VISUAL EFFECTS / CH. 14:DEPARTURE DAY
WEDNESDAY MORNING, 22ND JUNE 2270
Entering the spaceport, Alice spotted two entirely mismatched people hovering by the check-in gate. The man had confident lawyer written all over him, the woman was young enough to be his daughter, and looked rather nervous.
[What's the betting that that's Emelia Trevors and William Maugh?] Alice asked.
[Very high.] Simon replied.
“You're nice and early,” the steward said in greeting.
“I've got a meeting with someone from Mars Corp.”
“Ah, you'll be Dr and Mrs Findhorn-Bunting, then?”
“Correct,” Simon said.
“Two people to meet you, actually,” the steward said, accepting their bags onto the scales.
“I presume Mr William Maugh? And my guess is you're accompanied by Emelia Trevors from press relations,” Alice said. Emelia nodded.
“Could you get on the scales too, now?” the man said, then added “I hope you're not going to cause any trouble.”
“So do I,” Alice said, obeying. Simon stepped on as well.
“Well done on the weights, I read you as one hundred and fifty grammes light. You may either take that as additional water for the journey, or have that much to eat or drink. Please remember that apart from that, from this point on, your fluid and food intake must come from your luggage or match the amount you excrete. You will be issued a receipt each time you make use of the facilities. Don't be tempted to drink from the taps in the wash-rooms, the fluid in them is a sterilising solution and will make you seriously unwell. Enjoy your flight. Seriously, I'd recommend you don't eat between now and the flight, it might get messy.”
“Thank you,” Simon said. He'd read those warnings too.
“Would you like any of these bags available to you during the time between now and arrival at the interplanetary craft?”
“Just this one,” Alice said, picking up a back-pack.
“Please be at the gate in two hours time. Take off will be in just under three hours. If you miss the gate closing time, your normal and vac-safe luggage will travel to Mars without you, and cargo will take your place. You might be able to find a place on another ship but a penalty fee will be charged and there are no guarantees.”
“We understand,” Alice said. “Has anyone ever done that? Missed a flight, I mean?”
“For medical reasons, yes: appendicitis, for example. Here are your boarding passes. There will be a final weight check and adjustment at boarding time.”
He turned to Mr Maugh, “I'm finished with them, sir.”
“This way,” Emelia said.
----------------------------------------
The interview room was spartan, and Alice guessed normally only held two chairs and a small table. With four chairs it was a bit cramped.
“So, I assume you've checked that I have a personal reason to be concerned,” the lawyer said, “Emelia here is hopefully going to learn a little more about the workings of a responsible journalist's mind.”
“You've decided I am a responsible journalist, then?”
“Your behaviour regarding the leak, attitude to accreditation and the very fact that you've decided to release some of your information to me indicates that quite well, I believe.”
“Thank you,” Alice said, “So, yes, Mr Maugh, you have a sister on Mars, and until recently, she worked for Mars Corp's public relations department there. She now works for the Mars council.”
“I didn't know that much even,” he replied.
“You said something which seriously upset her,” Alice said.
“I know that.”
“My guess is that you were attempting to persuade her not to stay on the exciting planet she's chosen as her home. I further guess that your chosen way was to reveal something unpleasant about your employer. Don't look so surprised, Mr Maugh, I've guessed a few unpleasant things about your employer too. Appendix twenty-seven, for instance, makes interesting reading for its omissions. But, as you've maybe noticed, I'm still going to Mars, as a colonist, so those things haven't put me off either. As a colonist, I'm utterly convinced that the terraforming process must continue, and only Mars Corp has the financial muscle and technical expertise to do that work. I realise that telling Mars Corp officials that I know something that might damage the corporation might be an unwise decision, but I'll tell you that I'm not planning to publish what I've guessed. I've no desire to plunge my new home into chaos, and in no way do I intend to blackmail anyone.”
“Thank you for that reassurance,” Mr Maugh said, still tense.
“But a couple of weeks ago, full of indignation, I did write it down, and other matters which I plan to investigate on Mars. Even then I knew it shouldn't be published. Now I'm more convinced.”
“But it exists in written form?” Mr Maugh prompted.
“What I wrote exists in encrypted form. Certain unrelated, trustworthy people have the decoding key, others have the encrypted text. As long as I live, that is the way it will stay.”
