Mars Burning (The Saving Mars Series-) Read online

  Book Four in the Saving Mars Series

  Cidney Swanson

  Dedicated to girls

  who dream of living in space,

  and to the men and women working

  to make that possible.

  Copyright © 2013 by Cidney Swanson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © by Stephanie Mooney. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978–1–939543–07–3

  1

  Budapest, Earth

  For an entire day, Lucca Brezhnaya, Terran Chancellor, had refused to believe it at all. It flew in the face of everything she took for granted. She had summarily fired the first, second, and third staff member who spoke as though it were true. No one broached the topic for the rest of the day.

  No, it was impossible. Zussman’s loyalty had been absolute.

  He’d come closer to being her friend than had anyone in over a hundred years. In her mind, she could hear his quiet rebuttal of the accusations leveled against him: that he had attacked her personal bodyguards, that he had fled with her nephew and the Martian. In her imagination, she could hear his voice, calmly obsequious as he denied the charges.

  “No, madam, I have not altered my allegiance.”

  She imagined herself prodding him, as one sometimes had to do in order to obtain more than the most basic information. “Well, Zussman, my staff are telling me a different story.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  He could be so very provoking with his brief answers.

  “What do you have to say in your defense, Zussman?”

  She could visualize tiny details she’d never known she had memorized. Zussman’s shoulders would pull slightly backward as he clasped his hands behind his back. His gaze would incline from one side of her waist to the space about her ankles. His brows would contract as if to speak in contradiction of his mistress caused him infinite pain.

  “I can only say, madam, that it is most distressing when one’s informants provide one with inaccurate information.”

  She could scarcely believe he was dead.

  She could certainly not fathom he was disloyal.

  Had been disloyal, she thought, correcting her tense.

  Lucca sighed and examined her left hand where one of her blood red nails had begun to discolor. Zussman would have noticed already and scheduled a manicurist to refresh the nail to perfection. She couldn’t bear the thought of starting a search for a replacement butler. Zussman had been so much more than the employee who ran her personal and household life.

  But Zussman had betrayed her. She’d been forced to concede that her team was correct, in the end. She knew she should feel anger. Rage, even. Instead she felt an empty space just below where she swallowed. A bit of the sky missing if she swiveled her head too quickly. Her ears straining after the sound of a particular pair of shoes striking the marble floor.

  Her condition disgusted her.

  But Lucca had learned a valuable lesson, one she thought she no longer needed: trust no one.

  “Self–knowledge is a prize rare and rarely sought, madam.”

  She supposed she would hear Zussman’s aphorisms ringing in her ears for the foreseeable future. Well, he was right about the value of self–knowledge. It had been sloppy of her, allowing someone to remain in her employ once she had begun to trust him. Not to mention, someone who had no friends or family she could threaten. It hadn’t occurred to her Zussman felt anything for Pavel until it was too late. And yet, that must have been the explanation for her butler’s otherwise inexplicable change of loyalty.

  Unless Pavel had, through the Martian, been able to offer Zussman something even more tempting than a double fourbody. That had been the carrot with which Lucca had sought to motivate her butler: thirty–six years of golden retirement instead of the usual eighteen.

  Lucca scowled, a hint of rage stirring once more in her belly. What had the Martian offered? A princedom, perhaps, in the new world order the Martians would bring about? What exactly was Mars’s end game? And why didn’t she know yet?

  Her arm swept across her desk, sending a combination of important and costly objects sailing across the room, crashing to the floor.

  That felt better. Better than the emptiness that had been crouching in her throat. She stood, tugged her fitted jacket down over her hips. Zussman was past. Pavel was past. The Martian was past. The future remained uncertain, and Lucca loathed uncertainty. It was time to take steps to ensure the Terran future remained in her control.

  It was time to release Gaspar Bonaparte from prison and have another conversation with the erstwhile impersonator.

  2

  Squyres Station, Mars

  Cavanaugh Kipling, the pro–trade activist hoping to unseat Mei Lo as Secretary General and CEO of Mars Colonial, was not a natural–born storyteller. In fact, he didn’t even like stories. He had little patience with those who preferred to lose themselves in a tale rather than work hard to achieve an important end. But he had gleaned at an early age that telling a persuasive story was more efficient than telling the simple truth, if you meant to get things done.

  His earliest recollection of using this knowledge to advantage included, ironically enough, books. The memory involved his mother, as well, who was an avid reader. She’d read aloud to him until, at age five or six, he indicated a preference for being permitted to fall asleep without the silly stories. She’d agreed, and from then on, read only for her own pleasure.

  This pastime of his mother’s caused him considerable frustration during his tenth year of life. His mother, struggling with a high–risk pregnancy, was put on bed rest. Her nose was frequently in a book when, in young Cavanaugh’s estimation, she ought to have been doing something useful.

  Be useful was a household phrase at the Kipling’s, as it was in most homes on Mars. And yet, his mother persisted in not–useful behaviors such as reading books. Even when Cavanaugh said he was very, very hungry and couldn’t they just eat without waiting for Father?

