Moving Mars

GREG BEAR

MOVING MARS

[CRITICAL ACCLAIM]

If anyone is the complete master of the Grand-scale SF novel, its Bear[Moving Mars] is also told extremely well with nothing lacking in either scientific soundness or literary excellence. Booklist

Greg Bears Moving Mars dramatizes life in a young society struggling against both a powerful Earth and the rigors of its own inhospitable world. Long, epic in sweep, and scrupulous in its details regarding the nature of Mars and the difficulties in settling the planetThe novels best moments involve Bears ingenious biological and physical speculations, which do not simply color the narrative but (it is one of Bears characteristic strengths) shape and inform its texture.

The Washington Post

Bears Mars is one of the most vividly realized of the recent body of areological novelsHe has the gift of implying a whole background with high-resolution but subtly-signaled background details, again built into the language of the milieu rather than in more obtrusive devices. Locus

Mars fans are in for a real treat with the publication of Moving Mars by Greg Bear. A young Martian scientist makes an astounding discovery that plays a key element in the deteriorating relationship between Earth and its colony. After a deceptively slow start in which Mr. Bear sows the seeds of his piquant premise with delicate precision, this grand adventure in hard science fiction surges forward to a powerful resolution. Romantic Times

Greg Bear is a writers writer, and Moving Mars is another winner. Its chock full of physics, metaphysics, nano-biology and gritty politics, set amid a dazzling high-tech twenty-second-century cold war between Earth and Mars. This is as good as hard science fiction gets. Portland Oregonian

Moving Mars is an accomplished, thoroughly mature novel that should be placed at the top of anyones to be read stack.

Science Fiction Age

Other books by Greg Bear

Anvil of Stars

Beyond Heavens River

Blood Music

Eon Eternity

The Forge of God

Hardfought

Heads

Hegira

Legacy

New Legends (editor)

Psychlone Queen of Angels

Slant

Songs of Earth and Power Strength of Stones

Tangents The Wind from a Burning Woman

TOR

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

MOVING MARS

Copyright 1993 by Greg Bear

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Cover art by Wayne Barlowe Stepback art by Eric Peterson

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN: 0-812-52480-2

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-26546

First edition: November 1993

First mass market edition: December 1994

Printed in the United States of America 0987654

GREG BEAR

MOVING MARS

For Ray Bradbury

A day on Mars is a little longer than a day on Earth: 24 hours and 40 minutes. A year on Mars is less than two Earth years: 686 Earth days, or 668 Martian days. Mars is 6,787 kilometers in diameter, compared to Earths 12,756 kilometers. Its gravitational acceleration is 3.71 meters per second squared, or just over one-third of Earths. The atmospheric pressure at the surface of Mars averages 5.6 millibars, about one-half of one percent of Earths. The atmosphere is largely composed of carbon dioxide. Temperatures at the datum or reference surface level (there is no sea level, as there are presently no seas) vary from -130 to +27 Celsius. An unprotected human on the surface of Mars would very likely freeze within minutes, but first would die of exposure to the near-vacuum. If this unfortunate human survived freezing and low pressure, and found a supply of oxygen to breathe, she would still be endangered by high levels of radiation from the sun and elsewhere.

After Earth, Mars is the most hospitable planet in the Solar System.

Part One

The young may not remember Mars of old, under the yellow Sun, its cloud-streaked skies dusted pink, its soil rusty and fine, its inhabitants living in pressurized burrows and venturing Up only as a rite of passage or to do maintenance or tend the ropy crops spread like nests of intensely green snakes over the wind-scoured farms. That Mars, an old and tired Mars filled with young lives, is gone forever.

Now I am old and tired, and Mars is young again.

Our lives are not our own, but by God, we must behave as if they are. When I was young, what I did seemed too small to be of any consequence; but the shiver of dust, we are told, expands in time to the planet-sweeping storm

2171, M.Y. 53

An age was coming to an end. I had studied the signs half-innocently in my classes, there had even been dire hints from a few perceptive professors, but I had never thought the situation would affect me personally Until now.

I had been voided from the University of Mars, Sinai. Two hundred classmates and professors in the same predicament lined the brilliant white floor of the depot, faces crossed by shadows from sun shining through the webwork of beams and girders supporting the depot canopy. We were waiting for the Soils Dorsa train to come and swift us away to our planums, planitias, fossas, and valleys.

Diane Johara, my roommate, stood with her booted foot on one small bag, tapping the tip of the boot on the handle, lips pursed as if whistling but making no sound. She kept her face pointed toward the northern curtains, waiting for the train to nose through. Though we were good friends, Diane and I had never talked politics. That was basic etiquette on Mars.

Assassination, she said.

Impractical, I murmured. I had not known until a few days ago how strongly Diane felt. Besides, who would you shoot?

The governor. The chancellor.

I shook my head.

Over eighty percent of the UMS students had been voided, a gross violation of contract. That struck me as very damned unfair, but my family had never been activist. Daughter of BM finance people, born to a long tradition of caution, I straddled the fence.

The political structure set up during settlement a century before still creaked along, but its days were numbered. The original settlers, arriving in groups of ten or more families, had dug warrens in water-rich lands all over Mars, from pole to pole, but mostly in the smooth lowland plains and the deep valleys. Following the Lunar model, the first families had formed syndicates called Binding Multiples or BMs. The Binding Multiples acted like economic super-families; indeed, family and BM were almost synonymous. Later settlers had a choice of joining established BMs or starting new ones; few families stayed independent.

