The Malcontent of Mars — INTERLUDE: Time Out for Fun

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INT
VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII
EPI

This interlude contains some mild blood.


In a pub in Upper London, a small crowd had amassed around a television screen. There was a stern-faced newsreader gazing into the camera, dispassionately reading words from a teleprompter. The words “BREAKING NEWS” were written across the bottom of the screen.

“…and if you are just joining us, the Federal Ministry for Martian Affairs has confirmed that the string of terrorist attacks in the last few weeks were in fact the work of a Martian separatist group. The news comes in the wake of an attack on Upper London that left some one-hundred-and-thirty-four people dead, one of a string of attacks that have struck numerous Terran cities over the past few months. A spokesperson for the Ministry says that the group contacted investigators directly to claim responsibility. Major Erika Hythe, the newly-appointed Minister for Martian Affairs, intends to make a speech explaining the findings…”

People shook their heads and murmured to each other.

“Fucking Martians,” said a fat, bald-headed man, clutching a pint glass filled with Martian beer. “Can’t trust ‘em.”

“Fucking right, mate,” said another man, less portly but also bald. “We fight a fucking war against ‘em and they lose, so they start this shit.”

“I say we fuckin’ kill ‘em all.”

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right.”

“What are you lads talking about?” asked a third man, fat as the first but not bald, carrying three drinks.

“Just this Martian bollocks,” said the second man.

“Oh, yeah, that.”

Shithole planet.”

“Too fucking right, Steve,” said the first man. “Too fucking right.”

“Steady on, Jim. My Mum grew up on Mars,” said the third man.

“Well, Mars back then was alright, wunnit? Just been taken over by the unions.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.”

An uncomfortable silence.

“Oh look, the footie scores are up.”

At another table, an old woman sat with an old man. She shook her head and tutted.

“Dreadful, isn’t it, Harry.”

The old man was looking at a menu, deliberating on whether to have a Martian-reared Angus steak and chips or sea bass fished out of the Martian ocean. He looked up. “What was that, Trace?”

“The thing with the Martians. Dreadful.”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t really keep up with the news, me. Too depressing.”

“Probably for the best. But still, awful what happened.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Did you see on the AnsiNet? The pictures?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Awfully sad. They say a little boy died. A little boy. And his mother. The father is devastated.” The old woman shook her head, sadly. “I mean, it’s just awful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” the old man said, noncommittally. “Listen, Trace, this is all a bit depressing.”

“Well, it’s important that we stay informed, Harry. I really hope there’s not another war.”

“Don’t be daft. I’m sure the government has it under control. They’ll catch whoever did it soon enough.”

“I hope so. I just can’t stop thinking about that poor father.”

“It’ll be alright,” the old man said, reassuringly. He passed her the menu. “Think I might go for the steak.”

The old woman took the menu from him silently and began to pore over it. She hoped that her husband was right.

Near the back, a group of six young students were crowded around a table only intended to seat four.

“So,” said one of them, a young man with long and unkempt hair. “About this Martian stuff.”

The others rolled their eyes.

“Off on another one of your political tirades, Reggie?” asked his friend, a large man who had a poorly-maintained beard.

“We don’t all do degrees in warp physics, David. Besides, it’s important to read about these things.”

“Yes, and not all of us are members of the youth wing of the Democratic Socialists.”

A woman with artificial red hair sipped at a glass of Martian fruit cider. She rolled her eyes. “I thought we weren’t going to discuss politics any more.”

“Well, Ingrid, that was before someone blew up one of the stilts,” Reggie said.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I get so depressed talking to you.”

“Well, it’s just that I’ve been thinking—”

A voice from the far end of the table: “No way!

“Fuck off, Dom. I’ve been thinking. Something about it doesn’t add up. I mean, it’s been ten years. Why would a Martian separatist group suddenly blow up a stilt?”

“Watch out, Reggie’s at it again with one of his conspiracy theories,” David said.

“Piss off. It’s called ‘healthy scepticism’. I figured as a student of the sciences you’d be most open to it.”

“Oh, come off it, Reggie. Your party may have won the election – and they’re doing a pretty poor job so far, might I add – but that doesn’t immediately validate every crackpot theory you come up with.”

“So you think that after all this time, suddenly, the Martians are vying for war?” Reggie asked, indignantly.

“Well, it happened last time.”

Honestly, David, it’s like talking to a brick wall with you sometimes.”

“I’d rather that than live in whatever fairytale you’re living in.”

“Up yours.”

“Aw, what’s the matter? No comeback?”

“Jesus Christ, would you just shut the fuck up, both of you?” Ingrid said. “I come here to get away from all that shit.”

Murmured apologies.

An awkward subject change: “Anyone for shots?”

“Yeah, go on, then.”

And all turned away from the television, then, unaware of the drama unfolding literally over their heads.

“Minister, with all due respect, we can’t delay the speech any further. You’re going to have to go out there sooner or later.”

“I know, it’s just a very tricky situation,” Major Erika Hythe, Federal Minister for Martian Affairs, said, looking at her aide. “Information is coming in so fast that if I give the speech now it’ll probably be inaccurate in five minutes.”

“The press need to hear something, Minister. You’ll have to speak now and make retractions later.”

She sighed. “Alright, give me a few minutes to go over my notes.”

The aide nodded, reluctantly, and left the room.

“Christ,” Hythe said, reading through her notes. “Just what we need.”

