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Bear, Greg - Moving Mars UC FR.htm

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"If anyone is the complete master of the "grand-scale SF novel, it's Bear....[Moving Mars] is also told

extremely well with nothing lacking in either scientific soundness or literary excellence." —Booklist

"Greg Bear's Moving Mars dramatizes life in a young society struggling against both a powerful Earth

and the rigors of its own inhospitable world. Long, epic in sweep, and scrupulous in its details regarding

the nature of Mars and the difficulties in settling the planet....The novel's best moments involve Bears

ingenious biological and physical speculations, which do not simply color the narrative but (it is one of

Bear's characteristic strengths) shape and inform its texture."

—The Washington Post

"Bear's Mars is one of the most vividly realized of the recent body of areological novels....He has the gift

of implying a whole background with high-resolution but subtly-signaled background details, again built

into the language of the milieu rather than in more obtrusive devices." —Locus

"Mars fans are in for a real treat with the publication of Moving Mars by Greg Bear. A young Martian

scientist makes an astounding discovery that plays a key element in the deteriorating relationship between

Earth and its colony. After a deceptively slow start in which Mr. Bear sows the seeds of his piquant

premise with delicate precision, this grand adventure in hard science fiction surges forward to a powerful

resolution." —Romantic Times

"Greg Bear is a writer's writer, and Moving Mars is another winner. It's chock full of physics,

metaphysics, nano-biology and gritty politics, set amid a dazzling high-tech twenty-second-century cold

war between Earth and Mars. This is as good as hard science fiction gets." —Portland Oregonian

"Moving Mars is an accomplished, thoroughly mature novel that should be placed at the top of anyone's

'to be read' stack."

—Science Fiction Age

Other books by Greg Bear

Anvil of Stars

Beyond Heaven's River

Blood Music

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Eon Eternity

The Forge of God

Hardfought

Heads

Hegira

Legacy

New Legends (editor)

Psychlone Queen of Angels

Slant

Songs of Earth and Power Strength of Stones

Tangents The Wind from a Burning Woman

TOR"

A TQM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as

"unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this

"stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real

people or events is purely coincidental.

MOVING MARS

Cover art by Wayne Barlowe Stepback art by Eric Peterson

A Tor Book

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Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN: 0-812-52480-2

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-26546

First edition: November 1993

First mass market edition: December 1994

Printed in the United States of America 0987654

For Ray Bradbury

A day on Mars is a little longer than a day on Earth: 24 hours and 40 minutes. A year on Mars is less than two Earth

years: 686 Earth days, or 668 Martian days. Mars is 6,787 kilometers in diameter, compared to Earth's 12,756 kilometers.

Its gravitational acceleration is 3.71 meters per second squared, or just over one-third of Earth's. The atmospheric

pressure at the surface of Mars averages 5.6 millibars, about one-half of one percent of Earth's. The atmosphere is largely

composed of carbon dioxide. Temperatures at the "datum" or reference surface level (there is no "sea level," as there are

presently no seas) vary from -130° to +27° Celsius. An unprotected human on the surface of Mars would very likely freeze

within minutes, but first would die of exposure to the near-vacuum. If this unfortunate human survived freezing and low

pressure, and found a supply of oxygen to breathe, she would still be endangered by high levels of radiation from the sun

and elsewhere.

After Earth, Mars is the most hospitable planet in the Solar System.

Part One

The young may not remember Mars of old, under the yellow Sun, its cloud-streaked skies dusted pink, its

soil rusty and fine, its inhabitants living in pressurized burrows and venturing Up only as a rite of passage

or to do maintenance or tend the ropy crops spread like nests of intensely green snakes over the wind-

scoured farms. That Mars, an old and tired Mars filled with young lives, is gone forever.

Now I am old and tired, and Mars is young again.

Our lives are not our own, but by God, we must behave as if they are. When I was young, what I did

seemed too small to be of any consequence; but the shiver of dust, we are told, expands in time to the

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planet-sweeping storm ...

2171, M.Y. 53

An age was coming to an end. I had studied the signs half-innocently in my classes, there had even been

dire hints from

2 Greg Bear

a few perceptive professors, but I had never thought the situation would affect me personally .. . Until

now.

I had been voided from the University of Mars, Sinai. Two hundred classmates and professors in the same

predicament lined the brilliant white floor of the depot, faces crossed by shadows from sun shining

through the webwork of beams and girders supporting the depot canopy. We were waiting for the Soils

Dorsa train to come and swift us away to our pla-nums, planitias, fossas, and valleys.

