Old Mars

Count Jack gave a small moan as his sky-chair dipped down abruptly between the close-packed stone quills of Alabaster Needles. The chair-boss whistled instructions to her crew—the lowest register of their language lay at the upper edge of our hearing—and they skillfully brought us spirally down past hives and through arches and under buttresses to the terraces of the Great Western Dock on the Grand Canal. Here humans had built cheap spray-stone lading houses and transit lodges among the sinuously carved stone. The Canal Court Hotel was cheap, but that was not its main allure; Ferid Bey had appetites best served by low rents and proximity to docks.

While Count Jack swooned and whimpered and swore that he would never regain his land legs, never, I tipped the chair-boss a generous handful of saucers and she clasped her lower hands in a gesture of respect.

“We’re broke,” Ferid Bey said. We sat drinking coffee on the terrace of the Canal Court watching Twav stevedores lift and lade pallets from the open hatches of cargo barges. I say coffee; it was Expeditionary Force ersatz, vile and weak and with a disturbing spritz of excremental. Ferid Bey, who as a citizen of the great Ottoman Empire, appreciated coffee, grimaced at every sip. I say terrace; spaced beside the garbage bins, it was a cranny for two tables, which caught the wind and lifted the dust in a perpetual eddy. Ferid Bey wore his dust goggles, kept his scarf wrapped around his head, and sipped his execrable coffee.

“What do you mean, broke?” Count Jack thundered in his loudest Sopratutto voice. Startled Twavs flew up from their cargoes, twittering on the edge of audibility. “You’ve been at the bum-boys again, haven’t you?” Ferid Bey’s weakness for the rough was well-known, particularly the kind who would go through his wallet the next morning. He sniffed loudly.

“Actually, Jack, this time it’s you.”

I often wondered if the slow decline of Count Jack’s career was partly attributable to the fact that, after years of daily contact, agent had started to sound like client. The Count’s eyes bulged. His blood pressure was bad. I’d seen the report from the prelaunch medical.

“It’s bums on seats, Jack, bums on seats, and we’re not getting them.”

“I strew my pearls before buffoons in braid and their braying brides, and they throw them back in my face!” Count Jack bellowed. “I played La Scala, you know. La Scala! And the Pope. I’d be better off playing to the space-bats. At least they appreciate a high C. No Ferid, no no: you get me better audiences.”

“Any audiences would be good,” Ferid Bey muttered, then said aloud, “I’ve got you a tour.”

Count Jack grew inches taller.

“How many nights?”

“Five.”

“There are that many concert halls on this arse-wipe of a world?”

“Not so much concert halls.” Ferid Bey tried to hide as much of his face as possible behind scarf, goggles, and coffee cup. “More concert parties.”

“The Army?” Count Jack’s face was pale now, his voice quiet. I had heard this precursor to a rage the size of Olympus Mons many times. Thankfully, I had never been its target. “Bloody shit-stupid squaddies who have to be told which end of a blaster to point at the enemy?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Would this be … upcountry?”

“It would.”

“Would this be … close to the front?”

“I’ve extended your cover.”

“Well, it’s nice to know my ex-wives and agent are well provided for.”

“I’ve negotiated a fee commensurate with the risk.”

“What is the risk?”

“It’s a war zone, Jack.”

“What is the fee?”

“One thousand five hundred saucers. Per show.”

“Tell me we don’t need to do this, dear boy,” Count Jack said to me.

“The manager of the Grand Valley is holding your luggage to ransom,” I said. “We need to do it.”

“You’re coming with me.” Count Jack’s accusing finger hovered one inch from the bridge of his agent’s nose. Ferid Bey spread his hands in resignation.

“I would if I could, Jack. Truly. Honestly. Deeply. But I’ve got a lead on a possible concert recording here in Unshaina, and there are talent bookers from the big Venus casinos in town, so I’m told.”

“Venus?” The Cloud Cities, forever drifting in the Storm Zone, were the glittering jewels on the interplanetary circuit. The legendary residences were a long, comfortable, well-paid descent from the pinnacle of career.

“Five nights?”

“Five nights only. Then out.”

“Usual contract riders?”

“Of course.”

Count Jack laughed his great, canyon-deep laugh. “We’ll do it. Our brave legionnaires need steel in their steps and spunk in their spines. When do we leave?”

“I’ve booked you on the Empress of Mars from the Round ‘O’ Dock. Eight o’clock. Sharp.”

Count Jack pouted.

“I am prone to seasickness.”

“This is a canal. Anyway, the Commanderie has requisitioned all the air transport. It seems there’s a big push on.”

“I shall endure it.”