  Evening rations were often late at the Kipling hab because Cavanaugh’s father, the person in charge of one of Squyres Station’s tellurium mines, was held up by one thing or another. Cavanaugh’s mother didn’t mind—she had her books.

  After a solid month of late meals, however, Cavanaugh had had enough. He overheard that the late nights were caused by a loss of lighting during the evening shift–change. Cavanaugh recognized someone needed to rewrite the troublesome line of code responsible for those lighting failures and subsequent delays to the Kipling family’s rations. Night after night, Cavanaugh heard the same complaint that someone should get on the problem. Night after night, his mother, skilled in coding, offered vague promises to his father: “I’ll look at it one of these days, dear.”

  Finally, Cavanaugh confronted his mother.

  “Mother? Reading is not useful. You should be useful. You should fix the problem that makes Father late.”

  “Mmm–hmm,” was the only response his appeal to truth received.

  Cavanaugh sighed and had his supper late for another week. Until something remarkable transpired.

  “Mother! Guess what I heard at school today!”

  His mother continued to read. Her lack of response did not trouble him; he was accustomed to it.

  “Roberto’s older brother went missing following a blackout in Manchuria Tunnel.”

 
Now he had his mother’s attention.

  “And they can’t find him and he’s probably got carbon dioxide poisoning by now, everyone says.”

  His mother turned her gaze from her book to her son, whose eyes were wide with fear.

  “Will this happen to Father one day? Will he die the next time the lights go out?”

  His very pregnant mother had turned her book off, crossed to her desk, and rectified the errors in the coding that made the lights unreliable, with the result that the Kipling family ate evening rations on time that evening.

  From this event, young Cavanaugh derived that people needed to be properly motivated to act in accordance with rules governing efficiency. The truth (reading is a wasteful pastime) did not move his mother to action. Her fear (Father will die in the mines) moved her to do what ought to be done.

  Over time, Cavanaugh confirmed that most people could be spurred to action based on things they wanted or things they feared might come to pass. It was simply a matter of telling them the right story.

  Cavanaugh never thought of this as lying. He didn’t think of it as anything for most of his youth. He just did it, instinctually, until falsehoods came as naturally as breathing. Once he grew into early adulthood, he came to recognize that he invented stories more successfully than most. He still didn’t think of it as lying. He even wrote a paper on the topic at school when he was thirteen: The Benefits of Reconstructing the Truth.

  His teacher had suggested he reconsider his topic and had promised to bury the compromising essay. “We can’t have a promising young man like yourself misunderstood. Best keep this to yourself.” She had smiled brightly.

  He had frowned and been about to reconstruct something or other to make her change her mind, but then he saw the wisdom of what she advised.

  There was no benefit to be had in educating others about the Great Secret he’d discovered.

  3

  Madeira, Earth

  “You will lose this game.”

  Jessamyn’s brother Ethan had a habit of uttering pronouncements like this when the two played opposite one another, and he was always right. There’d been a time she would have played the game to its conclusion. She smiled wistfully, remembering lazy days during Marsian dust storms when she and her brother had nothing better to do than to check the accuracy of Ethan’s predictions. Eventually, she’d ascertained that he was never wrong. If he said she would lose, she would lose.

  “Ugh,” she said, reclining to stretch her long legs. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling of the Great Hall, distant like that of the Crystal Pavilion back home. Then, knowing her brother was waiting for the admission, she added, “I concede.”

  Ethan nodded.

  “It’s so weird Cameron had a hard copy of Monopoly,” said Jess as she began the lengthy process of replacing the game pieces in their sleeve.

  “It is an Earth classic,” replied Ethan. “What is odd is that it remained popular on Mars after the No Contact Accords were signed.”

  Jess supposed her brother was right. So many bits of Earth culture had been rejected during the War Between Worlds over a hundred Earth–years ago.

  “Thanks for playing, Eth.” She hesitated and then added, “The distraction was exactly what I needed.”

  Jessamyn was still struggling to make sense of the prior week’s events. At least two Yuccan friends were dead because of her choices, and her actions had led, directly or indirectly, to the destruction of Yucca itself.

  “You have done the same for me on many occasions,” replied her brother. “Allow me to assist in cleaning up.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Jess. “You get back to work. You’ve got a planet to save or something. I’ll be fine.” She pasted a smile on her face. Her brother wasn’t skilled in interpreting facial expressions, and she hoped it would fool him.

  “Jessamyn.” His solemn voice informed her Ethan wasn’t fooled. “Are you still having dreams of explosions?”

  Jess busied herself sorting colorful fake credits into organized piles. She shouldn’t have mentioned the dreams to her brother. Last night she’d experienced the entire nightmare trifecta, reliving the destruction of the Red Dawn, the Red Galleon, and the enclave of Yucca.

  “You should consult with Harpreet,” said her brother.

  “I have.”

  “What does she tell you?”

  Jess didn’t answer, instead sorting red plastic hotels to the right, green plastic houses to the left.