Diane Johara, my roommate, stood with her booted foot on one small bag, tapping the tip of the boot on

the handle, lips pursed as if whistling but making no sound. She kept her face pointed toward the northern

curtains, waiting for the train to nose through. Though we were good friends, Diane and I had never

talked politics. That was basic etiquette on Mars.

"Assassination," she said.

"Impractical," I murmured. I had not known until a few days ago how strongly Diane felt. "Besides, who

would you shoot?"

"The governor. The chancellor."

I shook my head.

Over eighty percent of the UMS students had been voided, a gross violation of contract. That struck me as

very damned unfair, but my family had never been activist. Daughter of BM finance people, born to a

long tradition of caution, I straddled the fence.

The political structure set up during settlement a century before still creaked along, but its days were

numbered. The original settlers, arriving in groups of ten or more families, had dug warrens in water-rich

lands all over Mars, from pole to pole, but mostly in the smooth lowland plains and the deep valleys.

Following the Lunar model, the first families had formed syndicates called Binding Multiples or BMs.

The Binding Multiples acted like economic super-families; indeed, "family" and "BM" were almost

synonymous. Later settlers had a choice of joining established BMs or starting new ones; few families

stayed independent.

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MOVING MARS 3

Many BMs merged and in time agreed to divide Mars into areological districts and develop resources in

cooperation. By and large, Binding Multiples regarded each other as partners in the midst of Martian

bounty, not competitors.

"The train's late. Fascists are supposed to make them run on time," Diane said, still tapping her boot.

"They never did on Earth," I said.

"You mean it's a myth?"

I nodded.

"So fascists aren't good for anything?" Diane asked.

"Uniforms," I said.

"Ours don't even have good uniforms."

Elected by district ballot, the governors answered only to the inhabitants of their districts, regardless of

BM affiliations. The governors licensed mining and settlement rights to the BMs and represented the

districts in a joint Council of Binding Multiples. Syndics chosen within BMs by vote of senior advocates

and managers represented the interests of the BMs themselves in the Council. Governors and syndics did

not often see eye to eye. It was all very formal and polite— Martians are almost always polite—but many

procedures were uncodified. Some said it was grossly inefficient, and attempts were being made to unify

Mars under a central government, as had already happened on the Moon.

The governor of Syria-Sinai, Freechild Dauble, a tough, chisel-chinned administrator, had pushed hard for

several years to get the BMs to agree to a Statist constitution and central governmamt authority. She

wanted them to give up their syndics in favor of representation by district. This meant the breakup of BM

power, of course.

Dauble's name has since become synonymous with corruption, but at the time, she had been governor of

Mars's largest district for eight Martian years and was at the peak of her long friendship with power. By

cajoling, pressuring, and threatening, she had forged—some said forced—agreements between the largest

BMs. Dauble had become the focus of

4 Greg Bear

Martian Unity and was on the sly spin for president of the planet.

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Some said Dauble's own career was the best argument for change, but few dared contradict her.

A vote was due within days in the Council to make permanent the new Martian constitution. We had lived under the

Dauble government's "trial run" for six months, and many grumbled loudly. The hard-won agreement was fragile. Dauble

had rammed it down too many throats, with too much underhanded dealing.

Lawsuits were pending from at least five families opposed to unity, mostly smaller BMs afraid of being absorbed and

nullified. They were called Gobacks by the Statists, who regarded them as a real threat. The Statists would not tolerate a

return to what they saw as disorganized Binding Multiples rule.

"If assassination is so impractical," Diane said, "we could rough up a few of the favorites—"

"Shh," I said.

She shook her short, shagged hair and turned away, soundlessly whistling again. Diane did that when she was too angry to

speak politely. Red rabbits who had lived for decades in close quarters placed a high value on politeness, and impressed

that on their offspring.

The Statists feared incidents. Student protests were unacceptable to Dauble. Even if the students did not represent the

Gobacks, they might make enough noise to bring down the agreement.

So Dauble sent word to Caroline Connor, an old friend she had appointed chancellor of the largest university, University of

Mars Sinai. An authoritarian with too much energy and too little sense, Connor obliged her crony by closing most of the

campus and compiling a list of those who might be in sympathy with protesters.

I had majored in government and management. Though I had signed no petitions and participated in no marches— unlike

Diane, who had taken to the movement vigorous-

MOVING MARS 5

ly—my name crept onto a list of suspects. The Govmanage-ment Department was notoriously independent; who could trust

any of us?

We had paid our tuition but couldn't go to classes. Most of the voided faculty and students had little choice but to go home.