“My wife felt that given the other matters she's investigating, it would be appropriate to have such a mechanism in place.”
“And will you tell me what these other matters you're investigating are?” Mr Maugh asked.
“This is where it gets interesting,” Alice said, leaning back in her chair.
“Interesting?” Emelia asked.
“Yes. It depends, you see, on exactly who is behind them. I have my suspicions, and it rather depends on things like loyalties, information flows, who is responsible for Mars Corp's long term goals, and so on.”
“In other words, does what you say stay in this room?”
“For instance, yes,” Alice said.
“And what you're investigating is sufficiently serious that you think your life is at stake,” Mr Maugh said.
“Yes. I now strongly suspect that Mars Corp is not itself involved in this. Unfortunately, at the time I wrote my little insurance policy I wasn't so sure.”
“You're saying that if you die, you will posthumously destroy Mars Corp's reputation, but you don't want to.”
“Precisely. Hence my desire to have this little meeting.”
“I don't understand,” Emelia said.
“Mr Maugh, I assume that you will be reporting on this meeting to the executives and the board. I hope that you will be reporting that you are not at all concerned about my planned investigations of the Martian culture, folk music scene, and so on, as you see nothing there that would in any way damage Mars Corp's reputation. I would not be at all surprised, in fact I would be very happy if you also noted that I had left an encrypted article based on earlier suspicions I had about Mars Corp, and that although I was not in a position now to alter those, I had revised my opinions. What's the point of such a system if no one knows about it?”
“Your not being in a position to alter it is because you don't have time to meet all your contacts?” he asked, deciding that delaying her flight was quite within his authority.
“More the very fact that I've told you about it. If I've misjudged you, you might decide to have me tracked by an army of private investigators. In that case, even if you did decide I ought to have another two weeks or two years on Earth then I would be foolish indeed to rush to visit people in order to replace the encrypted text.”
He was good, this lawyer. His face didn't betray him at all.
“But you must admit, allowing you on the flight would put you at risk of an accident, and therefore risks destroying the corporation and the terraforming work.”
“Alice has oversimplified her insurance policy,” Simon said.
“International News also has a copy. If the holders of the keys decide that International News have published the article already, nothing happens.”
“So it is very fortuitous that we have Emelia here,” Alice said, “because she is in a perfect position to liaise with International. News in the event of my untimely death.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“How would I be in a position to do that?”
“The editor will ask you for a certain document. Normally, that would be out of the question, but in the circumstances, Mr Maugh here will approve its release, and the damage to Mars Corp's reputation will be significantly reduced.”
“This document is what exactly?” Mr Maugh asked.
“You won't want to release it now, I assure you,” Alice said.
“You probably don't even want to read it yourself.”
“But it exonerates Mars Corp of what you're investigating?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“You've read some secret Mars Corp document? Who gave it to you?”
“Mr Maugh, I will protect my sources.”
“I don't entirely understand why you want your insurance policy to be known about if it's out of date. Or why you want it known that you're studying Martian folk music.”
“Perhaps it would be better to say that that is a coded message. If the right people hear it and understand it — people who are in a position to correct some, ah, mistakes they may have felt compelled to make — then they might feel it would be in their best interests to correct those mistakes. I am convinced it would be in the best interests of the Martians and the Mars corporation. And Mr Maugh, do feel free to repeat what I've just said.”
“And if they can't work out what on earth you're talking about, then you publish?”
“Oh, I'm planning to publish quite a lot, Mr Maugh. I'm hoping to entirely change a cultural attitude, and I don't imagine that'll happen in a few weeks. But once my research has progressed further, and when more people no longer think 'convict' when they hear about people on Mars, and have some idea about life there beyond short hair and domes, then yes, I'm going to correct that mistake for Mars Corp.”
“But you're planning to do that even though you've signed an agreement not to bring the corporation into disrepute.”
“That's one reason you're going to pass on my coded message, Mr Maugh.”
“If I want a hint about what you're talking about for, should I study the lyrics of my collection of a hundred Martian folk-songs more closely?” Emelia asked.
“How did you get that? I thought recording them was taboo.” Alice asked.
“An old friend of my mum sent them. Recorded for posterity and individual study.”
