“Don’t you guys ever learn? You’re not on Earth anymore.” Mikal put cuffs on his prisoner. “It’s a wrap, Professor. Hostages and bad
guys, all safe, no casualties.”
“Good work. What about Rahmya?”
“She’s right here with me. I think she had some urgent business, but I convinced her to stay. Guess I’m just irresistible.” Mikal pulled off his prisoner’s mask. “Ah, correction, Professor. Suspect
is not Rahmya.”
For the first time the hijacker spoke. “You’re late. Rahmya was the one with the urgent business.”
Minus 37 Hours 30 Minutes
When I transited through Deimos Station I was Ryoko Kashiwazaki. Not my real name of course. But using Rahmya probably would’ve made things difficult. My real name? I’m not sure I even
remember.
I’m waiting for someone here in Kobe City, on Mt. Rokko. Rokko’s this dead volcano, the base of their great fucking orbital elevator. I think the mountain was called Pavonis a long time ago.
Nobody here calls it that now.
If you believe the tourist crap, most of the people brought from Earth to develop Mars (many of them not by choice)—and I mean the ones who managed to survive those first horrible years—had science backgrounds. Screwing up usually meant getting dead, so it helped to know something about the physics of space and how to behave in low-G environments.
A lot of the Japanese who were brought here survived. They say some were from central Japan, driven out when the oceans rose, when Japan’s main island was cut in half by water. That’s why this area has these Japanese names from places that are underwater now. Like Kobe City. Or Tsutenkaku, after the old tower they had
in Osaka.
I figured Kobe was the best place to hide, lots of people from
all over.
I’m not AADD, I don’t have those stupid implants. It’s hard to operate here without them, so I’ve got a strap-on. It proves I’m
Ryoko Kashiwazaki. Got the ID, all the biometric data.
These strap-on jobs are mainly for Terrans. The sites that pop up first, when you log on, are mostly for us Terrans too. Martians could use those sites, I guess, but they like their own stuff—supertargeted,
very individualized. Not real useful for me.
I’m sitting on this fake outdoor terrace, watching people swarm by like ants. It always feels like complete chaos here. Check the news. Somebody jacked the elevator at Clarke Station. Now they’re trying to reach Deimos. Well, the Guardians will probably scoop them up before they get there. No sweat, they were just bait anyway.
Keep the pit bulls busy so I can do my job.
Don’t want to flash my face around too much. I’ve got this visor on, standard Martian fashion, so I don’t stick out. This one’s got a monitor up in the corner too. I don’t have to glance at my wrist all
day and look like I’m fresh off the boat.
She shows up just as I see the readout flip to the meeting time. Asian, petite, young. Probably my age, exactly my height. Same bone structure. If I had a little sister, she could easily be it. She walks over to my table with that funny stride we all have before we get
the gravity. Typical Terran.
“I’m sorry I’m late. You’re Ms. Kashiwazaki, I hope.”
“The one and only. You must be Gong-ru Yang.”
“Yes. Oh, it’s so nice to talk to someone from back home.”
“Why’s that?”
“Everyone here uses your first name all the time, even people
who don’t know you. It’s disgusting.”
“Different world. Can’t be helped.”
“I suppose you’re right. Etiquette must go out the window when
you live in a ceramic prison.”
She’s misunderstood me. Not surprised, though. Kobe’s city plan is based on Arcosanti, some twentieth-century settlement in Arizona. Paolo-something was the architect. Futuristic, efficient energy use. Alternative community. Escape from the monoculture. The glass/ceramic tunnel we’re in is a good hundred meters across. Maybe she’s right, maybe this is a kind of prison. They can plant as many green zones as they want, but a prison is a prison. Nothing
beyond those walls but a quick death.
“So, Gong-ru Yang, did you get everything I asked for?”
“Yes, I’ve collected everything listed in the contract. But, Ms. Kashiwazaki? What are you planning to do with these things? The list includes everything from sensors to steel pipe. I can’t see any connection between these components. I know this is supposed to
be government work, but—”
“Does the contract say I have to tell you my client’s identity? Or
the purpose of the shopping list?”
That’s all it takes. The girl gets really, really flustered. Must be hard, trying to get by on Earth as a freelance journalist. In this day and age, you know? And she wants the exclusive I’ve offered her, she wants it bad. If I pull out now, she won’t have a pot to piss in. Oxygen and money. Gotta have ’em both or you might as well curl
up and die.
“Okay, Ms. Yang. Just kidding. The things on the list are components for automatic tracking cameras, that sort of stuff. Shipping costs up the well are based on weight, so it makes sense to buy as much as possible locally and have it all assembled here. Cheaper than paying to haul finished goods all the way from Earth.”
“Oh, I understand.”
I’m not positive she does or if she even believes me, but it looks like I won’t have to deal with any more inconvenient questions. When I contacted her on Earth, I hinted I had some choice government
connections. Not totally false, considering who my client is.
“I was hoping you could tell me a little more about where we go
from here, Ms. Kashiwazaki.”
“This isn’t a good place. We should go somewhere private.”
“All right.”
You really believe this, don’t you? Think you’re on some secret Terran procurement mission. Well, why not?
Not a lot of difference between
journalists and spies.
We duck into this maintenance tunnel that leads to Kobe’s old atmospheric treatment station. If Kobe is a prison of glass and ceramic, this is a cave of cinder blocks and concrete. Now it’s just backup in case the main O
2
plant goes down. Most of the time the place is totally deserted. If Kobe was a person, this would be sort of like their appendix. When the city was still a basic settlement this was its main O
2
generator. Still has a lot of old gear, like cylinder locks on doors. You don’t see those on Earth now; easy to pop with
a simple tool and a little elbow grease.
