George Martin - Old Mars

Dad got him a mug of juice and Maartin retreated to his usual perch on a plastic bin that stored bar towels and stuff, over in the corner. Nobody much noticed him, it was kind of dark there and, sitting, he was down low. People didn’t much look down when they were drinking Canny’s beer; they looked at each other or around the room at other faces. Four or five kids were playing some kind of chase game, running in and out. Celie yelled at them for it. He knew them. The girls were okay, he pretty much steered clear of the boys. Especially Ronan. He was the smallest, but he made up for it in meanness. Whenever the adults weren’t around, they did a great job of illustrating the pack behavior he’d read about in his school programs. He wondered if the Martians behaved like humans. He’d never seen any sign of conflict on the streets or the spiderways. No yelling. No pushing. Or maybe they weren’t all that different, just used another way to push one another around and call one another names.

Rising voices snapped him out of it. The kid pack was back, hanging around the door. Hanging around five miners. Maartin stiffened, pulling back into the shadow beneath the makeshift bar.

“Hey, folks, nice to meet you, just wanted to stop in, sample the local brew.” Jorge was in front, smiling and easy.

“You guys aren’t finding any veins of your druggie-ore running our way, are you?” Celie spoke up and it went quiet, right now . Maartin watched as people moved or didn’t move. A small space opened up around the miners, and the hellos were halfhearted from the ones that didn’t move.

The mayor bustled through the door, slapped one of the men on the shoulder. “This round’s on me!” He beamed, but he was looking to see who moved and who didn’t, too. “Let’s show these hardworking boys our hospitality. Fill ’em up, Celie!”

The moment broke. Celie opened her mouth, but already people were crowding to the counter, their mugs in hand. And Dad? Maartin didn’t wait to see. He slipped to the wall, away from the rush to the bar, slipped along the wall to the door and out.

“Hey, it’s the retard!”

Maartin flinched as a hand closed on the back of his shirt and yanked him backward, around the corner and out of sight of Canny’s doorway.

“They texted an alert, retard, and we had to go lookin’ for you.” Ronan’s breath was hot in his ear, stinking of garlic. “That was my time on the game-net and I had like five minutes left by the time they said we could quit lookin’.” He twisted his fist, and Maartin choked. “Retard, somebody’s gotta pay for my game time!”

It was going to hurt. Maartin closed his eyes, but he could feel the other two boys, hanging just back from Ronan. Hunger. It felt like hunger. He shivered.

“So.” Ronan’s voice was buttery and he twisted the shirt harder. “How do you think you oughta pay, retard?”

He couldn’t breathe and in a minute he was going to start to struggle, his body wouldn’t obey him anymore. Red and green spots flashed against the blackness of his closed eyes and his chest was going to explode.

Ronan yelped and let go. Maartin stumbled on his knees, barely feeling the impact, sucking in painful shuddering breaths that made him dizzy.

“You got a thing about picking on people?” a slow, familiar voice drawled.

Maartin scrambled on his knees. Jorge had Ronan by the back of the neck, was holding the boy about a foot off the ground, the way you’d hold a bag of fertilizer. Ronan’s eyes were wide and his skin had gone about three shades paler.

“I’m talkin’ to you , kid.” Jorge shook him very very gently, and Ronan squeaked as Jorge let go suddenly and dropped him to his feet.

He bolted to the corner. “I’m gonna tell the mayor,” he yelled back. “You can’t do that!”

“Go tell him.” Jorge smiled. “And I just did it.” He looked down at Maartin for a long moment. “You need to learn how to do something to people like that, kid.” He held out his hand. “C’mon. Get up.”

Maartin sucked in a breath. “Hit …?” The words came this time.

“Yep.” His eyebrows rose and he tilted his head, frowning. “You’re not retarded. So how come people say that about you?”

Maartin shrugged, looked away.

“I mean, you act like an idiot, sure. Nobody oughta be runnin’ around out on a strange planet on their own. You get hurt, could be a while before your people get to you. I’ve seen miners die a couple miles from a dig just because they wandered off and didn’t tell anybody. This planet’s got more bad luck than a picnic’s got ants.”

Maartin frowned. Shook his head. “Not … luck. Not … alone .” And he clamped his lips together. Those words had come out on their own, he didn’t mean to let them.

“Yeah, I heard you got invisible buddies out there. I hope they can carry you home when you bust a leg.” But his eyes had gone very narrow, and Maartin had to look away again. “What do you see out there?”

He sounded funny … as if he maybe didn’t think it was just imagination. Or the head injury, like Dad did. He shrugged, stared down at the patterns the dust made on the street.

“I know why you hate us now. Celie in there, she made sure I knew. She’s got a tongue on her, that gal. I’m sorry, Maartin. I’m sorry that you got hurt, that your mom got killed. Yeah, you got some rogue companies, and man, you just don’t know what it does to guys, thinkin’ they got their hands on enough money to go back home, live like a prince. Most of us … we’re never gonna get home.” Shadows moved in his dark eyes. “Costs a fortune to pay transport and you never really get your ticket out here paid off, it’s too easy to spend what you get on beer, or booze, or chemicals so you can go home the easy way.” He laughed harshly. “Only way you’re gonna make more than your ticket back is to find a shoal. That … I guess that was what made those guys crazy. You hear about ’em. Pearls all over the place, the whole crew can go home in style, awake, no danger of cryodamage from steerage. Buy that palace when they get there. Take care of their families.”

Maartin looked up. He sounded so … sad. “Why … people want … pearls?” The words were coming easier now, easier than with Dad even. “Why … so much?”

“You never held one?” Jorge chuckled and reached into his pocket. “I guess they do different stuff to different people. Mostly, they make sex feel really really great.” He winked. “Kind of like you’re givin’ and takin’ at the same time. That sells really well back home, you better believe it. Up here, sometimes you can see weird stuff.” He held out his hand. “Pick it up.”

Maartin looked at the small ovoid on Jorge’s palm. It was the color of dust, but veins of silver and gold swirled through it, and, as he stared at it, tiny starbursts of light seemed to flicker off and on, deep in its depths.

“I should turn it in, I guess, but I … I see stuff. Pretty stuff. Cheaper than the drugs.” He laughed that harsh laugh again. “Kind of holds your eye, doesn’t it?” He pushed his hand closer. “Pick it up. See what it does for you.”

Maartin reached for it and just before he touched it, the hum of the city around him intensified, rising instantly to a howl as his fingers brushed the smooth …

He let the flow of the crowd carry him along the wide boulevard, where conversation flowed like the sparkling waters of the canal in the distance. Happy, comfortable, belonging. All around him, slender residents of the city floated along the twisting spiderway … the name for it flashed in his mind. They were all heading toward the canal, and suddenly, the happy/comfortable feeling cracked, streaked through with ugly red anger. Anger . He looked ahead, where the spires twisted into the sky and the fragile bridges crossed the canal in soaring arches. And winced as he spied the empty, dry, ugly space where the miners were working. The anger was building, building, building … washing back across the plain, choking him, turning the sky and air the color of dead dust, blurring the lovely spires, blurring … All around him people stretched out long-fingered hands, reached death from the air, held death like silvery spears that shimmered and twisted, humming, humming, humming, death … He gasped for air, choking on anger-dust, struggling …“Maartin? He’s waking up.”