“Any restrictions on sharing them?” Simon asked.
“Not as long as you want to learn them” Emelia replied, with a smile, “Want them?”
“Yes please!”
“I don't suppose you can tell me what a jit is?” Emelia asked.
“It's shortened form of idjit, meaning an idiot or fool.” Mr Maugh offered.
“But the meaning has shifted,” Simon added “it also means a newcomer, someone who hasn't learned the Martian way of doing things.”
“And would it give me a hint?” Emelia asked.
“Probably.”
“Why not just say plainly?” Emelia asked.
“Because, for instance, I have no desire to have the entire Mars Corp legal department attempting to shut down my employer, or court orders being made to gag me.”
“That could still happen,” Mr Maugh said, in a sly voice.
“Mr Maugh,” Alice reprimanded him sternly, “I am firmly convinced that would be a very serious mistake.”
“How serious?”
“If you convince me that Mars Corp is not as innocent as I currently believe it to be, then you're encouraging me to release my insurance package unmodified.”
“Which you think would damage Mars Corp. But breaking a court order is a serious offence.”
“But a public interest defence probably applies.”
“Malicious mudslinging does not constitute public interest.”
“No, it does not. Mr Maugh, in order to protect you, Emelia, and roughly a million Martians, I have no plans in divulging my article to you. You would almost certainly regret it if you read it, just like your sister probably wished she hadn't read what you wrote to her.”
“You mentioned an appendix,” Emelia said.
“Appendix twenty-seven, non-sensitive bulk materials shipped by Mars Corp. Insufficient evidence in its own right of course, but interesting. Emilia, in your position, ignorance is bliss, I'm warning you: don't look.”
“And in my position?” William Maugh asked.
“I would argue most persuasively that you not be instructed to take action against me. Like I said, I'm on your side at the moment.”
Alice and Simon heard Mr Maugh reach a decision: he wanted to hear how bad the article was.
“Ms Trevors, step outside please.” Mr Maugh ordered.
She looked surprised, but complied quickly.
“Mr Bunting, you've read your wife's article?”
“I have, but it's Doctor Findhorn-Bunting.”
“My apologies. In your slightly removed position, how would you see the results of that article being published as it is?”
“Are you asking this in your personal or professional capacity?” Simon asked.
“As a senior Mars Corp manager.”
“And you don't mind nightmares?” Alice asked.
“I have a duty to find out all I can.”
“I understand that, Mr Maugh. If a simple 'you don't want it to happen' will not suffice...” Alice shrugged. “Answer the question, Simon.”
“It depends when it was publieshed, of course,” Simon said. “Let's say it was published in the next few months, I would expect that portions of the Martian economy would suffer, and a period of civil unrest would ensue on Mars. Assuming Mars Corp facilities remain standing, it would find its workers on strike or possibly resigning en-mass. On Earth, I expect that there would be numerous voices raised in the world's press and at the United Nations, and Mars Corp would eventually find its United Nations charter suspended or revoked.”
“And you, Maam?”
“My editor and I agree that my little piece would seriously damage the Martian economy and the reputation of Mars Corp, possibly leading to its loss of charter and dismemberment. Also, in case you're wondering, I don't think some of the channels through which it would be released would be at all amenable to pressure from the courts.” One of the encrypted texts was, after all, in the hands of the Queen.
Mr Maugh listened to the dispassionate way she said it. It was... just hypothetical information to her, and she was certain of what she said. He looked at them in a mixture of disbelief and horror. “What did you write?”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Perhaps I'll show you one day, Mr Maugh. In the mean time, may we catch our flight?”
“You'd better,” he managed to say.
“In case you're wondering,” Alice added, “among the other things we're planning to do is help make the Martian economy significantly less susceptible to what I worked out becoming public knowledge. I've decided that letting Mars Corp get away with what they've done until now is certainly the lesser of two evils.
"It will, no doubt, increase Mars Corp's operating costs, but the corporation's officers would probably be well advised to not take an opposing position on that, just in case others don't agree with me.”
“You are a very confident woman, Mrs Findhorn-Bunting.”
“Well, you see, Mr Maugh, I know I'm on the right side.”