“After you,” I tell my guest. She walks through the door I’ve just
jacked open like the place might be full of snakes.
“Ms. Kashiwazaki? It’s very dark in here.”
“Hold on a sec. I’ll get the lights.” I close the door and give her a shove. I want her in a little deeper. My visor has op amps, I can see pretty well as long as there’s any kind of light. There’s enough photons for the job, anyway. I see her, even if she can’t see me.
“Careful now, Ms. Yang. Don’t move till I find the switch.”
Good girl, she does exactly as she’s told. What else can she do? She can’t see a thing. She doesn’t even move when I put the wire around her neck.
Minus 36 Hours 15 Minutes
“Professor? Tetsu is confirmed as the target.” Mikal descended in the lift toward Clarke Station. “The way they got their weapons past security this time was very slick. Real weapons…”
“As opposed to what, Mikal? Fake weapons?”
“Ah… what, Professor?” Mikal sounded slightly dazed. “Um, sorry. I’m distracted by the view of Phobos transiting the elevator.
So this is what it looks like from overhead…”
“Mikal, how long have you been a Martian?”
“I never get tired of seeing this—the way the el flexes to let Phobos pass, missing it by just a hair. At least that’s what it looks like. It always feels like I’m seeing it for the first time. I don’t get to watch this from above very often.”
“Congratulations. What about the weapons?”
“Professor, you’re the head of AADD’s classical arts department. Your specialty is storytelling, I think. Doesn’t this cosmic display
make you want to write poetry?”
“As a Guardian? No, Mikal, it does not.” Shiran could see the interior of the lift via her web’s optical feed. Tsutenkaku was capable of dynamically flexing to allow Phobos to transit past without colliding. Shiran’s outpost on the elevator—Clarke Station—was named for the man who had first proposed the concept, twentieth-century science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke. It was at the same
altitude as the orbit of Phobos.
She watched the satellite’s irregular bulk slip past her windows. The sight always made her think of a finger plucking the strings of a harp. The view from the station was dramatic enough; from above one could also appreciate the technology behind Tsutenkaku’s guidance system. It was no exaggeration to say Phobos passed within
a hair’s breadth of the elevator.
“That’s really interesting, Professor. There it goes… Anyway, ah, yes, about those weapons. All the hijackers did was pull the firing pins and a few other parts and bring their guns in as stage props. Another group brought the missing components in disguised as machine parts. I guess we know now that they’re not completely
incapable of learning.”
“So they brought their guns in through the front door. They caught us napping, Mikal.” Shiran looked at the list of weapons—assault rifles and handguns for each hijacker. You didn’t need an arsenal and thirteen hit men to assassinate the chairman of AADD.
Something wasn’t quite right.
AADD’s intelligence division had already gotten wind of a plot to kill Tetsuya Ochiai. The information pointed to possible Terran involvement at a semi-governmental level. National governments existed, but the total economic integration of the planet meant that they ruled in name only. An intelligence subteam was working to uncover the specific organization backing the plot. Shiran’s group was tasked with apprehending the hijackers and preventing the assassination. Unfortunately, citizens of Earth still had immunity offworld as long as they didn’t actually engage in illegal activity. This meant Shiran and her team couldn’t lift a finger unless a visitor
committed a crime.
This legal standoff between AADD and Earth created ideal breeding conditions for dedicated terrorists. Japanese law was especially full of holes—half by design, it seemed—when it came to prosecuting Japanese citizens for offworld crimes. Since citizenship was as easy to get as paying income tax, most offworld terrorist acts were committed by people traveling on Japanese passports. You could round them up and deport them for prosecution by their own government, but in a few months, after things had cooled off
a bit, they’d be right back in your face.
Shiran’s people had marked Rahmya and her conspirators from the moment they had disembarked at Deimos Station, but under the terms of the space treaties the visitors couldn’t be touched until
they made their move.
Previous attempts by Terrans to bring weapons past Deimos security had been clumsy at best. So far they’d been turned back at the water’s edge, as it were. This time the Guardians had been caught napping, and the result was an act of terror. They’d practically
given the hijackers a free pass.
“I don’t like it that they brought in so many people and so much heat. If I wanted to put a hit on the chairman of AADD, I wouldn’t send a SWAT team. Interesting that their leader is the only one
who didn’t see fit to put in an appearance.”
“Are you saying this was a diversionary operation, Professor?”
“It’s a possibility. Rahmya is a trained ghost dog, Mikal. Kills without leaving a trace. She’s never been captured and almost always works solo. Once that we know of she worked with a team of three. Now she’s working with thirteen people? I don’t believe
it—she just wants us to think so.”
“But the leader of the team that jacked the lift is a prize in her
own right, a known organizer.”
“That’s why we had them under such close surveillance. And while we’re busy with that, Rahmya gets away. We played right
into her hands.”
In 2143, relations between AADD and Earth were strained. The flashpoint was mining and minerals. The first offworld mining colonies were on the Moon, extracting ilmenite and other ores for their metal content, then shipping it back to Earth. With advances in recycling and the need to protect the dwindling proportion of the environment that hadn’t already been devastated, the number of mining operations on Earth had fallen to a handful. But this was not because Earth had exhausted its resources. Developing new mines meant compliance with a huge number of stringent regulations. All this red tape made it more profitable to recycle metals than to mine for them. The spiraling cost of eco-preservation made this
truer with every passing year.
Still, Earth could recycle every gram of metal and it would still come up short; a completely closed recovery system was impossible. The price of iron and other basic metals kept climbing, yet this did nothing to spur the development of new mines. In fact, rising prices had the opposite effect as the cost of new mining infrastructure and machinery increased as well. Eventually, metal prices became high enough that lunar mining programs beyond
the reach of environmental regulation became practical.