George Martin - Old Mars

Ozymandias was on the top step. When Tilda climbed out of the crawler, he gave her a slow nod and vanished.

Kane gathered Noel in his arms, and the trio climbed the steep, high steps. Inside, the swirling patterns on the walls were faded and broken in places, and sand gritted beneath their boots.

The music was like a river roaring past them, breaking like a prism into visions of alien lives and memories. Her father looked down at her, his face tense behind the helmet’s faceplate. “I can barely think. I don’t know what to do.”

“Call him back. Tell him … you know what to tell him.”

Kane nodded, knelt, and placed Noel on the floor of the temple. Then, taking Noel’s gloved hand in his, he said softly, “Wake up, honey.” Noel moaned and stirred slightly.

This is going to work , Tilda exalted.

Her ScoopRing chimed, a dissonant note in the Martian song. She wanted to ignore it, but its insistent clamor was starting to shatter the melody. She answered. It was Ali.

His face in the holo was tight and tense. “Tilda, it’s your grandfather. He’s freakin’ the fuck out. Totally losing it. I tried to keep him out of the room, but he forced his way in. He knows where you’ve gone. He took off raving about how he was going to tear down the old city. How it’s luring away his family. Your granddad’s on his way to the city with a big earthmover.”

“Oh Jesus,” Tilda breathed. “Okay, thanks … I’ll … I’ll think of something.” She cut the connection and looked toward her fathers.

Kane was huddled over his husband, talking intently. “I’m sorry, Noel. I lost my way for a while. I wasn’t sure where my first loyalty lay. I know now. I love you. Come home.”

There could be no help there. The connection between Kane and Noel was still too fragile, too tenuous. She couldn’t pull Kane away at this critical juncture. Tilda slipped out of the temple, down the long stairs, and into the street. In the distance, she could hear the dragon’s growl of heavy machinery, followed by a crash as a wall came down.

She broke into a run. She rounded a corner, and there was Stephen in the high glassed-in cab. Even through the layers of glass and his helmet, she could see how his face twisted in fury. He drove the giant earthmover into a building, battering at it with the front bucket.

Tilda ran forward, waving her arms over her head and shouting, “Stop!” She got in front of the dozer. Her grandfather jammed to a stop only inches from her.

“Get out of my way!”

“No! You can’t do this! You’ll kill Noel-Pa. His soul is in the city.”

“He’s already dead. He gave in to these creatures. This place . I have to save Kane and you.”

“You do this, and you’ll lose us both,” she screamed back.

He threw the massive machine into reverse, spun it around, and headed for another building. Desperation like bile filled her mouth. Tilda had no idea how to assault the behemoth and the man inside.

Miyako walked slowly and calmly out of the door of the building Stephen was approaching. The dozer ground to a stop, and Tilda realized that the torrent of memory had penetrated even Stephen’s closed mind. Wind-driven sand swirled about her feet, and, suddenly, Tilda knew what to do. She ran forward, ripped off the fuel cap.

Miyako was talking. “You didn’t love me. I was a means to an end. You never forgave me for being in Catherine’s place.” Tilda was frantically shoveling handfuls of sand into the gas tank. “All you talked about was the baby and how he would be better than Kane ever was. Even the baby was just a way to hurt Kane. It didn’t matter. I didn’t matter.”

All through Miyako’s speech, Stephen was muttering, “You’re not real. You’re a monster.”

Oh God, she was pregnant , Tilda thought. And it broke Granddad. Broke us all . She shook her head, driving away the hopeless thought. But not yet, damn it!

Stephen threw the earthmover into gear and roared forward, trying to crush Miyako. Then the engine coughed and died. Screaming curses, the old man threw open the door of the cab and leaped to the ground. He was carrying a long, heavy spanner.

Tilda rushed up and paced at his side as he pursued Miyako, who drifted always just out of reach. “You can’t kill her. You already did that. And you can’t wipe out the memory of what you did to her. And if Noel-Pa dies, the memory of your cruelty to him will remain too. And I promise you I’ll come here to die, so what you did to me won’t ever be forgotten.”