The university generously gave us free tickets on state chartered trains. Some, including Diane, declined the tickets and

vowed to fight the illegal voiding. That earned her—and, guilty by association, me, simply slow to pack my

belongings—an escort of UMS security out of the university warrens.

Diane walked stiffly, slowly, defiantly. The guards—most of them new emigrants from Earth, large and strong—firmly

gripped our elbows and hustled us down the tunnels. The rough treatment watered my quick-growing seed of doubt; how

could I give in to this injustice without a cry? My family was cautious; it had never been known for cowardice.

Surrounded by Connor's guards, packed in with the last remaining voided students, we were marched in quickstep past a

cluster of other students lounging in a garden atrium. They wore their family grays and blues, scions of BMs with strong

economic ties to Earth, darlings of those most favoring Dauble's plans; all still in school. They talked quietly and calmly

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among themselves and turned to watch us go, faces blank. They offered no support, no encouragement; their inaction built

walls. Diane nudged me. "Pigs," she whispered. . I agreed. I thought them worse than traitors—they behaved as if they were

cynical and old, violators of the earnest ideals of youth.

We had been loaded into a single tunnel van and driven to the depot, still escorted by campus guards.

The depot hummed.

A few students wandered down a side corridor, then came back and passed the word. The loop train to the junction at Solis

Dorsa approached. Diane licked her lips and looked around nervously.

6 Greg Bear

The last escorting guard, assured that we were on our way, gave us a tip of his cap and stepped into a depot cafe, out of

sight.

"Are you coming with us?" Diane asked.

I could not answer. My head buzzed with contradictions, anger at injustice fighting family expectations. My mother and

father hated the turmoil caused by unification. They strongly believed that staying out of it was best. They had told me so,

without laying down any laws.

Diane gave me a pitying look. She shook my hand and said, "Casseia, you think too much." She edged along the platform

and turned a corner. In groups of five or less, students went to the lav, for coffee, to check the weather at their home depots

... Ninety students in all sidled away from the main group.

I hesitated. Those who remained seemed studiously neutral. Sidewise glances met faces quickly turned away.

An eerie silence fell over the platform. One last student, a female first-form junior carrying three heavy duffels, did a little

shimmy, short brown hair fanning around her neck. She let one duffel slip from her shoulder. The shimmy vibrated down to

her leg and she kicked the bag two meters. She dropped her other bags and walked north on the platform and around the

corner.

My whole body quivered. I looked at the solemn faces around me and wondered how they could be so bovine. How could

they just stand there, waiting for the train to slow, and accept Dauble's punishment for political views they might not even

support?

The train pushed a plug of air along the platform as it passed through the seals and curtains. Icons flashed above the

platform—station ID, train designator, destinations—and a mature woman's voice told us, with all the politeness in the

world and no discernible emotion, "Sou's Dorsa to Bosporus, Nereidum, Argyre, Noachis, with transfers to Meridiani and

Hellas, now arriving, gate four."

I muttered, "Shit shit shit" under my breath. Before I

MOVING MARS 7

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knew what I had decided, before I could paralyze myself with more thought, my legs took me around the

corner and up to a blank white service bay: dead end. The only exit was a low steel door covered with

chipped white enamel. It had been left open just a crack. I bent down, opened the door wide, glanced

behind me, and stepped through.

It took me several minutes of fast walking to catch up with Diane. I passed ten or fifteen students in a

dark arbeiter service tunnel and found her. "Where are we going?" I asked in a whisper.

"Are you with us?"

"I am now."

She winked and shook my hand with a bold and happy swing. "Someone has a key and knows the way to

the old pioneer domes."

Muffling laughter and clapping each other on the back, full of enthusiasm and impressed by our courage,

we passed one by one through an ancient steel hatch and crept along narrow, stuffy old tunnels lined with

crumbling foamed rock. As the last of us left the UMS environs, stepping over a'dimly lighted boundary

marker into a wider and even older tunnel, we clasped hands on shoulders and half-marched, half-danced

in lockstep.

Someone at the end of the line harshly whispered for us to be quiet. We stopped, hardly daring to breathe.

Seconds of silence, then from behind came low voices and the mechanical hum of service arbeiters, a

heavy, solid clank and a painful twinge in our ears. Someone had sealed the tunnel hatch behind us.

"Do they know we're in here?" I asked Diane.

"I doubt it," she said. "That was a pressure crew."

They had closed the door and sealed it. No turning back.

The tunnels took us five kilometers beyond the university borders, through a decades-old maze unused

since before my birth, threaded unerringly by whoever led the group.