----------------------------------------
Soon after everyone was strapped into their places, the two-stage space plane taxied to the end of the runway. The high power jet power units screamed their defiance of inertia and the plane was soon airborne, much like any other plane. Speed was limited to below the speed of sound, for safety reasons, so this was just a long climb. Once the plane had reached fifty thousand feet, there wasn't much air left for the wings to gain purchase on. The first stage had done its job, and it was time to separate and ignite the air-breathing rocket engines.
The rocket engines could have lifted the plane straight from the ground, but hydrogen is bulky, and you can store more energy in the same sized fuel tank if it's normal jet-fuel. Plus of course, launching the rocket from altitude saved a lot of fuel that would have been used overcoming air resistance in the dense lower atmosphere. Fundamentally, the two-stage design meant that the rocket could launch more mass.
“Prepare for separation. Hold on to your stomachs metaphorically, and press yourselves back into your seats literally,” the captain said. For a few seconds, the passengers felt almost weightless, and then the rocket motors started, and they were pushed back into their seats with the force of several gravities. [This isn't very comfortable.] Alice thought to Simon, once the initial shock at the acceleration had passed.
[Nice and smooth though,] Simon replied, [we're not getting thrown about or bounced around, like early astronauts were.]
[Hey, that's right!] Alice thought [We qualify as astronauts, don't we?]
[Not yet, but soon.] The display showed they were approaching forty kilometer's altitude. That didn't qualify as being in space by anyone's definition.
----------------------------------------
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Captain's voice came over the intercom once more, “we are now approaching orbital velocity. In the interests of keeping your stomachs under control, we're going to be reducing thrust gradually as we match orbits with the Celestia. If you want to look out, please feel free to select a camera on the display in front of you, we'll be passing fairly close to some other ships in the parking orbit. The first, and largest, is the Jupiter which is just finishing loading its cargo.”
[It's been loading cargo after the people got on board?] Alice asked.
“The Jupiter was of course due to leave on Monday,” the Captain continued, “but unfortunately for the passengers, there were some loading issues which have made it necessary to adjust the cargo.”
[I wonder if we'll hear what those issues were.]
[It's going to need less cargo if it can't leave on time.]
[I believe you, but couldn't it have a helping hand from some space tug or something?]
[Err, maybe.... Have I said I don't like orbital mechanics?]
[Why not?]
[It gets too complicated too quickly. {Amazement}]
[What?]
[I've just been looking at it. {image} Did you get that?]
[Why does it look green? It doesn't on my monitor.]
[It's sick.]
[Sick? You mean your othersight works through external monitors?]
[I guess so. I've never tried that.]
[And the Jupiter is sick? You mean malfunctioning?]
[I guess so. Maybe I'll see more as we get closer.]
[You have an unusual gift. Mama said so, and I believe her.]
[Yours is perfectly normal, then?]
[Well, at least before I lost most of it I was one among fiftyish.]
[Have you tried calling her?]
[No. Do you think I should? God said I could talk to you and Sue, remember.]
[I think it would be... polite? That's not quite the right word, but I think it'd be a good thing to try to let her know you were leaving Earth, assuming you can.]
[I'm nervous.]
[Shall we pray about it?]
[Please.]
----------------------------------------
As gravity reduced to something more like Earth-normal, Simon and Alice finished praying. Simon thought to his wife, [I still think it would be good to talk to her, assuming you can.]
[I'm not so nervous. OK, I'll try it.] Keeping hold of Simon's hand, she sent out a tentative thought, [Mama, it's Alice, do you hear me?]
[Well praise God, girl! It's good to hear from you! How are you doing?]
[Happy, relieved. On my way to Mars. Well, on my way to the ship that'll take us there, anyway.]
[And holding young Simon's hand, I see.]
[Yes, Mama.]
[No emotional feedback then?] Mama Ng. asked.
[It's not too bad these days.]
[Oh? Too much stress from all the packing?]
[Plenty of stress relief — we got married.]
[Hmm, you always were one to rush into things. How does Simon feel about that?]
[Very happy, especially that we can hold hands now.] Simon replied.
[Ha! Why doesn't that surprise me? Hey, do either of you know about hiding your thoughts?]
[What's that?] Alice asked.
[Oh bother. You need to go back to school, and you're in orbit!] Mama explained what hiding thoughts did.