The Federal Ministry for Martian Affairs was based in Toronto-γ, one of the stilted cities over what had once been the Canadian province of Ontario, although Hythe herself was not Canadian: she had, in fact, grown up in the stilted city of Manchester-α, England. The press had all arrived by vactrain that morning or were watching eagerly through video uplink, desperate to get her take on the issue.

She continued to read and then noticed, simultaneously, a horrid reddish-brown blob on the paper and a tickle in her nose. “Oh for Christ’s—”

Great, another stress nosebleed. She’d been having them a lot lately.

She fumbled in her pocket for a small bottle of Nanocea spray, inserted the nozzle into her nostril and the burst vessel sealed instantly.

“Blood on my notes, that’ll look great, won’t it,” she mumbled, grabbing a tissue to wipe up the blood and dutifully cleaning the nozzle, now stained red.

Her aide ran back in holding out a mobile ansible. “It’s for you, Minister. Apparently, it’s urgent.”

“It’ll be just my luck if it’s already kicked off,” she said, taking the device and taking it off hold. “Hello?”

“Major Hythe, thank you for answering on such short notice. Federal Investigation and Detection Office. It’s just that there’s been an incident of some interest—”

“Can it wait? I’m about to give a speech.”

“Long-range scanners have detected an incident out in the asteroid belt. Details are sketchy but it looks like a decommissioned Terran command ship has exploded near to the Sovereignty of Cybele for reasons undetermined. Casualties unknown. We’re growing a bit concerned.”

Fucking hell. “Okay. Leave it with me.”

“Thank you, Major. Best of luck with your speech. We’ll be in touch with any more details.”

“Thank you as well. Keep up the good work. Goodbye.”

She closed the connection. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Somewhere, muffled, the aide was saying: “Minister, you’re on.”

Suddenly she was walking towards the door, her head muddled.

Alright. Eyes front. Deep breath. Smile. And…action.

In a video arcade in Rapture, a young boy took off a squidcap and blinked in the neon and the laser lights.

The game did things to your temporal lobe, distorted your sense of time, so there was always this feeling of bewilderment as you came out of it, unsure of where you were and how long you’d been in there. He looked at his watch. 1647 hours Terraluna Standard. Mom’s gonna kill me.

He stretched his arms and legs, which had gone numb after a two-hour gaming session. Terra War Hero really was a great game, real bona, that’s what all the kids called it. Every game was different; sometimes you were infantry, fighting off the Martian invaders on Luna, sometimes you were a pilot, flying a corvette and taking down Martian command vessels, and sometimes, just sometimes, if you reached a certain point, you could press a button and destroy a Martian city and all those ugly Martians, and that was real bona. He hadn’t seen it today, but that was the thrill of coming here to play it; you never knew. Rumour had it that if the game knew you wanted to see it (which it did by reading your limbic system), it would deliberately shut you out of it, fifty-nine times out of sixty. The ultimate tease.

As he got up and walked he passed a place that sold old TVs and games consoles. A display model was in the window and on the television, there was a woman. He thought he recognised her. There was a name on the bottom of the screen: “MAJ. ERIKA HYTHE”, and below that her title: “Federal Minister for Martian Affairs”. She looked worried. Along the bottom of the screen closed captions were appearing in real time.

“…I have been working closely with the Federal Intelligence Agency in confirming that these attacks were in fact the work of a Martian separatist group. As your newly appointed Minister for Martian Affairs, I shall endeavour to do everything within my power to resolve this issue in as swift and peaceful a manner as possible. I assure you that you have no need to fear preparations for war. We are confident that another Insurrection is not imminent and are working with local Martian authorities to ensure that we do not have to resort to extreme measures against the Martian people…”

Boring.

The boy hitched up his bag and put on his lucky Terra War Hero hat (he won it from a competition run by the game’s publisher on the back of a pack of chocolate-flavoured algae bars), and wandered away to catch the next transport up to the residential block, where his mother was waiting for him in a decommissioned old fishing vessel, with dinner and a lecture about how he shouldn’t be spending so much time playing his games. He rolled his eyes reflexively.

He was thirteen now. Practically an adult. He couldn’t wait until he was old enough to join up. Hell, if a war started up with Mars again, maybe he could get in, if he lied about his age. It’d be just like the game. Blasting dirty Martian heads off with his trusty rifle, taking down their puny battle-cruisers real bona. He smiled to himself at the thought and stepped on board a transport, lost in bloody daydreams.

Hythe stepped away from the podium to a barrage of questions and camera flashes. That ought to keep them off my back for a while.

She re-entered the building, and an aide rushed over to speak to her.

“Minister, so sorry to bother you.”

“What is it?” she asked, a little more tersely than she liked.

“There’s a man who says he wants to see you, tomorrow if possible.”

“Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so, madam. He says he has some information about the Martian separatists.”

Hythe stopped walking. “I see. And what is this man’s name, do you know?”

“It’s a man by the name of Maxwell Silva.”

The name sounded somewhat familiar, but she otherwise didn’t recognise it.

“Understood,” she said. “Pencil him in for tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Minister. I’ll let him know right away, Minister.”

Hythe walked back to her office.

Let’s hope I can solve this crisis.

Her mind momentarily drifted to the photographs she had seen, of a city smashed to glass ten years ago. She shook her head.

Never again, she thought.


To be continued…


END OF ARC TWO