The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (15 page)

“Make sure Tay is belted, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

“Look, Tay,” said Alex, “the
Princess Di
.”

A few miles off, the Keppler cruiser was surrounded by hundreds of small boats waiting to unload.

“Bloody chaos,” said a petty officer, shaking his head as he watched them streaming into the vastness of the
Princess Di
. “We’ve got no list, no names, no passports, we haven’t a clue who’s on the ship and who isn’t.” Shocked and frightened passengers mingled with dazed and homeless refugees gripping pathetically small bundles of personal possessions.

“It’s himself upstairs on the blower. He wants to know how many we’ve taken on.”

“Tell him we haven’t a clue.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious. What are we supposed to do, ask refugees for their papers?”

“Come on, gimme a ballpark?”

“Shit, I dunno, how do you tell? Could be two or three thousand. We’ve set up emergency tents in the park, the hospital is packed, all the gymnasiums are full. They’re still coming in. What am I supposed to do, turn ’em away?”

“You are placing an impossible strain on the safety of my ship.” Emil Keppler was on the bridge and he was angry, Rogers was ignoring him, listening in on the cell patch hookup to Command Control H9.

“Just keep me updated every five minutes, okay.” He disconnected and looked with disapproval at the tall white-haired figure. “Mr. Keppler, this is a major disaster. What do you suggest we do? Abandon these people?”

“How are we supposed to feed them all?”

“You will be able to claim disaster relief. There are funds if it’s money that concerns you.”

“That is not what concerns me. What concerns me is the safety of my passengers and crew.”

“As soon as we can get these people to safety, your cruise can continue. Now please, Mr. Keppler, leave me to do my job.”

“Right. Mitchell, I shall need all these people documented before this ship leaves. I want to know exactly who is on this ship and where they are from.”

“Are you mad?” said Rogers “Have you any idea what is going on out there?”

“I have a very good idea of what is going on and I don’t want the same thing happening here.”

“What do you mean?”

“First the Main Beam to Mars goes down, nobody seems to know why, then we are diverted here, and then H9 accidentally begins to leak. Something of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“What makes you so sure it was an accident?”

“It’s far too early to jump to any conclusions.”

“I am suggesting that the integrity of my ship has been violated. You haven’t a clue who’s on here or why.”

Rogers glanced at the constant update info screen. Why is he so concerned about who is on his ship? This bordered on paranoia. His face dropped.

“Oh shit.” There was a sudden silence. He looked very grave. “I am sorry to announce we are pulling the last of our crews out now. This ship should prepare to leave at once.”

Mitchell hesitated and looked across at his commander. Keppler, visibly irritated, controlled himself and began carefully, “Mr. Rogers, as I have already told you, until I know who is on my ship…”

“It’s too late,” said Rogers quietly, “the place is going to blow. The mass has gone critical. You have no option.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No sir, you don’t understand. I’m telling you H9 is about to implode and unless we get the hell out of here immediately, every second you delay you are putting at risk the lives of several thousand passengers and crew.”

There was a tense silence. Keppler nodded to Mitchell.

“Thank you,” said Rogers.

“
Message to all craft. Emergency evacuation. General alert. H9’s condition: imminent destruct. All craft evacuate the area at once. Repeat, all craft evacuate at once
.”

“General stations. General stations. Crew prepare to leave immediately. Repeat, immediately.”

“Blimey,” said Mrs. Moy as the orange shuttle boat squirted though the closing bow doors. “We only just made it.”

A heavily mustachioed dark-haired man was helping the little old ladies to step onto the dock.

“Come on, ladies,” he said in a friendly Scots voice, “I’ll give you a hand.”

“Oh thank you,” said Mrs. Moy.

“Hey McTurk,” said a voice. “C’mon, we got stuff to do.”

The chief problem about death, incidentally, is the fear that there is an afterlife but no one will know where it’s being held.

—
Woody Allen

“Oh shit,” said Lewis, “she’s going. Let’s get out of here.”

They could see the little emergency boats scattering at full speed, running away from H9. The colony itself seemed to be pulsating. The hole had become a vast black gusher spewing out material like a volcano into space. Some three miles off, the
Princess Di
began to move away, rapidly gathering speed.

