Losing Mars (Saving Mars Series-3)

Book Three in the Saving Mars Series

Cidney Swanson

For my parents,

Bill and Adele,

who first showed me Mars

set against an inky sky

Copyright © 2013 by Cidney Swanson

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

This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978–1–939543–02–8

1

A SINGLE RED HAIR

A single red hair pulled together for Lucca Brezhnaya, Terran Chancellor, a long trail of events. Upon that single strand hung, like beads in a row, happenings as seemingly unrelated as the kidnapping of her nephew Pavel, erratic fluctuations in the world tellurium market, and terrorist attempts to destroy the Terran satellites of the Mars Containment Program. Mars Colonial. After all these decades—after more than a
century
—to find the Martians were alive and plotting against Earth—against
her
—it was nothing short of shocking.

But the strand of hair (and smudge of blood) found inside an abandoned escape pod whispered it was all true, too true. The genetic tests were conclusive. The same Martian who had months earlier assaulted Earth’s second-in-command and seduced her nephew had now returned, bringing disastrous quantities of tellurium in the hold of a sunken Mars Class Interplanetary Transport.

The Martians had pinpointed a weakness in Terran economics.

Terrans feared that Earth’s tellurium reserves might run dry. Feared it even more than inciter attacks, if pre-election polls were to be believed. The rare-earth metal was needed for successful consciousness transfer. If it came your turn to rebody in a third or fourth body and there was a shortage? To
not
be able to leave a decrepit body for the younger one you had earned, had been promised? It was unthinkable.

Lucca had leveraged two tellurium shortages in the past century. During the first shortage, citizens had resorted to very bad behavior indeed. And Lucca had learned from that. She punished perpetrators of violence by denying them any rebody at all. When a second panic struck over the dwindling tellurium supply, Lucca had managed things very differently, instituting a clear carrot-and-stick system. Citizens had rallied this time, outdoing one another in good deeds and acts of civic responsibility that still brought a smile to Lucca’s face.

For decades, Lucca had been troubled that her ministers and economists could offer no explanation as to how either shortage had been resolved. Both crises had simply. . .
disappeared
. It was as if someone other than herself had been manipulating the supply. And now she had excellent reason to believe someone
had
.

The discovery of a planet’s ransom of tellurium in the hold of the crashed ship was deeply disturbing. Someone
knew
. Some Martian had figured out that Lucca maintained strict control over the world reserves of tellurium—and thereby over Earth’s citizenry—and some Martian had determined that flooding the market would effectively destabilize Lucca’s hold upon the planet. Mars knew all this about Earth, while Lucca knew so little about the survivors on the red planet. It was infuriating. It was troubling.

For how long had Mars exercised this sort of interference? For how long had they been planning this overthrow of the careful balance of governmental control? It chilled Lucca to think it could have been going on for a century already.

But perhaps the threat was of recent origin, born of desperation. The Martians had sent a mere child—that red-headed girl, who was wandering free upon Earth even now.
With her nephew
! Lucca’s face twisted into a grimace.

It could have been the red-haired girl’s contact with Pavel that had suggested to the Mars colonists sending large amounts of tellurium. How many times had Lucca said, in her nephew’s presence:
Control the flow of tellurium, and you control the planet
.

She cursed bitterly.

She wanted that girl.

Lucca’s head rang with the excuses of her
former
intelligence officers when she’d demanded they track and capture the escapee from the tiny pod:
too large an area; satellite-cams don’t recalibrate targets instantly; escape vessel possibly a decoy.

But Lucca knew the escape pod had
not
been a decoy.

The Chancellor was glad she’d thought to swab for Jessamyn’s genetic material after their original encounter on the Isle of Skye. The girl may have begun as Pavel’s kidnapper back then, but she’d ended as his seducer, luring him away from a lifetime—or
several
lifetimes—of service to Lucca.

More than ever, it was essential that Lucca discover the location of her nephew and of the wretched red-haired girl.

“Jessamyn.” Lucca said the name as if it were a curse fouler than any she’d recently uttered. The Chancellor pinged one of her secretaries. It was time to call in someone more suited to the delicate task of locating the Martian.

“Place a call to Major Vladim Wu,” said the Chancellor.

Vladim was thorough. Vladim was patient. Vladim always brought Lucca the things she wanted most.

And right now, she wanted the Martian.

Vladim would find the girl. And when he did? Lucca would uncover Mars’s secret plans.

The grimace on Lucca’s features was replaced by a serene expression that would have suggested her thoughts were peaceful.

They were not.

2

MERRY MORN

It was the third morning in a row Jessamyn’s solitude had been disturbed by the old woman chewing her clay pipe. Jess had never been an early riser, but something about the desert mornings in Yucca called to her, and she found herself day after day waking in time to take in sunrise. It was a quiet time, the hour or so stolen from productive activities. The light—softened, golden-brown—reminded her of home. She knew the light on Mars was less bright than this, even at midday during Marsian summer. It troubled her that she was growing so quickly accustomed to this light, to Earth.