[Oh, it sounds a bit like the way you reacted when I first looked at you, Alice.] Simon said, [and a bit like how I managed to ignore peoples thoughts, I guess.]
[So you do know about it,] Mama Ng said, relieved.
[But what I did was just instinctive, not deliberate, even.]
[What about you, Simon?] Mama Ng asked.
[Well, I just kept on pushing it away, and eventually it got until I could forget I heard anything. I guess it's because I'm a more visual person anyway.]
[No Simon,] Mama Ng corrected, [it's just that you're just ultra-unusual. Right, so you're basically totally ignorant. Good job you're together; it's going to be hard enough as it is telling you how to do this remotely without you getting stuck. Don't practice this until you can speak privately to one another. Now, let me explain.] and she did.
----------------------------------------
“Excuse me?” Simon beckoned to the flight attendant, “I've just been looking at the Jupiter, and it looks like the gimbals on the inner three nozzles are seriously confused. I just thought I ought to tell someone.”
“It's probably just deliberate design decision, sir.”
“Someone should probably sack the designer then. It looks far more like last time they were put together, someone was drunk or got seriously confused after a long shift.”
“You're an expert in spaceship design then, sir?” the attendant's voice was condescending.
“I wouldn't call myself an expert, no,” Simon said, “But I did work in a design office one summer vacation.”
The attendant murmured an apology and said, “I'll ask the captain to pass on the word, sir.”
“Thank you,” Simon said.
----------------------------------------
“Anyone else feeling they might like an extra one?” the attendant asked the cabin in general, as he handed out sick-bags. The engines had reduced their thrust in stages, and now the passengers on the rocket-plane were only experiencing a tenth of a gravity. It felt strange, as though they were in something that was plummeting downwards, faster and faster, impossibly fast. 'Up' had moved and now felt like it was towards the nose of the craft; the Earth, they knew, was not behind them, and the rockets were firing, pushing them forwards, Although the seats had rotated, the whole direction thing was still confusing. Ears, eyes and brain didn't agree, and for some passengers not much would help except an empty stomach. Simon raised a hand, not daring to open his mouth.
“Deep breaths, Simon, remember,” Alice reassured him with the words that he'd told her earlier. For her the feeling of nausea had passed quickly, as long as she kept her head still. [What can you tell me about that ship?] she asked, hoping to distract him from what his stomach was saying.
[It's sick, well, broken. The inner three engines weren't right.]
[And you think they know that?]
[I expect so. That's why they unloaded stuff: they've got less thrust than they planned for. Sorry, I'm going to be sick.] He promptly was, joining a growing number of other passengers clutching bags to their mouths. Fortunately the space-plane had an effective air cleaning system, and the acceleration meant that spills didn't float around, and were easily cleaned up.
“Feeling better, love?” Alice asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Simon replied, “You're not feeling bad at all?”
“It's an odd feeling, but I think I'm getting over it. You don't feel like trying the candied ginger?”
“I don't like ginger,” Simon protested.
“I know, you said. I was just wondering if you'd like to change your mind, now you've experienced some space-sickness?”
“You've been eating it, haven't you?”
“Of course. So eat a bit, please, or you won't want to kiss me.” she pointed out, fluttering her eyelids at him.
“Oh, all right,” he grudgingly accepted the ginger, which had been Evangeline's wholehearted recommendation to stop nausea. It worked for him too.
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DOCKING WITH THE CELESTIA
The last vestiges of acceleration ended with a slight jerk and a thunk. They'd arrived, and were in free-fall. Disembarkation was going to be interesting, they'd been promised, by the grinning stewards. Alice sensed that they didn't mean that quite the way it sounded, and asked Evangeline what she ought to expect.
“Personally,” Simon said “I expect lots of confused people bouncing off the ceiling as they forget that there's nothing to stop them from doing so. Move slowly.”
“Good guess,” Evangeline agreed, looking forward as one young woman — who'd clearly ignored the instructions to keep seat belts fastened — drifted from her seat in in a mess of waving limbs, billowing skirt and multicoloured hair.
