Old Mars

“Yeah,” said Stone happily. “Quite a sight.”

EPILOG

THEY KNEW WHAT WOULD HAPPEN, OF COURSE, WHEN THE mining companies and the archaeologists discovered a plentiful supply of water. That water would still be contaminated by centuries of leakage from an alien superbomb and would have to be filtered, probably not very thoroughly. That wouldn’t be much of a problem, especially with expendable prison labor working down there. Stone guessed what the exploiters would do with the great calm waterway perpetually pouring into a bottomless canyon to be captured and recycled, by some mysterious process, back into the canal again. Power.

“It’ll all go,” said Yily Chen. “It’ll be sensationalized and sanitized. People will run boat tours to the safe parts. There’ll be elevators directly down to the falls. Tourist money will bring a demand for comfortable fiction. Guides will play up invented legends and histories. Art critics will explain the grandeur of her design, the beauty of her reliefs, the ingenuity of her architects and engineers. She’ll give birth to a thousand academic theories. Crazy theories. Cults. Religions. And that won’t be the worst of it when people like Delph start tearing out the metals and the precious jewels …”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t have to happen. We can keep it to ourselves. Just for a while.”

It was what Yily wanted too. She smiled that sweet, sardonic Martian smile. “I guess I was planning to retire,” she said.

So they bought Mars. She only cost them two indigo flame sapphires, sold to a consortium of Terran plutocrats. For the pair, Stone and Chen got the mining companies, a couple of ships, RamRam City and other settlements, the various rights of exploration and exploitation, and the private prisons Stone had known so well and subsequently liberated so promptly.

Later, it might be possible to create on Mars a paradise of justice and reason, a golden age to last a thousand years where their Martian descendants could grow up and flourish. But meanwhile, for a few good months, maybe more, they had the lost canal to themselves.

PHYLLIS EISENSTEIN

Phyllis Eisenstein’s short fiction has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s, Analog, Amazing, and elsewhere. She’s probably best-known for her series of fantasy stories about the adventures of Alaric the Minstrel, born with the strange ability to teleport, which were later melded into two novels, Born to Exile and In the Red Lord’s Reach. Her other books include the two novels in the Book of Elementals series, Sorcerer’s Son and The Crystal Palace, as well as stand-alone novels Shadow of Earth and In the Hands of Glory. Some of her short fiction, including stories written with husband Alex Eisenstein, has been collected in Nightlives: Nine Stories of the Dark Fantastic. Holding a degree in anthropology from the University of Chicago, for twenty years she was a member of the faculty of Columbia College, where she taught creative writing, also editing two volumes of Spec-Lit, a softcover anthology showcasing SF by her students. She now works as a copy editor in a major ad agency, and still lives, with her husband, in her birthplace, Chicago.

Here she spins a tale that denies the truth of the old saying that you can’t go home again. You can go home again, but you may have to look for it in the strangest places, and go a very long way to reach it.

The Sunstone PHYLLIS EISENSTEIN