Down Flowers - Terry Dowling, ebook
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//-->Down FlowersTerry DowlingOne step through the front door of the New Mars Hotel does it to me everytime. One moment there's the red sand of the Australian desert under yourfeet, the tired, dusty, ferric blood of the old, old land that has blown andstung and blinded you for as long as you can remember. The next — across thatlow raised E-scaled threshold — there's the other kind: an ultimateexuberance, the three hundred tonnes of sand brought down from Cydonia 61-12,lofted, carried between the worlds. Expense, distances, far-cycling orbitsnotwithstanding, the sand had been snatched down the gravity well and laid outred into red here at the New Mars Hotel, each handful reckoned a fortune. Itnever fails to work its magic.One step takes you from desert to desert, Simpson to Cydonia. One step setsyou on your way into the cool, dim interior, between pillars sleek withorichalk facings from Arsia, between the pressure cases and the totemicvac-suits of' the famous dead. To reach the bar, you pass beneath gentlyturning fans whose blades are made from scorched and pitted lander panels, goamong the Samplings, what many regard as the finest products of tribal lifeengineering, the Planetary Regulation Devices grown, groomed, sculpted atenormous cost to help the Pan-global Centuries Project bend Mars into thestrange quiet dream lodged at their hearts. There are ten such devices,lifeforms, structures at the New Mars I lotel, and — as the name suggests —they represent the full range of what many still dismissively call"planet-thumpers".Sometimes there are even spacemen at the bar among the PRDs: men, infrequentlywomen, as sleek and coppery as the orichalk, as groomed, sculpted and fabulousas the Samplings, sometimes as scorched and pitted as the blades of the slowlyturning fans.Jofas Eld was such a man, a tribal veteran, forty-three years old and lookingfifty-three from the hardside gragen treatments spacemen often elected tohave. From his place at the bar he saw me approach, took me for a customer andgave his professional smile. I saw his dark tribal face shift by stages intorecognition."Tom! I was hoping you'd arrive this morning! Thank you. Thank you forcoming.""What, Jofas? What's happened?"Ile looked about him. Two other patrons were being served at their table bythe waitress, Celia. There was no-one else at the bar. "This way."He emerged from behind the counter with a bottle and some glasses, led mebeyond the glossy turret of the Tharsis X-90 to a secluded corner booth at theback of a roped-off area.Another spaceman waited there, a younger man, on active status. He was bald,as most tribal spacemen are, powerful-looking in his bodyforms, hisscrap-jacket opened to reveal the birkin scars on his bare :hest glisteningthrough the skin treatments. The Ab'O spacemen, unlike the other CenturiesMarslanders, are like men of glass, oiled and lean as if made to slip betweenthe worlds. But where Jofas' once-smooth nahogany had crazed and pitted into"down flowers", a sign to all that he had failed at his chosen profession,this one looked new and ready. His eyes shone like black glass.Jofas indicated the younger man. "This is Runner Pye. Third officer of theJindawan.""A Mars ship," I said, impressed. Runner Pye looked so young. "Yes," Jofascontinued. "And Kurdaitcha."The young man saw my frown. "Please, Captain. Sit with us. We reed your help."I did so, then waited while Jofas poured drinks for us and gestured for Celiato look after the bar."Earlier this year," Runner Pye said, "there was a change of Towradji atArsia. Reckoning the orbits, coming sunwards from Mars, takes time, but twodays ago, Bellin Say Jana, my kinsman and returning Towradji, came down hereat Tinbilla. He left the aeromanker that rought him from Jindawan at 1146,then came over to the Hotel. I was his honour guard. Our tribal pick-up wasdelayed by bad wind outside Maldy. At 1420, he got up and headed for the door,presumably tired of waiting or these false Mars surroundings — who knows? Fourmetres from it he collapsed and died.""Trauma?""None. Nothing evident. No signs at all, except possibly the slightestsuggestion of' a smile. Corners of the mouth turning up." "But not a rictus?""Nothing as definite. The barest hint. As I said, Captain, no Fatima.""Autopsy?""Done upstairs by field medics." Which told me a lot. "Heartstop. But eventhat is dubious because of Jana's planetside