George Martin - Old Mars

No. No pity.

“We. Will. Protect.” He managed to find those three words.

Watched the fear creep back into Jorge’s eyes. “The story’s got around among the miners.” He expelled the breath-words on harsh puffs of air. “But stories get ignored. When there’s money.”

Maartin shrugged. Sharp-edge-alert had learned what he needed to know. About imperfect units.

Jorge headed for the lock, taking his fear with him.

It did not matter. The transfer completed.

He stood, stretched, and strolled through the dome and across the plaza, savoring the drift of mist from the fountain, heading for the spiderway where Soft-sweet-happy flickered him a greeting.

No longer imperfect.

Behind him, very faintly, he heard the harsh sound of breath-words.

Mike Resnick is one of the best-selling authors in science fiction, and one of the most prolific. His many novels include Kirinyaga, Santiago, The Dark Lady, Stalking the Unicorn, Birthright: The Book of Man, Paradise, Ivory, Soothsayer, Oracle, Lucifer Jones, Purgatory, Inferno, A Miracle of Rare Design, The Widowmaker, The Soul Eater, A Hunger in the Soul, The Return of Santiago, Starship: Mercenary, Starship: Rebel , and Stalking the Vampire . His collections include Will the Last Person to Leave the Planet Please Shut Off the Sun?, An Alien Land, A Safari of the Mind, Hunting the Snark and Other Stories , and The Other Teddy Roosevelts . As editor, he’s produced Inside the Funhouse: 17 SF stories about SF, Whatdunnits, More Whatdunnits, Shaggy B.E.M. Stories, New Voices in Science Fiction, This Is My Funniest , a long string of anthologies coedited with Martin H. Greenberg— Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kennedys, Alternate Warriors, Aladdin: Master of the Lamp, Dinosaur Fantastic, By Any Other Fame, Alternate Outlaws , and Sherlock Holmes in Orbit , among others—as well as two anthologies coedited with Gardner Dozois, and Stars: Stories Based on the Songs of Janis Ian , edited with Janis Ian. He won the Hugo Award in 1989 for Kirinyaga . He won another Hugo Award in 1991 for another story in the Kirinyaga series, “The Manamouki,” and another Hugo and Nebula in 1995 for his novella “Seven Views of Olduvai Gorge.” His most recent books are a number of new collections, The Incarceration of Captain Nebula and Other Lost Futures, Win Some, Lose Some: The Complete Hugo-Nominated Short Fiction of Mike Resnick , and Masters of the Galaxy , and a new novel, The Doctor and the Rough Rider . He lives with his wife, Carol, in Cincinnati, Ohio.

In the fast-paced adventure that follows, he takes us to the remotest wilds of Mars, on a search for the Tomb of the Martian Kings, lost for eons, and spins a story of greed and betrayal and the lust for riches—and how sometimes it might be better not to find what you’re looking for.

IT WAS CROWDED IN RAZZO THE SLUG’S.

There was no reason why it should be. There were twenty-three ramshackle bars surrounding Marsport, each with a don’t-hear-don’t-tell policy, but for some reason Razzo’s was the one that was always crowded.

Razzo himself wasn’t much to look at. It was Cemetery Smith who’d first remarked that he looked like a slug, and it stuck. No one knew where he came from, though it was clear from his accent and some of his mannerisms that it wasn’t from any of the inner planets. Not that anyone cared as long as he didn’t water his whiskey too much, provided an endless array of dancing girls from half a dozen worlds and moons, and made sure that nothing he heard was ever repeated.

The bar was long, made of some gleaming alien metal, and different sections raised or lowered as it sensed the size of the various races sidling up to it. On the wall behind the bar was a large holographic representation of whatever world Razzo had come from, and it usually made the assembled drinkers glad that they’d never set foot on it. There were two robotic bartenders, but Razzo spent most of his time behind the bar as well. The common assumption was that he stayed there to make sure the robots didn’t fill the glasses too high.

Right at the moment, Razzo’s was playing host to fifteen Martians, a dozen Venusians, a pair of miners from Titan, two more from Ganymede, and a scattering of Earthmen. The only one who drew any notice was the Scorpion, and that was mostly because of his companion.

The Scorpion’s real name, which hardly anyone ever knew or used, was Marcus Aurelius Scorpio. He was tall, a good six or seven inches over six feet, and lean, and hard. He had a thick shock of brown hair that was just starting to show specks of gray, a week’s worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, and pale blue eyes, so pale they seemed colorless from certain angles.

He was dressed in nondescript browns and tans, and he made no attempt to hide the burner he carried in a small holster on his hip. Most observers couldn’t tell that he had a smaller one tucked in the back of his belt and a wicked-looking knife in one boot.

There was really nothing about him to attract any attention—except for the creature lying on the floor at his feet. At first, it seemed like a dog, but there weren’t any dogs on Mars, and certainly not any that approached the size of a lion. It had four nostrils—two in front, one on each cheek—eyes that seemed to glow even though they were totally shielded from the dim lights, and a tail that ended in such a sharp point that it could very well be used as a weapon. The animal was covered by a dull blue curly down, and when it yawned, it displayed a double row of coal-black fangs.

All the patrons gave the table—and the creature—a wide berth. The diminutive Mercurian waiter, who was used to him, paid him no attention as he brought Scorpio a drink and continued making his round of the tables.

Scorpio lit one of the local cigars, took a puff, and settled back to watch a Martian woman gyrate in a slow dance that looked awkward to him but was clearly driving the Martian customers wild. The music wasn’t quite atonal but was so alien that he was sure he couldn’t hum it if he heard it around the clock for a week.

Scorpio sipped his drink, trying not to make a face as it burned his throat on the way down, and puffed away on his cigar. After a minute, he pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it to the blue creature, which caught it, chewed it as it made loud, cracking sounds, and finally swallowed it.

The Martian girl’s dance ended, the Martians in the audience cheered and uttered those strange hoots that were unique to their species, and then a girl from Io climbed onto the stage to complete indifference.

The Martian girl was walking to a dressing room behind the bar, but she stopped at Scorpio’s table.

“You are here again, Scorpion,” she said.

“I like to visit my money,” he replied.

“Did you like my dance?”

“It was unique.”

“Perhaps I should perform another, just for you.”

“I’m always open to new experiences,” said Scorpio.

This is silly , said a voice inside Scorpio’s head. Tell her to go away .

Scorpio looked down at the blue creature. Do I interfere in your sex life? he thought.

Damn it, Scorpio! Why are you wasting time? She’s a Martian, for Podak’s sake. She couldn’t accommodate you even if she tried .

Scorpio smiled a very cynical smile. Love will find a way .

“You’re talking to your dog again,” said the girl.

“He’s not a dog, and you haven’t heard me say a word.”