Piers Anthony: Total Recall

Lori had showered before him, but was later completing her dressing. His outfit was simple: yesterday’s trousers, new shirt for today, boots. Hers might look simple, but it was always a work of art that took time to shape just right. She cared about appearances much more than he did. The mere brushing of her hair took longer than the whole of his preparation.

The news was playing across the room, but he didn’t give it much attention. He drank his breakfast and let his gaze stray out the window to the hovercars and traffic runnels and all the little energetic people hurrying to work. In a little while he would be among them. As always. His life would be dull indeed if it were not for Lori—and the truth was, it was pretty dull anyway. He knew himself for what he was: a muscular nothing, with a better life than he deserved, yet not properly grateful for it.

The video newsman continued his spiel. “On the war front, Northern Bloc satellites incinerated a shipyard in Bombay, starting a fire that swept throughout the city. Civilian casualties are estimated to exceed ten thousand. The Chairman defended the attack, calling space-based weapons the only effective defense against the Southern Bloc’s numerical superiority.” There was a brief pause as the camera passed across the carnage. The video news had a real taste for that sort of thing. Quaid didn’t bother to look. He imagined the people beyond the window as part of that scene, gassed and dying, struggling to rise and get to their jobs, but falling and clogging the foot runnels. The hovercars veering out of control as the gas caught their drivers, crashing to the lower levels in flames. No, not in flames; today flying craft had safeguards, and, unlike the groundcars, were guaranteed nonexplosive. But they might make pretty wreckages anyway. This city as the site of a war raid: it had its devious appeal.

“Astronomers say they are at a loss to account for six novas,” the newsman continued with an indulgent smile. Everyone knew what characters scientists were! “It seems that these stars do not fit the pattern of the type. Some stars go nova, and some go supernova, and the mechanisms for these effects are fairly well understood. But in recent years more detailed analysis has revealed that six of the novas simply should not have happened—according to the astronomers.” He smiled again. “Well, back to the drawing board, boys!”

Yeah, every time the facts didn’t fit theory, they just drew up a new theory. Eventually they’d come up with a theory that stuck. Stars didn’t go nova for no reason.

“And more violence last night on Mars, where…”

Quaid perked up and turned to the video. It was a multi-screen television, the best they could afford, which meant color but no three-dee. It constituted an entire wall of the cooking-living-dining area of their conapt, and made the tiny apartment seem larger than it was. The screen was divided into many segments, simultaneously displaying several kinds of text and programming: weather, stock market, security monitors for their front door and lobby, a “baby-sitter” program for any children who might be bothersome, a continuous erotica nook for dirty old men, a shopping bulletin for busy housewives, and an old videotape channel. Quaid ignored the others without effort; it wasn’t just that their sounds were turned down, but that he had the reflex practiced from childhood that enabled every citizen to tune out nine-tenths of what was going on, without effort. Any of the sections could be “zoomed” to take over the full screen, or any significant portion of it, but this normally wasn’t worth the bother; the human eye and mind were the most versatile zoomers. Besides, sometimes different members of a family wanted to watch different segments, and this allowed them to do so without quarreling.

The news footage of the Martian Mine episode occupied the large center portion of the screen. The newscaster narrated in a mini-screen of his own. “…an explosion ruptured the geodesic dome over the Pyramid Mine, halting the extraction of turbinium ore, key resource of the Northern Bloc’s particle beam weapons program.”

Soldiers in breathing masks roughly handled the miners. It was obvious that the military authority was almost eager for someone to make its day by offering some token resistance. Quaid discovered that his fingers were twitching, as if handling and firing a rifle. That was odd, because he couldn’t remember when he had last handled any firearm, if ever.

“The Mars Liberation Front has taken credit for the blast,” the newscaster continued, “and demanded the planet’s full independence from, quote, ‘Northern tyranny.’ It claims to be ready to set off further—”

Suddenly the main screen jumped to an environmental window, a broadcast from a supposedly virgin forest that now occupied all the screens on the multi-vision video. It was a beautiful scene, but hardly what he wanted at the moment.

“No wonder you have nightmares,” Lori said, stepping in front, holding the remote control. She was dressed in a smart street suit, ready to go out shopping. “You’re always watching the news.”

Quaid sat down at the table as Lori began buttering bread for her own breakfast.

“Lori, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Let’s really do it.”

“Again? I thought this morning’s effort would hold you for at least half an hour!”

“No,” he said, impatient with this game.

She realized that he was serious. “Do what?”

“Move to Mars,” he said, fearing her reaction.

Lori took a deep breath, exasperated. “Doug, please don’t spoil a perfectly wonderful morning.”

“Just think about it,” he said. If he could only convince her…

“How many times do we have to go through this?” she demanded impatiently. “I don’t want to live on Mars. It’s dry, it’s ugly, it’s boring.”

Quaid looked at a deer sipping at a brook, on the environmental window. “They just doubled the bonus for new colonists.”

“Of course! No idiot’ll go near the place! A revolution could break out any minute!” She fussed with her breakfast, not eating it. She was really upset. Quaid was upset too. He wished she would consider his dream, instead of disparaging it. She was matchless in bed, but on this subject she was a loss. He controlled his anger, picked up the remote control she had set on the table, and turned the news back on. He was in luck; the Mars item was still running. “With one mine already closed,” the newscaster continued, “Mars Administrator Vilos Cohaagen vowed that troops would be used, if necessary, to keep production at full capacity.” The scene shifted to show a press conference in progress. Quaid recognized the features of the Mars Colony Administrator. Cohaagen was big, almost as big as Quaid himself. He’d have to be, for that job, Quaid thought. Appointed by the Northern Bloc to look after the mining operations on Mars, the Colony Administrator was like a military governor from the imperialist past. He wielded almost absolute power, and his ability to command was evident as he fielded questions from reporters.

“Mr. Cohaagen!” a reporter demanded. “Will you negotiate with their leader, Mr. Kuato? He seems to be gathering quite a following among—”

“Nonsense!” Cohaagen said, interrupting him. “Has anybody ever seen this Kuato person? Can anybody show me a photograph? Hunh?” He waited, but for once the reporters were silent. “I don’t think there is any Mr. Kuato!” His face hardened. “Let me make this clear, gentlemen; Mars was colonized by the Northern Bloc at enormous expense. The entire war effort depends on our turbinium mines. We do not intend to give it away just because a handful of lazy mutants think they own the planet.”