treatments. The immune systemitself is adjusted. We groom Martians even as we build Mars.""So forensics give nothing?""Nothing conclusive.""It couldn't be the treatments, could it?""It never has been. We lose very few — some accidents in the field, techmalfunctions, dirigibles going down in the Martian wind. That sort of' thing.""So why me? What can I possibly do your own people can't?" "What I told him,Tom," Jofas added, "much as I want this solved. Runner Pye wanted you here."I regarded the young man sitting opposite. "Runner?"His dark eyes looked into mine. "Captain, I could say that this Hotel wasoriginally meant as a National concession, a tourist venue in this part ofAustralia. It became shared tenure because of tribal patronage and theinternational agreement to try for Mars again, but it does technically requirea representative from State of Nation.""But?""It has to do with security, of course."I saw the reason at once. "The tribes don't know! You have Jana's bodyupstairs. No-one else knows yet!"Runner Pye hesitated before speaking. "Not until we have answers. The bodyremains here. The medics will tell no-one. The mank crews won't. The captainof the vessel sent to collect him has been told, has laid over at Maldydeliberately, pretending technical difficulties. They know the importance ofthis. The official story is that Jindawan is delayed.""Surely scheduled approaches are monitored.""Only when scheduled. Jindawan wasn't. Captain, this is the Towradji of Arsiawho has died here, a great Clever Man of the Fair Chasda, who, so far from hispeople, learnt that his tribe was beaten in an engagement against the Sollaveon Lake Air, and was to face them again. He left his chosen home of thirteenyears, his work-of-the-heart, the very Project getting us all Mars again, andout of duty came back to replenish his tribe. He is not here three hours andhe dies under such mysterious circumstances.""You suspect Sollave intervention. An assassin sent to kill Jana here at thefield before he could reach his kin.""Possibility. You of all people, Captain, know..."Yes," I said, interrupting, thinking of mind-war: a dream knife sent plunginginto Jana's mind, or a fierce dark wind blowing out his tiny flame of life —though that would not explain the smile. "And that would be a major offence. APan-tribal one given Jana's services off-world.""It would mean terrible penalties against the Sollave, yes. Massive payback.""Certainly worth a third party's interference; someone working to set feelingagainst the Sollave.""You see how it is. We must have the truth." "So let me ask again. Why me?""First, you're a National. That protocol has been observed. second, you're asensitive who has some access to tribal mindfields."You've faced a dream knife, read the wind. You may read things we miss. It'scontingency...""But hardly a discreet choice at present. Third?" "Not yet."The real reason was something else."It could be natural, of course," I said."It could. Of course it could. Despite the coincidence.""Or suicide. Explaining the hint of a smile. It doesn't have to be murder."The Kurdaitcha sipped his drink, carefully set the glass down. No, it doesn't.But why would he come all this way just to take his own life?""I agree. So what will happen on theAir? The Fair Chasda wer ebeaten,you said.""In the first engagement of two. A year apart. It's the technicalities of theAir conflict which required his presence here now. The Prince was killed inthe first contest. As blood kin, Jana could have led the fleet as Prince protem fbr the second engagement. Continued the battle."""Then the Sollave have won.""They have. But next year they will lose. Another tribe will even the score.How it always goes.""He came home in vain.""Left home in vain. Mars was his home. Centuries Towradji die in theirpostings, Captain. It's a life position. He left his work-of-the-heart toattend his people, to be Prince for a day and give them that: one more day onthe Air. A great sacrifice. Gene samples are taken of all off-world personnel.Jana's personal contribution will not be lost.""What of the replacement Towradji?""Not an issue. Jana appointed his own replacement; he chose to return.""You're sure of this, Runner?"The young tribesman nodded."Other people in the bar?""Jofas was here. Celia. Two other staff. All cleared. No other patrons at thathour. No-one saw it happen.""Who knew Jana was returning?""The Fair Chasda Kutungurlu and Clever Men. The Arsia personnel. The crew ofJindawan. And