"We're in old times now," Diane said, looking back at me. Forty orbits ago—over seventy-five Terrestrial

years—these

8

Greg Bear

tunnels had connected several small pioneer stations. We filed past warrens once used by the earliest

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families, dark and bitterly cold, kept pressurized in reserve only for dire emergency ...

Our few torches and tunnel service lamps illuminated scraps of old furniture, pieces of outdated

electronics, stacked drums of emergency reserve rations and vacuum survival gear.

Hours before, we had eaten our last university meal and had a warm vapor shower in the dorms. That was

all behind us. Up ahead, we faced Spartan conditions.

I felt wonderful. I was doing something significant, and without my family's approval.

I thought I was finally growing up.

The ninety students gathered in a dark hollow at the end of the tunnel, a pioneer trench dome. All

sounds—nervous and excited laughter, questioning voices, scraping of feet on the cold floor, scattered

outbreaks of song—blunted against the black poly interior. Diane broke Martian reserve and hugged me.

Then a few voices rose above the dull murmurs. Several students started taking down names and BM

affiliations. The mass began to take shape.

Two students from third-form engineering—a conservative and hard-dug department—stood before us

and announced their names: Sean Dickinson, Gretyl Laughton. Within the day, after forming groups and

appointing captains, we confirmed Sean and Gretyl as our leaders, expressed our solidarity and zeal, and

learned we had something like a plan.

I found Sean Dickinson extremely handsome: of middle height, slight build, wispy brown hair above a

prominent forehead, brows elegantly slim and animated. Though less attractive, Gretyl had been struck

from the same mold: a slim young woman with large, accusing blue eyes and straw hair pulled into a tight

bun.

Sean stood on an old crate and gazed down upon us, establishing us as real people with a real mission.

"We all know

MOVING MARS 9

why we're here," he said. Expression stern, eyes liquid and compassionate, he raised his hands, long and callused fingers

reaching for the poly dome above, and said, 'The old betray us. Experience breeds corruption. It's time to bring a moral

balance to Mars, and show them what an individual stands for, and what our rights really mean. They've forgotten us,

friends. They've forgotten their contractual obligations. True Martians don't forget such things, any more than they'd forget

to breathe or plug a leak. So what are we going to do? What can we do? What must we do?"

"Remind them!" many of us shouted. Some said, "Kill them," and I said, "Tell them what we—" But I was not given a

chance to finish, my voice lost in the roar.

Sean laid out his plan. We listened avidly; he fed our anger and our indignation. I had never been so excited. We who had

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kept the freshness of youth, and would not stand for corruption, intended to storm UMS overland and assert our contractual

rights. We were righteous, and our cause was just.

Sean ordered that we all be covered with skinseal, pumped from big plastic drums. We danced in the skinseal showers

naked, laughing, pointing, shrieking at the sudden cold, embarrassed but greatly enjoying ourselves. We put our clothes

back on over the flexible tight-fitting nanomer. Skinseal was designed for emergency pressure problems and not for

comfort. Going to the bathroom became an elaborate ritual; in skinseal, a female took about four minutes to pee, a male two

minutes, and shitting was particularly tricky.

We dusted our skinseal with red ochre to hide us should we decide to worm out during daylight. We all looked like cartoon

devils.

By the end of the third day, we were tired and hungry and dirty and impatient. We huddled in the pressurized poly dome,

ninety in a space meant for thirty, our rusty water tapped from an old well, having eaten little or no food, exercising to ward

off the cold.

* * *

10 Greg Bear

I brushed past a pale thoughtful fellow a few times on the way to the food line or the lav. Lean and hawk-

nosed and dark-haired, with wide, puzzled eyes, a wry smile and a hesitant, nervously joking manner, he

seemed less angry and less sure than the rest of us. Just looking at him irritated me. I stalked him,

watching his mannerisms, tracking his growing list of inadequacies. I was not in the best temper and

needed to vent a little frustration. I took it upon myself to educate him.

At first, if he noticed my attention at all, he seemed to try to avoid me, moving through little groups of

people under the gloomy old poly, making small talk. Everybody was testy; his attempts at conversation

fizzled. Finally he stood in line near an antique electric wall heater, waiting his turn to bask in the currents

of warm dry air.

1 stood behind him. He glanced at me, smiled politely, and hunkered down with his back against the wall.

I sat beside him. He clamped his hands on his knees, set his lips primly, and avoided eye contact;

obviously, he had had enough of trying to make conversation and failing.

."Having second thoughts?" I asked after a decent interval.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"You look sour. Is your heart in this?"

He flashed the same irritating smile and lifted his hands, placating. "I'm here," he said.

'Then show a little enthusiasm, dammit."

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Greg Bear - Moving Mars

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