ah,” Satomura replied as if he finally understood. “I would not trouble myself too greatly.”
“Why is that?” Vladimir asked, relieved.
“How long do you suppose he could hide something in a ship this small?”
“Very true,” Vladimir replied. He did not have the courage to speak of his problem any more directly, although he sensed that Takashi fully understood it. He convinced himself that for the time being he would learn little else from Takashi. But what Takashi had said about the ship being small was true, and that now dominated his thinking. He realized with sudden clarity that he would eventually find them out. It was absurd to think they could carry on an affair in such small confines. He was beginning to think of ways he could spy on them, something he had always before considered undignified. Each room had its own microphone. He could reprogram the circuits, but decided the move could be too easily detected by Tatiana. She was responsible for maintaining the ship’s software. As he contemplated the various ways he might be able to find them out, he became increasingly conscious of Satomura’s presence. A sense of guilt overcame him. He wanted to be alone so that he could think. He complained of the schedule and said it was time he got back to work.
“You know where to find me,” Satomura said.
The aging scientist watched Vladimir’s back as he departed through the portal. He attempted to recall what it had been like when he had been in love. The recollection was overwhelmed by all the troubled emotions that had ensued, and produced a knowing smile, for Vladimir was apparently experiencing many of the same emotions. Satomura’s wife was dead. She had died of a sexually transmitted disease, a disease from which he had not suffered. The nature of her death, which Satomura had managed to keep secret even from her family, had left Satomura with a contempt for women. Even that he managed to conceal, but not quite as well.
“Proceed,” he ordered the board.
“Knight takes bishop,” Napoleon responded.
“Of course,” Satomura replied with a sharp bark of a laugh.
“T
hey could be some sort of crystophages,” Brunnet said. “Creatures that consume ice,” Endicott replied doubtfully. He pressed his thin lips tightly together. He was not opposed to the idea that life could exist on Mars; what he objected to were the forms that life took when Brunnet began to speculate out loud.
“Precisely,” Brunnet confirmed. “But they need not eat the ice directly. They could melt it through some sort of metabolic process.”
“I suppose it is an improvement upon the creatures you were advocating yesterday. A chemical catalyst to suck water from a rock is a bit extreme.”
Brunnet chuckled as he pulled down on eighty-five pounds of resistance. Sweat dripped off his brow and dropped in slow motion to the metallic ground. Grimacing, he crunched his stomach until he achieved a fetal position. He detested exercise. Endicott, on the other hand, happily watched the green hills of Montreal float by on the high-definition as he pedaled vigorously on top of his stationary bike. He imagined the smell of the clean country air as it passed through his nostrils to fill his lungs with oxygen. His conversations with Brunnet were a source of mental stimulation for him.
“I haven’t given up on them entirely,” Brunnet replied in between gasps for air. “It’s just that I don’t believe a Martian life-form needs to resort to such desperate measures.”
“If your hypothesis regarding underground rivers is correct, you may not need to resort to crystophages.”
“That’s right. I was just considering various possibilities.” Brunnet was resting against the rubber straps of the exercise machine, collecting his thoughts. “Sometimes I’m convinced Mars must be teeming with life below its surface. That is, if the rivers do exist.”
“I’m not so sure I would go that far. The absence of sunlight must be an inhibitor.”
“Nonsense. There are all sorts of creatures that can survive without sunlight. Earth’s oceans are filled with them. I can name several dozen species that live quite happily in absolute darkness.”
“Still, I think I would stop somewhat short of ‘teeming.’ You must admit that certain environments are more hostile to life than others.”
“Yes, but we are talking about water. And water is the friendliest of all.”
Brunnet’s triumphant smile lasted only a few seconds. His facial muscles tightened. A low and painful moan slipped through his lips. He doubled over, grabbing his abdomen with both hands.
Endicott, who was absorbed with the green hills of Montreal, reluctantly tore his eyes from the screen to investigate the source of the moan. Because of the maze of metal and rubber that surrounded Brunnet, he was unable to see him clearly. The second moan, much louder and more drawn-out than the first, left little doubt in Endicott’s mind that Brunnet was suffering from severe pain.
“What is it?” he asked. He stopped pedaling.
“I thought it might have been space sickness.” The voice that responded was weak and shaky.
“What might have been space sickness?”
“I was feeling nauseous earlier this morning.”
“Vomiting?” Endicott asked.
“At the very beginning. But it subsided.”
“Where is the pain?”
“My stomach.” He was gasping for air.
Endicott climbed off the stationary bike and hurried over to Brunnet.
“Where exactly?” he asked.
Brunnet, his eyes closed now, pointed at the lower right side of his abdomen.
“Can you climb out of that contraption?”
Brunnet nodded, then unstrapped and carefully extracted himself from the resistance machine. He attempted to stand up straight, but upon reaching midway stopped and smiled awkwardly in defeat.
“Have you experienced the pain before?”
“No.”
“Temperature?” he said, placing his hand on Jean Paul’s forehead, not waiting for a response.
“Maybe, I’m not sure,” Brunnet responded, shuddering as a wave of nausea swept through his body.
“You’re hot. Take your shirt off and lie down on the table.”
Brunnet fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. They were too small for his trembling fingers. Endicott came to his assistance. Several minutes later Brunnet was flat on his back, looking up at Endicott with considerable concern. He was now certain in his own mind that something was seriously wrong with him.
“OK, does this hurt?” Endicott asked, tapping sharply the lower right side of his abdomen.
“Merde,”
shrieked Brunnet.
“I’ll assume that means yes,” Endicott said. “And how about here?”
Endicott carefully tapped his way around Brunnet’s stomach. The pain diminished the farther he tapped from the lower right quadrant.
“Did the pain originate from the back and move forward?” “I don’t think so. It was more like a stomachache. Mild nausea at first. Like I said, I thought it was space sickness.”
“Constipation or diarrhea?”
“I did not have a bowel movement this morning, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am suffering from constipation.”
“Let me see your eyes.”
Brunnet opened his eyes wide. Endicott was visibly relieved: the eyes were clear, not the pale yellow that would suggest cirrhosis of the liver.
“What do you think it is?”
“Could be a kidney infection, acute pyelonephritis, or even kidney stones, but I doubt it. The symptoms are textbook. I believe you are suffering from an inflamed appendix.”
“Appendicitis?”
“We will need to consult with Earth and perform some tests to confirm the diagnosis. If my suspicions are correct, your appendix will have to be removed.”