  Her brother spoke again. “Had you followed orders where you chose not to, it is no more certain there would have been a better outcome. You must release the past.”

  She searched among the property cards for the fourth railroad card. She couldn’t allow her brother to worry over her like this.

  “Okay. Got it. Done.” Ethan had difficulty detecting sarcasm, and Jess knew he would most likely believe she was being honest, releasing the past as Harpreet suggested.

  “I am relieved,” said her brother.

  Her smile was almost genuine this time.

  “I have no wish to once more distress you,” said Ethan. “But there is something about which you ought to be informed.”

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Zaifa and I are having new difficulties in our attempts to redirect the Terran satellites.”

  Jess frowned. “You can’t fail, Eth. Mei Lo needs those satellites.”

  The Secretary General of Mars had charged Ethan with securing control of the laser–equipped satellites used to keep the citizenry of Mars Colonial planet–bound, and turn them instead into a means of defense.

  Jess continued. “Mei Lo’s got that vote of no confidence in less than a month. She can win if she can reveal how evil Lucca Brezhnaya is.” Jessamyn didn’t need to add what they both knew: that Mei Lo didn’t dare reveal Lucca’s past misdeeds to Marsians without the satellites as a means of defense. It would only take one fool Marsian trying to bribe Earth’s government for Lucca to send an armada of death to Mars. And Mars had just the fool for the job: Cavanaugh Kipling.

  “It is an election,” said Ethan. “Not a vote of no confidence.”

  Jess shrugged. “Same difference.”

  Ethan chose not to engage her on this point.

  “I believe the Secretary General should be informed that Dr. Zaifa and I are running out of options to explore,” said Ethan. “With each day that Kazuko and I are unsuccessful in our attempts, it becomes less likely we will succeed.”

  Jess glowered as she placed the last of the Monopoly items inside the sleeve. At times like this, she wished she could accuse her brother of pessimism. But he was neither an optimist nor a pessimist. And he was usually right.

  “It is almost,” continued Ethan, “as though the Chancellor has set others the task of making certain no one can do what Kazuko and I are attempting.”

  Jess inhaled sharply. “Bonaparte!” she whispered.

  Ethan regarded her, waiting for more.

  “The person we knew in Yucca who impersonated Renard,” said Jess. “The body–jacker. Gaspar something. Did he ever hear about your project? Did you talk about the satellites in his hearing?”

  Slowly, Ethan nodded. “I believe we may have. How inefficient of me not to have considered the possibility.”

  “Are you…are you and Kazuko better than whoever else Lucca might be using?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Eth, this is one game you can’t lose.”

  “Hacking the satellites is not a game, Jessamyn.”

  Jess rolled her eyes.

  “Ah,” said her brother. “You were employing a figure of speech.”

  “Sorry.”

  Her brother brought his hoverchair closer, and he rested his hand briefly on her arm. In his original body, Ethan had found touch nearly intolerable. Jess smiled and placed her own hand on his.

  “If I believed Kazuko and I had no chance of success,” he said, “I would tell you.”

  “But we should give Mei Lo a he
ads–up,” said Jess. Then she shook her head. “Sorry. Figure of speech. It means ‘warning.’”

  A small smile warmed Ethan’s lined face. “I think a ‘heads–up’ would be prudent,” he said. “And now Kazuko will be expecting me to relieve her.”

  He departed, as was his habit, without saying goodbye.

  A moment later Jess was by herself in the empty Great Hall.

  Sighing, she climbed into a recessed window seat, drawing her knees up to her chest, where she hugged them tightly. Each of the two steps leading to the window was half a meter high, and the castle wall was two meters deep. Thus, when she climbed into the niche and sat on one of the benches on either side of the window, she was hidden from view. Jess liked this, in combination with the view from the window. During her first week’s residence at the castle, she had often nestled back into the window seat, brooding.

  Outside, eucalyptus trees tossed their shaggy heads in the wind. Jessamyn had learned that a mild wind of only twenty kilometers per hour felt much stronger than the same wind force back home on Mars. Everything about Earth seemed big. Too big, too strong, too heavy. On the other hand, she had to admit the trees tossing in the gust were lovely. And the view of the great ocean below the castle stole her breath away at times.

  Today, though, the sight of all that water made her chest squeeze. By how slight a thread did her world hang at the best of times? And now, with the possibility that Mei Lo would be removed from power, Jess feared for her planet more than ever.

  The broadcast sent by Kipper, on which Jess had placed so much hope, had unfortunately backfired. Naïvely, Jessamyn had taken for granted that if the people of Mars Colonial heard a message from Captain Cassondra Kipling, Mars Raider, they would believe her. The message, in its essence, consisted of a grave warning not to trust her brother Cavanaugh. Kipper had cited Cavanaugh’s wrongdoings and lies and urged the people of Mars to stay the course of Marsian independence, rather than the course of trade with Earth which he argued for. It had been a brilliant speech, in Jessamyn’s opinion.