Old Mars

The people stood in a graceful, curving line, hes and shes, facing the oncoming rumble of the earth-eaters. The machines wallowed along on their heavy treads, churning up clouds of red dust, open maws like fanged mouths ready to suck in red dirt and rock, sieve out the pearls, the city. They rumbled through spires and a landscaped garden of paths and sculpted shrubs surrounded by flocks of creeping plants with purple and silvery blossoms.

The tread didn’t harm the plants or the paths. Not yet.

Not until they started digging up the pearls.

They couldn’t see the people. Neither could Dad. Or the mayor.

The anger formed like milky clouds over the heads of the people, thickening as he watched, a pale fabric that floated above them, a sickly color. They raised their hands, all together, fingers weaving, shaping, twining the scalding energy of the anger into that thickening fabric. Some were turning to face Dad and the mayor. Celie was marching along beside Dad, and, behind her, Seaul Ku panted to keep up. She carried one of the projectile rifles. A small part of Maartin’s brain noticed it and was surprised.

He leaped in front of the people, hands in the air, shrieking to them, fingers wide, hands waving. Not them. They are not bad. You do not understand. We are not the same.

At first, he thought that none of them would look, but they did. The weaving and spinning slowed and the fingers flickered sharply.

Defective. Defective units.

Not bad, no harm, we live here, too. They do not. And Maartin flung his fingers out to point at the miners, saw a faint ripple of shock at his terrible rudeness. But most of the fingers snapped and flickered discussion, too fast for him to follow, flashing and twisting.

Sharp-edge-alert brought his hands down in a slashing gesture, faced the miners. Maartin spun to face the settlers. “Stand back!” The air words came to him, his fingers spread stiff and still, silent, in front of him. “Stand back, the people are going to destroy the miners.”

At first, he thought they’d ignore him, although he saw Dad’s eyes go wide. Then they halted, murmuring, and fear shrilled the murmur, brought their hands up, pointing crudely.

He turned.

As one, the people pulled the woven fabric of the anger-hum from the air and …

… tossed it.

Lightly.

It drifted over the oncoming machines, over the miners trudging purposefully along on either side with energy weapons in their hands. Settled lightly, gently, over them.

They began to scream, backs arching, breathers ripped from their faces as they convulsed, limbs spasming, flopping like the pictures of fish that Maartin had seen on vids, pulled out onto a riverbank to die. The sickly veil dissipated, leaving twitching bodies and machines that lumbered slowly forward. One of the big earth-chewers ran over a body, grinding the man’s torso into the dust.

“Holy crap!” The mayor’s harsh voice rose above the machine rumble. “What the hell happened?”

“Get the machines stopped.” Dad ran forward, grabbed a handhold, and swung into the seat of the lead earth-chewer. He fumbled for a moment or two and it stopped, tracks grinding to a halt. Dad leaped clear as the machine behind it ground into it, slewing it sideways.

The mayor leaped onto that one, and now everybody was running—toward the machines or to the fallen miners or back to the settlement. In a few moments, all the machines had been stopped. None of the miners were moving. Settlers were standing up, shaking their heads, their eyes scared, faces pale.

“My God, storm …” “Dust devils …” “Nasty little twisters …” “Like little tornadoes, like they were … attacking …”

The settlers were all looking at Maartin.

The people were drifting away, heading back to the plaza or stepping up onto the spiderways. A few strolled in the garden and one man played a trio of twisted purple tubes that drifted lavender mist streaked with silver into the air.

“What did you do, son?” Dad’s voice was hushed.

They had gathered in a semicircle between him and the settlement. Scared of him. Looking around. For more dust devils? Maartin faced them, the air words playing hide-and-seek, his fingers weaving an explanation, flickering and twining.

“He sees the Martians. They live here. Right where your settlement is.” Jorge panted up, his wrists welted angry red from the too-tight restraints. “I can see ’em just a little when I hold a pearl. I guess they … they killed the crew.” He swallowed. “I … did you tell them not to kill us, too, Maartin?”

He flickered affirmative. Gave up on the air words.

“I think he means ‘yes.’ ” Jorge stayed back with the crowd, didn’t get too close to him. “I … I caught a few glimpses.”