“Miss Thornthwaite,” the steward called, “Please stop thrashing before you punch or kick someone! Everyone else, do not release your seatbelt until personally instructed to do so. Penalties will apply to anyone who ignores instructions. As Miss Thornthwaite is demonstrating for us, it is easy to get disorientated, not to mention humiliated. You will have further noticed that Miss Thornthwaite felt the recommendation to wear trousers did not apply to her.” he then added in more compassionate manner “I suggest you adopt a foetal position, miss, and clutch the front and back of your skirt between your knees or ankles.”
Face flaming, the young woman obeyed.
“Now,” continued the steward, “You may have noticed that Miss Thornthwaite is spinning more rapidly than she was. Stop her please, Jane.... Thank you. This is a well known effect, described as conservation of angular momentum. It is highly disorientating, and any rotation under weightlessness significantly increases your likeliness of nausea while you undergo space adaptation. I'm sure you'll be happy to learn that adaptation doesn't normally last more than a day or two. Any motion aggravates the problems of adaptation, which is another reason we're not keen on you floating around the plane.”
“So, what we're going to do is help you off the plane, with a series of simple movements. Miss Thornthwaite, since you're out of your seat, we'll use you for our demonstration.”
“This is my punishment?” she asked, rebelliously.
“Yes.”
“I get off this plane first as punishment?”
“Since you're going to be learning on the spot while everyone else gets to watch you, yes. Follow instructions carefully, or you could end up hurt. I will point out to other passengers that the standard punishment for people if they fail to obey safety-related instructions is a fine of one litre of water or one hundred grammes of their non-drink cabin-cargo. If they injure someone, the compensation payment will also be figured in terms of cabin-cargo.”
“And if I ain't got no cabin cargo beyond a change of clothes?” Miss Thornthwaite challenged.
“You've got food and water,” the steward replied, “or maybe the injured party might demand your dress. Be good, Miss Thornthwaite. Passengers, let me make something clear. The Celestia is a private vessel operating under Martian law. Access to food, water and breathable air is a privilege dependent on you behaving in a civilised manner. Violent behaviour will not get you talked to by a social-worker out here; attack the crew or otherwise endanger the ship and the captain has the right to decide you belong on the other side of the airlock.”
“Yeah, we know,” Miss Thornthwaite said.
Simon reached for Alice's hand. [That young woman is pretty broken.]
[What do you see?] Alice asked.
[A lot of anger, see? {image} Anger is sort of yellowish, pain red.]
[Why did you look at her?]
[Not my idea. Possibly God's.]
[Oh.]
[Did you see that glimmer around her?]
[Yes. How do you interpret that?]
[It's a guess, but I expect she's got really fast reactions.]
[Thought-hearer?]
[That's my guess.]
[And the darkness?]
[She doesn't know the light.]
[But the darkness wasn't very dark, was it?]
[No. I'm still guessing she's not here entirely voluntarily though.]
[Why don't we ask her?]
[Because I'm an introvert, remember? I don't cope with normal people very well, let alone asking violent and dangerously angry girls things they might object to.]
[I guess it's up to me then. But you are planning to come along and protect me, aren't you?]
[Of course. As long as you do most of the talking.]
The departure procedure was quite simple, really. The crew of the space plane told people one by one to release their straps, and very slowly move themselves out of their seats. Then they had to assume a foetal position and allow themselves to be thrown gently along the fuselage; now (the crew explained) was not the time to learn how to move in zero gravity. Simon winced.
[What's the matter?] Alice asked.
[I hate that term. There's plenty of gravity here, we wouldn't be in orbit otherwise. We're in freefall, so there's zero apparent gravity. But zero gravity? We're a significant way down a gravity well, that's why we're going in circles!]
[You... pedant!] Alice said. [Don't change, I love you.]
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“Welcome to the Celestia,” a crew member said, catching Alice. “If you'll please slowly extend your legs. Wonderful. My colleague now will put magnetic bands around your shoes, which will give you some control. Move slowly as the magnets are not very strong. Please do not try to walk on the walls or ceilings, they're made of aluminium anyway, you'll just drift. Please make your way down the passageway and turn into the room to your left, find a seat, and strap yourself down. If you come unstuck from the floor, don't panic, just push yourself slowly off the ceiling and land with bent knees to absorb the impact. Remember to slow down before you get to the corner.”