they will be questioned. But that will be after Jana's death isannounced and the forfeiture declared.""If we rule out the coincidence of natural death, Sollave treachery or someother party's actions, what are we left with?"His dark eyes never left mine. "What indeed?""The other reason I'm here. It's the Samplings, isn't it?" "You were at Trale.Go on, Captain."I gazed out across the large main room at the orichalk pillars and slowlyturning thus, at the tables and softly-lit booths, the potted plants andspecial displays, peered through the restful gloom at the looming chess-piecetowers of the planetary regulation engines, what the Ab'O had brought to thetaming of worlds and the Centuries Accord.I could see five of the ten from where I sat: the Tharsis X-90 close by, likeoil turned on a lathe, further out, five metres beyond, the flaking,burnt-copper chalice of the Chryse Dowager, then the hooded verdigris spire ofthe Clever Dustman. Standing beyond the bar, fluted, tapered, as cold as bluesteel, was the sinister-looking spindle of a Nilosyrtis Ranger from Argyre,then a Stone Owl from the Hellas region, like sonic whorled and deeply-scouredmegalith. Beyond the pillars stood the others: the heat-wounded, peeled-open,honey-glass Sandpot, the immense glittering revetment of the Mock Biel, theshadowy forms of' the Cydonia Rex, the Druid Drum and the Quintain Decimante.One of each, dreaming there, vaguely, distantly alive, maimed and neutralisedand wonderfully strange — though, from practical need, expedience, quickly,easily reduced to mere sculptures, exotic flourishes. You needed tech to readthe life signals, the mentation indices; you had to be in the Hotel between0100 and 0600 when the timers brought up the UV floods and special benedictionlamps, poured out lifelight to feed the things.Jana had been there at the very opposite of that: when the sluggish, divertedmetabolisms barely lived, and the only mover of the bunch, the OuintainDecimante, hung frozen, its scissoring upper parts caught in mid-closure. Onlyonce, during a routine layover, had Jofas brought me down at 0300, the deadheart of the night, and let me see the taproom changed, lit with an eerieglare, the Quintain thumping away energetically in its corner, ministering toitself; making Mars in some dim part of what passed for its mind.They did remind me of Trale, these PRDs, of course they did, the lonelysand-shores where the tribal biotects, in a less generous, lessinternationally minded time, had dumped their thiled life-experiments, where Ihad seen that vigorous discarded life fighting to survive, and more — tocommunicate with the only ones who could save it."What has this to do with Trale?" I asked."Possibly nothing," Runner Pye said. "But you solved a murder there and youcame from it having made some kind of important communication."Of course he would know that, being Kurdaitcha."These are far less cognate than the Trale relicts," I said. "They'rehard-posting engines.""Yes, but they must be intended to work near humans in some way.""Then ask the designers at the life-houses.""We will. But now we make do with what we have. We must make do. Jana's bodyis upstairs. The Jindawan-delayed story gives us till this afternoon. We musthave this solved before the Sollave learn of it."What to say? What to tell this determined, troubled third officer frying tosave loss of face, to explain the loss of such a life?I turned to Jofas, found him watching me, his eyes bright within heice-crystal mask of' the down flowers. "How long have the Samplings beBenhere?""Close on a century," he said. "When the sand from 64-12 was authorised, andthe other memorabilia, these regional selections were made part of the decoras well.""A very costly part. Bringing back actual originals.""It was appropriate. A lot of biotects made the crossing then, site-tuning thePRDs. Far more than you'll find on Centuries expeditions now. It was an easyextravagance and a necessary control sampling. Also a part of some ritualreciprocity with the new world.""Have there been other deaths?"Something shifted in Jofas's eyes. "I've been here eight years. This is thefirst."I didn't believe him, so turned to Runner Pye. "Well?"When the young Kurdaitcha hesitated, I granted there could be further fearsand conflicts of interest, and so phrased it differently. "Any otherunexplained deaths in this place?""Fourteen," he admitted, which changed everything, had to be part of theultimate reason for this present