“What about the rescue crews?” said Alex as he watched a few small craft vainly pursuing the liner. Lewis shrugged grimly. “That thing’s going to implode any second,” he said. “It’s every man for himself.”

The physics were terrifyingly simple.

“I don’t get it, we’re out of there, we’re safe, right?”

“It’s achieved critical mass,” explained Carlton. “The hole has become so big it can no longer withstand the outside pressure. When that happens, the vacuum of space will rush in, it will collapse on itself, the matter inside it will contract, quickly becoming so compressed it will explode outwards, throwing debris in every direction.”

“Oh.”

“But that’s not the worst.”

“Please tell me the worst,” said Alex.

“The shock wave is worse,” said Carlton. “The electromagnetic shock wave of what is essentially a tiny collapsing star could take us out completely if we’re too close.”

“How close is too close?”

“Say anywhere within five hundred miles.”

“Lewis!!” yelled Alex.

“I’m on it,” said Lewis, opening her up. The
Ray
slid away from the stricken colony.

They accelerated fast, the G forces pulling at their faces. On the screen in front of them was a huge close-up of H9. It was pulsating visibly. They watched fascinated as the hole began to grow bigger. For a delicate moment the material gushing out seemed poised as if torn between two huge forces. Then, as they watched in horror, it reversed itself and rushed back in towards the hole from which it had emerged.

“She’s going,” yelled Lewis. “Hold tight.”

The debris was being sucked in like a vacuum cleaner. Several of the emergency boats had no chance and were immediately drawn back inside the maelstrom. They watched in disbelief the eerie reverse film effect of material pouring backwards into the heart of H9. They could see stabs of energy, like flashes of sheet lightning, illuminating the center of the colony.

“Oh shit, it’s igniting,” said Lewis. “Here we go.”

H9 rapidly shrank back inside itself and then like a vast firework exploded in all directions. A huge spherical shock wave came rushing outwards from the dying station. Moments later it hit them. The screen went dead and they were lifted up and slammed forward at great speed. Tay screamed. All they could hear was the sound of smashing equipment and the groaning of the ship’s hull as the magnetic shock wave tried to tear them apart. The shuddering was intense.

“Seven G,” said Carlton. “We can survive ten G. No more.”

“What’s happening?” asked Alex.

“We’re surfing,” said Carlton. “We’re right on the front of the shock wave and it’s pushing us along.”

The ship was shaking and bouncing under the strain.

“Eight G,” said Carlton quietly.

Alex looked across at Lewis. He watched him reach out and take Tay’s hand.

“Daddy,” she said.

“I know. Hang on.”

“Nine G,” said Carlton.

The force of the explosion had tripled their speed. They were being hammered away from the vicinity of H9 straight into the asteroid belt.

“Ten G,” said Carlton grimly. They were on the limit.

“We’ve got to find a way to slow down or we’re done for.”

“Reverse booster?” yelled Lewis.

“No power,” said Carlton, “everything’s out.”

“She’s got manual override,” said Alex proudly, “she’s an old beauty.”

“It’ll be bumpy.”

“Beats frying.”

He slamrned the handle on the reverse thrusters and for a second they heard the pop-pop-pop as they fired. Then an intense shuddering and they eased back in their seats. The big wave had swept over them and gone hurtling onward.

The bouncing and battering of the shock wave gave way to an eerie silence.

“Damage report,” said Lewis, unbuckling Tay and lifting her into his arms.

Carlton’s report was bad. The electromagnetic wave had taken out every computer on the ship. All communications were down. They had lost power, radio, navigation, and steering. The galley was knee deep in crockery, and there was broken glass everywhere, but it was the navigation system loss that was the most terrifying. Without that they were being hurled blindly through the asteroid belt.

“We’re dead without a nav. system,” said Carlton.

“Pas devant les enfants,” said Lewis.

Tay began to cry.

“Hey, guess what, Tay,” he said cheerfully, “we’re heading for Mars. I’m sure Mommy will be there.”

Carlton looked crestfallen. He wasn’t used to children. Humans had to do so much lying.

“Why don’t you help us clean up this mess?” said Lewis, surveying the wreckage. The sumptuous decor of the
Johnnie Ray
looked like it had been hit by an earthquake.