Despite the warnings, Alice discovered that stopping when wearing magnetic straps was hard, and she felt she had probably done an impression of a cartoon character skidding round the corner, almost gaining herself a bruised face on the door-frame in the process.
Probably half of the chairs were already taken, with a significant gap around Miss Thornthwaite, who had sat in the chair closest to the door. Probably making a point. Oh well, here goes, Alice decided.
“Mind if I sit beside you?” she asked, having carefully shuffled her feet at a painfully slow speed to avoid repeating the accident.
“Would it matter if I did?” Miss Thornthwaite asked.
“Yes,” Alice said, “my husband and I can find somewhere else, I'm sure.”
“Oh, go ahead.”
“Thanks. I'm Alice.”
“Cecilia.”
“You're travelling alone?” Alice asked.
“Yeah. They split us up.”
“Us?”
“Me and Ralph, my boyfriend.”
“Who did that to you? That's not friendly.”
“Police. Said he's a bad influence on me. I guess you're a pair of happy colonists?”
“You're not?”
“Desperate criminals, Ralph and me. Well, desperate to get out of that life anyway. Plan A didn't work, so we're on a one-way ticket to farming. I can't believe there's no guards or anything.” Alice heard Cecilia decide not to tell her what plan A had been.
“Why should there be? You've chosen a new life.”
“You're not a social-worker are you?”
“Me? No, I'm a reporter,” Alice said.
“And you're packing it all in to go farm? You're nuts!” Cecilia said, “no offence meant,” she added a bit later.
“I'm not packing it in, just moving to a new office. Did you ever think you'd be an astronaut? Growing up, I mean?”
“Me? An astronaut? Don't be crazy, I left school before taking my exams.” Alice heard Cecilia deciding to leave her assuming that meant she didn't take them.
“Well, where are you travelling right now? Down the road to the shops?”
“Orbit.” Cecilia gaped at her in amazement. “Me! Cecilia the astronaut! What a thought.”
“Astronaut, Martian colonist, farmer and landowner eventually.”
“Yeah, eventually.”
“Do you know how much land you're going to get?”
“Not much; ten hectares.”
“Do you know how much that is?” Simon asked.
“Not really,” Cecilia admitted.
“Heard of anyone who had an allotment?”
“Yeah, my grandad.”
“Typical allotment is about fifty meters by fifty, you're getting forty times that size.”
“Grandad has so many vegetables he sells them,” Cecilia said, as realisation dawned.
“Exactly. So... what could your grandad do with forty allotments?”
“Get really tired.”
“Reckon he could live on it, though?” Alice asked.
“Yeah. No problem at all.”
Alice looked at the younger woman beside her, and quietly said “Feel free to tell me not be nosey, but are you actually being deported, or just coming with no cash of your own?”
“Not really sure. I guess technically I'd served my time by the time I got here.”
“Important difference,” Simon said.
“Is there?”
“Yes. If you're being deported then there's going to be guards, limited movement, and ten years good behaviour before you get your own claim. If you're coming because a social worker recommended a new start, then you're as free as anyone else once you get there.”
“Free to live with Ralph?” Cecilia asked.
“Assuming he's free too,” Alice said.
“He won't be,” Cecilia said, “I love the stupid idiot, but he's a complete nut-case sometimes, doesn't know how to stop.”
“I don't know what happens to deportees, sorry. Evangeline might,” Alice said.
“Did I hear my name?” Evangeline asked, bouncing off the ceiling. “Oh I love zero g.”
“Apparent g” Simon grumbled.
“OK, Mr physicist,” Evangeline challenged as she landed, “tell me an experiment that'll derive a non-zero value for little g in this frame of reference.” It was an argument she'd been stumped by on her way out.
“If you put an accurate accelerometer in the different corners of the room, there'll be differences.”
“How big?”
“Not very,” he admitted, “but measurable.”
“OK. I'll try to remember to say apparent. Now, what was I being asked about?”
“Can I live with my boyfriend when we get to Mars?” Cecilia asked.
“Are we talking sleeping arrangements, personality compatibility, or what?”
“He's on the Whitworth as a deportee.”
“Oh,” Evangeline said, then asked “You too?”
“Don't think so. I think I'm a social case. Didn't pay much attention, once I heard he was being deported.”