Many BMs merged and in time agreed to divide Mars into areological districts and develop resources in cooperation. By and large, Binding Multiples regarded each other as partners in the midst of Martian bounty, not competitors.

The trains late. Fascists are supposed to make them run on time, Diane said, still tapping her boot.

They never did on Earth, I said.

You mean its a myth?

I nodded.

So fascists arent good for anything? Diane asked.

Uniforms, I said.

Ours dont even have good uniforms.

Elected by district ballot, the governors answered only to the inhabitants of their districts, regardless of BM affiliations. The governors licensed mining and settlement rights to the BMs and represented the districts in a joint Council of Binding Multiples. Syndics chosen within BMs by vote of senior advocates and managers represented the interests of the BMs themselves in the Council. Governors and syndics did not often see eye to eye. It was all very formal and polite Martians are almost always politebut many procedures were uncodified. Some said it was grossly inefficient, and attempts were being made to unify Mars under a central government, as had already happened on the Moon.

The governor of Syria-Sinai, Freechild Dauble, a tough, chisel-chinned administrator, had pushed hard for several years to get the BMs to agree to a Statist constitution and central government authority. She wanted them to give up their syndics in favor of representation by district. This meant the breakup of BM power, of course.

Daubles name has since become synonymous with corruption, but at the time, she had been governor of Marss largest district for eight Martian years and was at the peak of her long friendship with power. By cajoling, pressuring, and threatening, she had forgedsome said forcedagreements between the largest BMs. Dauble had become the focus of Martian Unity and was on the sly spin for president of the planet.

Some said Daubles own career was the best argument for change, but few dared contradict her.

A vote was due within days in the Council to make permanent the new Martian constitution. We had lived under the Dauble governments trial run for six months, and many grumbled loudly. The hard-won agreement was fragile. Dauble had rammed it down too many throats, with too much underhanded dealing.

Lawsuits were pending from at least five families opposed to unity, mostly smaller BMs afraid of being absorbed and nullified. They were called Gobacks by the Statists, who regarded them as a real threat. The Statists would not tolerate a return to what they saw as disorganized Binding Multiples rule.

If assassination is so impractical, Diane said, we could rough up a few of the favorites

Shh, I said.

She shook her short, shagged hair and turned away, soundlessly whistling again. Diane did that when she was too angry to speak politely. Red rabbits who had lived for decades in close quarters placed a high value on politeness, and impressed that on their offspring.

The Statists feared incidents. Student protests were unacceptable to Dauble. Even if the students did not represent the Gobacks, they might make enough noise to bring down the agreement.

So Dauble sent word to Caroline Connor, an old friend she had appointed chancellor of the largest university, University of Mars Sinai. An authoritarian with too much energy and too little sense, Connor obliged her crony by closing most of the campus and compiling a list of those who might be in sympathy with protesters.

I had majored in government and management. Though I had signed no petitions and participated in no marches unlike Diane, who had taken to the movement vigorouslymy name crept onto a list of suspects. The Govmanagement Department was notoriously independent; who could trust any of us?

We had paid our tuition but couldnt go to classes. Most of the voided faculty and students had little choice but to go home. The university generously gave us free tickets on state chartered trains. Some, including Diane, declined the tickets and vowed to fight the illegal voiding. That earned herand, guilty by association, me, simply slow to pack my belongingsan escort of UMS security out of the university warrens.

Diane walked stiffly, slowly, defiantly. The guardsmost of them new emigrants from Earth, large and strongfirmly gripped our elbows and hustled us down the tunnels. The rough treatment watered my quick-growing seed of doubt; how could I give in to this injustice without a cry? My family was cautious; it had never been known for cowardice.

Surrounded by Connors guards, packed in with the last remaining voided students, we were marched in quickstep past a cluster of other students lounging in a garden atrium. They wore their family grays and blues, scions of BMs with strong economic ties to Earth, darlings of those most favoring Daubles plans; all still in school. They talked quietly and calmly among themselves and turned to watch us go, faces blank. They offered no support, no encouragement; their inaction built walls. Diane nudged me. Pigs, she whispered. . I agreed. I thought them worse than traitorsthey behaved as if they were cynical and old, violators of the earnest ideals of youth.

We had been loaded into a single tunnel van and driven to the depot, still escorted by campus guards.

The depot hummed.

A few students wandered down a side corridor, then came back and passed the word. The loop train to the junction at Solis Dorsa approached. Diane licked her lips and looked around nervously. The last escorting guard, assured that we were on our way, gave us a tip of his cap and stepped into a depot cafe, out of sight.

Are you coming with us? Diane asked.

I could not answer. My head buzzed with contradictions, anger at injustice fighting family expectations. My mother and father hated the turmoil caused by unification. They strongly believed that staying out of it was best. They had told me so, without laying down any laws.

Diane gave me a pitying look. She shook my hand and said, Casseia, you think too much. She edged along the platform and turned a corner. In groups of five or less, students went to the lav, for coffee, to check the weather at their home depots Ninety students in all sidled away from the main group.

I hesitated. Those who remained seemed studiously neutral. Sidewise glances met faces quickly turned away.

An eerie silence fell over the platform. One last student, a female first-form junior carrying three heavy duffels, did a little shimmy, short brown hair fanning around her neck. She let one duffel slip from her shoulder. The shimmy vibrated down to her leg and she kicked the bag two meters. She dropped her other bags and walked north on the platform and around the corner.

My whole body quivered. I looked at the solemn faces around me and wondered how they could be so bovine. How could they just stand there, waiting for the train to slow, and accept Daubles punishment for political views they might not even support?