“I know who’ll be cleaning up the mess,” said the Washing Machine. “Oy vey, you should see the galley.” It went off muttering to itself in search of debris.

“Mayday, Mayday,” said Alex at the com. deck. “This is the
Johnnie Ray
. Mayday.”

Nothing. All frequencies. All directions. No response at all. They were for all intents and purposes alone in space.

Fortune

A man’s got to take a lot of punishment to write a really funny book.

—
Ernest Hemingway

L
ook at this. Know what it is?

De Rerum Comoedia

A Discourse on Humor

Thesis submitted for a doctorate degree to the USSAT (The University of Southern Saturn)

by

CAR110N⁄⁄N3PY [€ðØ]4•PlfJ<—>wñ

known as Carlton

The author of this dissertation is a 4.5 Bowie machine who set out to discover whether comedy can be learned or whether it is inherent only in Homo sapiens.

It’s the title page of the dissertation on comedy. By the tin man himself. Yes, it’s the original of Carlton’s
De Rerum
. I found it totally by chance. I was upstairs in the great USSAT Library checking through the funny files when out it popped. I couldn’t fucking believe it. I was so happy, I rushed home to tell Molly. She wasn’t home of course. She hasn’t been home in days. Oh, where are you, Molly, dammit, I miss you.

I was reading something about the balance of power in a relationship. I realize she always had the power in our relationship. I was hooked on her ass. That’s the bottom line.

As I gaze in wonderment

On your perfect fundament

That’s my favorite line in all of twenty-second-century literature. The poet Codd knew a thing or two.

All things come to pass

Through the glory of your ass.

Sorry, but I’m feeling rather sorry for myself. I miss her trampy little presence. She thinks I’m weird. She left me a note saying that: “You’re fucking weird, Bill Reynolds.” Maybe I am. I certainly feel weird without her. Anyway, I haven’t seen her for days now. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke, right?

It’s a pity because I wanted to share the Carlton thing with her. I was thinking of dedicating my book to her. I knew right away there was a book in it. I thought, publish it, straight off, with a preface by me, and cop the royalties. But then I thought about it. There’s more to it than this. There’s the whole biography aspect. I mean he was pretty original for a machine. He was only a midrange Bowie. He wasn’t supposed to be capable of such profound insights. Then I had a paranoid thought. If he’s a machine, maybe the manufacturers own the copyright of anything he comes up with. That wouldn’t be fair, would it? I mean I have to think what to do about this. After all, what’s the point of me doing all this work if some corporation cops the money?

So, know what I’m going to do? I’m going to make the metal man a star. I’m going to merchandise the little fuck. I’m going to take this hard-wired weirdo and put him on the newsstands and the cover of the trendy magazines. After all, he’s quite a dish with his big blond hair and his lithe lean frame. He’s like a gay’s idea of the perfect heterosexual. It’s a totally commercial image. I can really shake the money tree with this one. I’ll publish him between nice hard covers with a big fat foreword by me and a snappy little title like
Comedies
, or
Tin Laughs
, or
There’s No Time Like the Pleasant
, or some such nonsense the publishers are gonna gobble up. And I’ll make the metal man famous. Fame, I hear you say.
Fame?
Do our nostrils not detect the faintest tincture of irony here? Surely you hate fame? Surely you were ranting on about the deleterious effect of this supposedly worthless state? Well yes. Of course. Micropaleontologists know it’s all bullshit. Nothing lasts forever. But if I make him famous, I control the estate.

I didn’t say I hated money.

Alone, alone, all all alone, alone on a wide wide sea.

—
Coleridge, The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner

They had been drifting for hours. The
Ray
, without power, was limping blindly among the rocks of the asteroid belt, a vast region of debris and massive chunks of minerals which may or may not have once been a planet. Without a navigation system, the odds on their hitting something soon were about 5.36 to 1, Carlton calculated. They had used the manual boosters to slow them from their suicidal entry speed, but now they were perilously low on fuel. They had to conserve what little remained for evasive action. Evasive action. That was a joke. Twice Carlton had seen large rocks sail by. Each time he jumped. Now he was working desperately to repair the internal power system, which had been badly fried. As usual, while he worked, this clever little bi-brained intellectual was thinking about
De Rerum
.