He stumbled over a curb, and his strides seemed less certain. Tilda pushed on, knowing that her words were cutting wounds in the old man’s soul and not really caring.

“If you had let Catherine die in the city like she wanted to, her memories would be here. You wouldn’t have lost her completely. Don’t you understand? The more you grab at us, the more we fight to get free. And if your actions cause Noel-Pa to die, you’ll lose your son too.”

Stephen stumbled to a stop and leaned on the spanner like a cane. His shoulders were shaking. “God forgive me!” The words were broken, whispered, and Tilda barely caught them. “I’m so alone.” He sank down to the ground.

Miyako’s memory ghost walked up to him. Laid a hand on his shoulder. “We have a lot to talk about,” she said simply.

Tilda left them there and ran back to the temple. To find Noel-Pa leaning against Kane, his helmeted head on his husband’s shoulder. They opened their arms to her and she ran into their embrace.

A few weeks later, she and Ali walked together in the Martian city. It was a scene of frenzied activity as crews worked to clear away the sand and rubble, scientists pondered how the city recorded the life memories of the dying, and religious leaders prayed. The McKenzie farm had opened its doors to house the army of experts who had arrived.

“So, you don’t regret staying?” Ali asked her.

“No. There’s so much to do here. Noel-Pa and Stephen have the easiest access to Miyako, and I can talk to Ozymandias. I’m needed.”

“Who was he?” Ali asked.

“The Martian who figured out how to keep memory alive.”

“No wonder they built a monument to him.” Ali paused and surveyed the slender spires, now cleaned of the occluding dust. “It’s sort of ironic the way your dad and granddad are working together now.”

“Yeah, also kind of appropriate. And I’m still going to Cambridge. They’re just letting me do it as a correspondence course.” She smiled at him. “I’ll miss you.”

“It won’t be forever.”

“I thought you were staying on Earth.”

Ali looked around. “I’ve got a lot of memories here. I’d hate to abandon them.”

He gave her a hug, and she watched him walk back to his ultralight. She then headed home. Daddy-Kane and Noel-Pa were making breakfast, and, with so many people to feed, they could probably use some help.

One of the most prolific, popular, and controversial figures in modern letters, Michael Moorcock has been a major shaping force in the development of science fiction and fantasy, as both author and editor, for more than thirty years. As editor, Moorcock helped to usher in the “New Wave” revolution in SF in the middle 1960s by taking over the genteel but elderly and somewhat tired British SF magazine New Worlds and coaxing it into a bizarre new life. Moorcock transformed New Worlds into a fierce and daring outlaw publication that was at the very heart of the British New Wave movement, and Moorcock himself—for his role as chief creator of the either much admired or much loathed “Jerry Cornelius” stories, in addition to his roles as editor, polemicist, literary theorist, and mentor to most of the period’s most prominent writers—became one of the most controversial figures of that turbulent era. New Worlds died in the early seventies, after having been ringingly denounced in the Houses of Parliament and banned from distribution by the huge British bookstore and newsstand chain W H Smith, but Moorcock himself has never been out of public view for long. His series of “Elric” novels—elegant and elegantly perverse “Sword & Sorcery” at its most distinctive, and far too numerous to individually list here—are wildly popular, and bestsellers on both sides of the Atlantic. At the same time, Moorcock’s other work, both in and out of the genre, such as Gloriana, Behold the Man, An Alien Heat, The End of All Songs , and Mother London , have established him as one of the most respected and critically acclaimed writers of our day. He has won the Nebula Award, the World Fantasy Award, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, and the Guardian Fiction Award. His other books include (among many others), the novels The War Hound and the World’s Pain, Byzantium Endures, The Laughter of Carthage, Jerusalem Commands, The Land Leviathan , and The Warlord of the Air , as well as the collection Lunching with the Antichrist , an autobiographical study, Letters from Hollywood , and a critical study of fantasy literature, Wizardry and Wild Romance . His most recent books include London Peculiar and Other Nonfiction and The Whispering Swarm , the first volume in the new Sanctuary of the White Friars series. After spending most of his life in London, Moorcock moved to a small town in Texas several years back, where he now lives and works.