TWENTY-ONE

The universe was a big place, but somehow it kept coming up with the same assholes. Last time Brooklyn had been to Mars, he’d had to orbit three days waiting for clearance to dock at the space station, and authorities held him in customs for another two while they tore apart the Victory and impounded half of his cargo, no matter that none of it had been on the naughty list the time before. Head asshole in charge then had been a “Lt. Carlson Rumley,” and guess who picked up when Brooklyn called down and asked for a place to land.

“No cargo this time, Lt,” Brooklyn said. “Just a passenger bound for a conference at the university. Already sent over the paperwork.”

“Cab driver,” Rumley snorted. “Looks like you’ve found your level of competence. What’s the passenger’s name, Captain?” The last two syllables of the question dripped with disdain. Brooklyn had ended his military career as a specialist, and nothing was going to make Rumley happy about honoring him with a title above his own.

“Dr Jillian Milk.” Brooklyn spelled it. “Representing the New Venusian Medical Association.”

“Standby for confirmation, Victory. I won’t remind you that attempting to land without approval will not be tolerated.” The comm channel shut off.

“Reminds me of a second looey had once.” Demarco leaned way back in the copilot seat, his feet up on the dash. “Grade-A peckerwood wit’ a D-level grasp of the job. Dangerously dumb. Fell out th’ airlock during an attack on Red China one day and became Navigation Hazard 13591B.” He sucked his teeth. “Wonder if he still out there…”

“Dunno how competent Rumley is, but he’s a mean son of a bitch. Definitely one of those New Aryan Nation types.”

“Mars for the Best. Venus for the Rest. Think I saw a bumper sticker.”

Their orbit took them over a patch of lights and structures so distant it might have been a circuit board. Brooklyn pointed. “Think that’s Yaegerton. Where the university is.”

“Can’t believe my life sometimes. I was a kid we ain’t made the Moon yet.” Demarco stroked his chin. “Queen City of Mars. Shoulda called it Deja Thoris.”

“Why?”

Demarco popped an eyebrow. “Still ain’t familiar with books, I see. Let your Uncle Leon tell you ’bout ’em.”

Rumley interrupted the lecture. “Looks like your ID checks out, Lamontagne. I wonder about your doctor’s taste, though, chartering a shit heap like your boat to bring her across.”

“Doctor’s a good friend of mine,” Brooklyn said. “So’s her fella, Yuri Kasperov, city director in De Milo. You ever need a favor there, feel free to drop my name.”

“You won’t see me living with the cavemen.” Static buzzed. “There’ll be a team out to search your ship when you land. Try something smart, why don’t you.”

“Good talkin’ to you, Lt.” Brooklyn killed the channel. “I like the Russian side of the planet a lot better.”

“Reds on the Red Planet.” Demarco grinned. “Whoopee!”

Brooklyn landed the Victory at Roosevelt Dome, eschewing the big public terminal in favor of a small landing pad run by Federal Express. No one had told him not to, and it would take a while for Rumley’s people to catch up. His best local contact met them at the airlock. “Figured I’d try to catch you out here in case you had anything good,” she said. “Security is getting weird about what they’ll allow in.”

“Just got off the phone wit’ the big-dick weirdo. Don’t have much to offer this trip.” He turned to his companions. “This is Gisela Jurek, formerly the Terror of Chicago, now friend to all the little green men of Mars.”

Gisela offered her hand around. “My grandfather was the real terror. Polish mafia. Mars is his idea of a new leaf for the family.”

“Second or third best kind of leaf,” Milk said. “What did you mean when you said things were getting weird?”

Gisela’s mouth twisted. “Planet’s apparently not big enough to play nicely on. Last month or so the Soviets and Americans have been hissing at each other nonstop.”

“Guess they ain’t got the message that all humanity got the boot.” Demarco chewed his lip. “United we screwed, divided we screwed worse. Russkies want Mars to be a Red planet, and President Buchanan wants to paint it red, white, and blue with just enough brown to keep the lawns mowed and fruit picked.”

“Speaking of self-interest,” Gisela rubbed her hands together, “what do you have for me in that boat of yours?”

“Got good news and bad news for you, Brook.” Gisela folded her arms. “Good news is I’ll take your robots. Bad news is I can’t give you much.”

“This is good tech, Gizzy. There’s no way you’ve got anything like this here.” He thumped the Jelly exoskeleton in the chest and a piece of metal clattered lightly to the ground. “Bet there’s not too many on Earth, for that matter.”

“Probably none on Earth that aren’t full of jellies,” Gisela nodded slowly, “but all the rest are here. Both sides have them, bought right from the source, and they’ve rigged them out as drone troops. If there’s a war here, these fuckers will be fighting it first.” She pulled a hand-sized flatscreen from her pocket and activated it. She flipped through menus and opened a file of digital images. “See…”

Brooklyn and Milk leaned to see a crystal-clear image, dozens of the older-style Jelly exos, in formation, each with a Stars-and-Stripes motif. “Jelly Tech is all over Mars now. This screen’s an example. You’d have been better off bringing a case of potato chips.”

“What about the paintings?”

“I have some feelers out.”

“The dolls?”

“What dolls?”

“Crammed in with the exos. Buncha them. Used them to keep the exos from clattering around. Red, furry things that jiggle and talk.”

Gisela’s eyes widened. “Tickle Me Elmos?”

Brooklyn nodded.

“Hell didn’t you say something earlier?”