Still, if there was no stirring of air upon her face, she could close her eyes and imagine herself inside a walk-out suit somewhere in the Bradbury Canyon region of her home world. It was an exercise she treasured; it was also deeply private.

When she heard the old woman’s shuffling step from behind her, she sighed in frustration.

“Merry morn,” said the old woman, as she had for three successive days.

It was nearly time to report for work anyway, thought Jess. Uncertain as to the etymology of the greeting, but certain as to its meaning, Jessamyn decided today to return the salutation with more than just a nod and a quick departure. “Merry morn back at you,” she said.

The old woman smiled, revealing gaps that must have held teeth once. It was the first time Jess had seen that expression on the solemn old face. It changed her appearance utterly. She looked … well, she looked
merry
with the smile in place.

Jess made a decision and held her hand out. “We weren’t officially introduced when I arrived last week. I’m Jessamyn Jaarda, Ethan’s sister.”

The old woman extended a leathery hand, clasped Jessamyn’s, and then placed her other hand upon Jess’s extended hand, holding it there for a moment. The action echoed Harpreet’s warm way of taking an offered hand with both of hers.

“I know who you be. I’m called Odessa,” said the old woman. “There are few in Yucca as know my name. Most call me Gran and leave it at that. But you, dearie, well,
you
ought to know how my folks called me.”

Jessamyn had no idea why
she
ought to know this. Further, she was now confused as to how she should address the aged woman before her. As Odessa? As Gran?

“It’s time. Come with Gran, then,” commanded the old woman, turning and trudging slowly away.

“Time for what?”

The old woman ignored the question.

Jessamyn hesitated. Who knew where the aged wanderer was heading off to now? “I’ve got chores.”

“Course you do,” Gran replied, continuing her labored progress across a stretch of hardpan.

Jessamyn took a quick look at her chrono-tattoo. She would be late in seven minutes. What did the old woman have in mind? Jess followed her.

“Just over here,” Gran called, passing behind a cluster of rocks, pink in the morning light. “Rattlers like to sun themselves here, so best to come early, before their circulation’s had a chance to get going.”

Jessamyn shivered at the mention of rattlesnakes. She was still getting used to the idea that she now lived in a place where sentient creatures were capable of ending her life. Following the path the old woman had chosen, Jess found Gran pausing beside a grouping of boulders.

“I was just your age when I lost my home,” said Gran. “You ever heard of the great apocalypse that destroyed the City of Angels?”

Jess, who thought she’d heard of it in history, nodded.

“A lovely home I had as a girl. Just on the beach. Seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit all the year round. But that’s long gone, now.” She looked off into the distance as if remembering. Then she looked to Jessamyn. “It don’t do to be without a place to call home.” Saying this, she bent over one of the lower boulders, scraping a knife along a darkish portion of the rock.

“What is that?” Jessamyn asked.

“Lichen,” said the old woman. “Avoid the yellow kind.” Here she tapped her knife on a yellowed patch of a neighboring rock’s surface. “Gray’s good, yellow’s yucky,” she murmured, in a kind of sing-song.

The sound of the knife upon the stone raised tiny hairs along Jessamyn’s arm and the back of her neck. It reminded her of the time a schoolmate had brought shards of glass from his father’s factory and dragged the sharpened corner of one bit along the smooth surface of another.

Don’t think of home
, she reminded herself.

“Now you try,” Gran said, interrupting Jessamyn’s recollections.

Jess accepted the proffered knife and tiny bag.

“Careful not to spill any,” Gran warned. “Takes a century to grow a patch like this. Lasts less than three months in a village the size of ours. Go on then, girl. You scared of knives or somethin’?”

Jess felt her neck heating with embarrassment. “I’m going to be late,” she said.

Gran continued as though Jessamyn hadn’t spoken. “Pass the tip of the knife under the edge. Whole thing’ll peel right off if you get it right.”

Jess grasped the blade more securely and looked for a peeling edge. She considered one, then another, before finally settling upon a third.

“Good. Good,” muttered the old woman at her side. “You may fly fast, but you’re a patient one when the situation calls for it. You’ll do well. Old Odessa know how to pick ’em.”

A section of the grayish-black lichen lifted free and Jess deposited it inside the leather pouch.

“Yessiree,” said the old woman. “You’ll do, girl.”

“Do for what?” asked Jess, knife point under a new section.

“Didn’t I say already? Mind plays tricks on you, you get to be my age.”

“You didn’t say,” replied Jess.

“Got a feeling,” said Gran. “Old Odessa’s not long for these parts. Hey!” she cried out. “That’s enough. We leave the rest for whoever needs it next year.”

Jess passed the knife back to the old woman’s waiting hand, gnarled and browned.

“Won’t be me, I don’t ‘spect,” Gran muttered. “Once you got it in the bag, you want to grind it up a bit, by pinching your fingers over the bag like this.” She demonstrated a method that Jess was certain reduced the lichen to crumbles. “Then, when you take it to the Shirff, it don’t look like nothing but a pinch of dirt. Shirff’ll have it ground finer, of course. And distributed.”

“What
is
it?” asked Jess, still fairly certain her earlier question as to what she was doing had been skipped entirely.