“Hmm, that's better news. That you're social, I mean. Crims are in dormitories, unless they're high security. Fifty to a dome, single sex. Ten hours work time, which is mostly construction work and is often night shifts. Eight hours rest time, three one hour meal breaks, three hours free time in a designated dome. As far as I know, that designated dome doesn't change. If you were a Crim too, then there'd be no guarantee that your free time will match, even if you got assigned to the same dome.”
“And as a social?”
“Free to live where you like. Except for minor things like buying a complex. Start saving, that's about all you can do for that.”
“A complex?”
“Field dome plus house dome.”
“I'm confused. Doesn't everyone live in the Mars Corp domes?”
“Nope. Do you really want to spend a large chunk of your time as a builder?”
“No.”
“So, pay attention in briefings,” Evangeline said, just as a crew member walked in wearing magnetic boots. He was about thirty.
“Hi, sorry, you're the fifth batch of the day, so you'll excuse me if I don't seem very thrilled at the idea of going through this all over again. The good news is you're also the last batch, so hopefully I won't have to rush. Any questions, please ask. My name's Barry Braithwaite. No jokes, please, I've heard them all before, and they're boring.”
“Preach it brother!” Cecilia called.
“Urm, sorry, I don't have the passenger list committed to memory. You're a Braithwaite?”
“Cecilia Thornthwaite. I guess our ancestors were once neighbours, or something.”
“Could be,” Barry acknowledged. “Anyway, I'm the purser this trip, which means I look after you lot, and keep the ship's records. When I say I look after you lot, that means if you need help you talk to me first. I do not do room-service, but you can reach me on the ship's intercom, dial 222. Don't get it confused with 111, that's the emergency number. By emergency, I do not mean you've run out of chocolate. Emergency means someone is going to die really soon. Broken leg, dial 222. Broken airlock, dial 222. Approaching alien warship, dial 222. Approaching asteroid, severed artery, or clang followed by your ears popping, dial 111.”
“Personal screamer going off?” Evangeline asked.
“111, may it never happen. Welcome aboard, Ms Durrel, I presume.”
“Used to be. I got married. I'm Mrs Durrel-Peebles now” Evangeline replied.
“Congratulations,” Barry said.
“What's a screamer?” someone asked from the back.
“Radiation monitor. A vital piece of Mars survival equipment. You'll all get one on arrival on Mars. Keep it with you at all times, along with your portable radiation shelter,” Barry supplied.
“Also known as your tent,” Evangeline said.
“How come she's got one already?” the same man asked.
“Ms Durrel, would you care to answer that?” Barry asked “Sorry, Mrs Durrel-Peebles.”
“'cos I'm Martian and I'm no jit.” that caused a stir of interest in her.
“Mrs Durrel-Peebles has kindly agreed to sit in on your orientation lectures and correct any mistakes, fill in any gaps, and generally give you the advantage of some of what she's grown up knowing.
“Every cycle, almost twenty thousand jits, that's to say new-comers, arrive on Mars. A fair number die. Not from accidents, but from stupidity. Stupidity like leaving their screamer or their tent at home, because they're not going out for long. Stupidity like going for a walk on their own and then having an accident. For your first year, you can't call yourself a Martian, and everyone will call you a jit. But if you're a real jit, then its really easy to end up as a dead jit.”
“Is that Earth year or Mars year?” someone asked.
“Earth.” Evangeline supplied.
“And we all get seventy five hectares?” a man asked.
“Depends on the population, and what sort of ticket you're on. If you join the queue before the population hits a million, then you get seventy five. The next day you get fifty. But don't you ever ask a Martian how big their claim is, that is just so rude. It doesn't really matter anyway, you can feed a family on two or three hectares.”
“So what's the rest of the land for?” another voice asked.
“Grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, picknick spots, holiday destinations, historical sites with a view to future tourism, roadside refreshment stops. Agricultural experiments, I know someone who thinks there'll be a market for skiing one day, so he's claimed a suitable mountain slope. Whatever you like, and if you change your mind, then you can visit the Mars Council offices and alter your claim. It doesn't cost much.”
“How much is not much?” yet another voice asked.
“Half a kilo of biomatter.”
“The Martian economy gets introduced on day three of orientation,” Barry said, putting a stop to that line of orientation, “today I need to tell you about life on the ship.”