TWENTY-SIX

“You sure you can handle that thing?” Tommy said.

Brooklyn scowled. Ruth or someone had built the one-man pods out of scrap metal, constructing what was essentially an egg-shaped Faraday Cage with a bench seat and hand controls. Each of the things ran off a First Tech lifter the size of a pack of cigarettes and moved at little more than the speed of a Central Park ice-cream truck. “Reckon I can handle it, pard.”

“Riding the fences” was usually a semi-weekly chore, but the attack moved it up the to-do list. Bullets and pressurization were not on good terms. “Alright then.” Tommy’s pod rose a couple of feet above the surface, dimly glowing First Tech blue. Brooklyn followed in his own pod, beginning a slow clockwise trip around the crater’s edge with an eye out for leaks. Tommy had a sound system in his vehicle, and a George Jones album started playing on the radio channel they were using.

“Really?” Brooklyn said. “Get my ass out of bed early – with a fucking hangover no less – to help you out and this is how you pay me back.”

“Got some Dolly and Loretta in here. Johnny Cash, Waylon. You’ll be hearin’ from them soon enough.”

The crater roof was a materials sandwich two-feet thick. Aluminum, carbon fiber, obsidian polymers, and regolith all played a part. Low gravity allowed for a structure that would have pancaked on Earth.

They piloted a grid pattern over the surface of the roof, keeping an eye out for damage or escaping vapor. Tommy and Brooklyn made small talk while they flew, but mostly they just listened to the music.

“See why you like this,” Brooklyn said. “Quiet. Kind of reminds me of the Moon.”

Tommy laughed. “Your Moon tour was all fucking around and computer work. I did combat drills and PT all day.”

“Look how that turned out. I ended up MIA and a POW, and you didn’t get to shoot no one ’til you moved to Mars and turned farmer.”

“Really wasn’t much of a war, was it?”

“Lost a lotta people.”

Dolly was singing about being two doors down from a party.

“I’m betting there’s a counter-attack plan or two running somewhere. Shop full of analysts still looking for weaknesses.” Tommy sucked his teeth. “First can’t lock everything down.”

Brooklyn snorted. “Looks like there’s plenty of chest thumping on Mars ta keep the war machine happy a while. Between the Soviets and your Wild Bunch, not seeing a lot of peace, love, and understanding up here.”

“Let’s just get this done.”

Demarco was drinking gin with Zawadi outside the bunkhouse. He flipped Tommy and Brooklyn a lazy wave. “Plenty to share.” He nodded to the younger woman. “Zee was just telling me her life story.”

Tommy said he’d be right back, and Brooklyn pulled out a seat at the table. Demarco poured him a drink. “Told Zee about the fancy party we goin’ to. ’Bout to ask her if she wants to be my plus-one.”

“How fancy?” she said.

“Black tie. Pretty dress. Whichever you like. All expenses paid. Clothes, hotel, food, open bar.”

“I have time coming,” she said. “It’s a date.”

The sun was just peeking over the dunes when they started the two-hour ride to the train station in Bradbury, the small dome where Tommy and his crew shipped out their goods and did most of their resupply. The middle truck in the convoy was loaded with barrels of sweet potatoes, peanuts, and crates of Tommy’s homemade hooch. Brooklyn had a sample case riding beside him in truck number one.

“Still think you shoulda named the distillery after me,” he said. “Taught you how to make the stuff, after all.”

“Had to forget all that bullshit to finally get good at it.” Tommy was comfortable in the driver’s seat, steering with one hand. “Named it after a dog I had as a kid.”

Demarco leaned over the seat back to grab the bottle parked between Brooklyn and Tommy. “Give that dog a steak.” He refilled his flask, not spilling a drop in spite of the rough road. “Nice of you to give us a personal escort to the train, Farmer Tom.”

“There’s a big refugee camp a couple dozen miles from Bradbury, and I could use some more hands. Be nice to sign up a family or two, get some more kids running ’round the place.”

“You put the kids to work too?” Demarco said.

“Only got nine of them so far. Sister’s kids. Ruth’s two. Zawadi’s brother has a couple. Few more among the crew. They do family chores, mostly. Help out with the farm if they want some pocket money. Ma and my Aunt Lillian run a little school and library for them. Five or six more kids will keep them busy.”

“Happens when the kids get all big and surly?” Demarco said.

“Work on the farm, I guess. Or school. Up to them.” He took a swig from the bottle. “I’ll help out if I can. Mars needs good people.”

Brooklyn chuckled. “Look at you, man. Job creator. Pillar of the community. Liable to come back here and find you running for mayor.”

“Not me,” Tommy said. “Nixon lives in Yaegerton. Kissinger, too. Dole’s got a place up here for when he’s ready. I don’t see us getting along.”

Demarco spat. “Evil fucks’ll live forever up here.”

Brooklyn stretched out his legs. The cab of Tommy’s International Harvester was roomier than the Trailduster. “Think we’ll get back the deposit on our truck?” The last he’d seen, it was parked beside Ruth’s garage, riddled with holes.

“Still runs,” Tommy said. “Ruth will drive it back next time she goes to Roosevelt. She’s related to the Carlisles. Second cousin, second husband, or something. If I know her, she’ll come back to the farm with a load of parts and money in her pocket for the trouble. Damned thing was stolen from us in the first place.”

The bottle emptied steadily during the drive, most of it into Brooklyn and Demarco. By the time Tommy got the Harvester through one of Bradbury’s public airlocks, Brooklyn’s enhanced metabolism had burned it off. Demarco seldom looked like he was affected by the stuff one way or another. They grabbed their bags, and Brooklyn tucked his sampler case under his arm. Zawadi wandered up from the third vehicle, her own travel bag slung over her shoulder.

Tommy looked at his watch. “Should be a train along in about thirty minutes. I’d wait with ya, but I need to see a guy about buying this produce.”

“I’d offer to shake, but,” Demarco shrugged his right shoulder, crisscrossed by the straps of his sling. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

Tommy smiled. “Any friend of Brooklyn, and all that shit.” He cocked his head at Zawadi. “You all set getting back?”

“Be back here in time to catch Amos. Said he’d give me a ride home if I buy him lunch.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Lunch, dinner, and breakfast, more likely. When’s he gonna ask you to marry him, Zee? I’ll triple your living space. Couple of kids for Ma to tend to and an experienced ice miner. Win all around.”

“What makes you think I’d take him if he asked?” She smiled at Demarco. “Sometimes a girl’s just looking for a good time.”

Tommy threw a thick arm around Brooklyn’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug, bag and all. “Good to see you, pal. Don’t be a stranger.”