investigation. The death of a Towradji, yes,the implications of that in terms of continuing Fair Chasda actions againstthe Sollave, crucially so, but far more significant: fourteen unexplaineddeaths in this taproom, in the vicinity of these bioforms, however curtailedtheir functions."All tribal deaths?"Runner Pye nodded. "All tribal.""We'll need full identity and forensic profiles on those deaths, andspecifications for each of the Samplings. What each was designed to do.Then..."Runner Pye held up three sheets of flag foil, not paper, not disk or mote, butself-destroying hard copy.I took them, regarded the fourteen names, the inconclusive postmortemfindings, other items of associated data. Attached was the Sampling list.Runner Pye let me start on that but clearly needed to speak. This Towradji hadobviously commanded a personal loyalty from him. Kinsman, he'd called himearlier. Runner was Kurdaitcha, but perhaps kinship was still involved."You know the shaping process, Captain?""In general tennis, Runner. I've never seen the Centuries data.""We accepted the gift of beginning it. Our part in the great work. The firstphase involved again contriving a greenhouse effect to warm the planet. Theoriginal atmosphere was mainly carbon dioxide with traces of carbon monoxidewater vapour, sonic inert gases. We introduced fluorine, chlorine, bromine,other gases to absorb the sun's heat, raised the temperature to where watervapour and more carbon dioxide were released from the polar caps and surfacedeposits. Earlier versions of the first three engines listed there assisted inthat. Whether Martian gravity can hold such a thickened atmosphere stillremains to be seen. Those same planet-thumper PRDs are now engaged in stagetwo. As well as tailored lichens and algae converting the CO2 Samplings 1 to 5are scattered in their thousands over the Martian surface, feeding on thatCOD, giving out Oxygen, matching that to the production of greenhouse gases.There are other functions, you understand, but they're still the main ones.These units here continue to survive this way, but with a more pronouncedphototropism. They've been modified and are, in effect, self-modifying.""But essentially solar-powered there too.""Light-powered. Like plants, yes. On Mars, sunlight on the oxygen-enrichedmantle has increased the ozone layer vital for absorbing the harmful]radiation. Samplings 6 and 7 have additional ozone-forming capabilities inthat regard.""So now I imagine a lightning storm in the Towradji's heart, his nervoussystem shorting out."Rumanner" Pye took me seriously. "There would be clear signs for that.Trauma."""Certainly not a smile. So what remains?""Units 8 and 9 are principally nitrogen-producing engines, working withnitrogen-fixing properties in the other classifications to help build thebiosphere, with back-up functions involving 02, and ozone production."Number 10 is blank.""The Druid Drum, yes.""Why, Runner?""I do not know.""You've asked?""Many of us have. The biotects guard their secrets of those early days, evenfrom the Accord Authority, I'm sure. Their briefs are on record; theirsolutions are confidential, ritually protected. Part of the Accord.""Your actions are ritually protected. Kurdaitcha do not have to ask.""It was the first time I'd seen Runner Pye smile, and, mystery within mystery,I read the Kurdaitcha by it."Let me guess. The third officer of Jindawan has only recently been appointedKurdaitcha. He has not yet told his superiors about this. Operating alone, hehas simply accessed existing records. He means to solve this crime--all thedeaths here at the New Mars Hotel — though I suspect not just to advancehimself He has taken a great risk to do it. Runner Pye is now Pan-tribalKurdaitcha. You mentioned kinship. May I ask if he remains a fully sworn FairChasda?"Again the smile, the hesitation, and this time a nod."I have exceeded my authority, yes. I was Fair Chasda. I must find out if thisis murder: all these deaths, but Jana's in particular. If it's Sollave action,I will expose that and therefore myself — and be sung for it. But Jana will beavenged."The few patrons had departed, I noticed, and Celia was nowhere to be seen."Can I examine the body?""I'm sorry. The medics have sealed it away. You think I've lied about the lackof trauma? About the smile?""No, Runner. I don't. Tell me, what is the distribution ratio for theseunits?""You mean placement? I'm not sure.""Numerical will do."
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