had, it would have upset me.
Perhaps a closer analogy would be in our study of microorganism cultures. A drop of nutrient doped with penicillin would create a clear circle that was the purposeful destruction of millions of creatures. And after their survivors had been measured and photographed, the whole small universe went into a red bio-waste bucket.
When the Others are done with us, will they leave us there on the table, to work out our individual and collective destinies?
Or will they be more fastidious than that . . .
5
We spread through the building, flipping light switches on and off. Suddenly, I heard a sustained musical note.
“What’s that?”
“A-440,” Namir said. “Like a tuning fork.” We followed the sound to the Women’s Lounge area, where a small cube had been left on.
“Same guy,” Alba said. The one we called Spy—it couldn’t be the same one literally; we’d left him twenty-five light-years away. Just a standard “human” interface for the Others.
He looked out of the cube, unblinking, for another minute or so. Then the tuning-fork sound ended, and he spoke:
“We have decided to give you power again, for one week, to see what happens.” The screen went blank.
“One week,” Paul said. “What do we do first?”
“Let’s see if the cars work,” Alba said. “One of those panel trucks, or a little bus.”
I followed her out to the lot, carrying my superfluous pistol. Card came out, too. The morning was pleasant, still cool, about nine o’clock.
She got into the first car and punched in N-A-S-A on the dash keyboard.
“Shit.” Faint numerals appeared on the windshield, OOH OOM. “They probably all drained out.”
We tried two others and got the same. Card found the recharging station and unreeled a cable out to a small bus. He plugged it into the rear.
“All right!” Alba called out from the driver’s seat. She hopped down. “Is there another cable?”
“Two more. Maybe do that panel truck?” She looked at me and rubbed her chin. “Do you know how to drive?”
“Umm . . . it’s been a while.” I had a license back in 2070, but moved to Mars in ’72. “Sixty-some years. I suppose cars are a lot different.”
“But you can,” she said to Card.
He shrugged. “I have a car, but I live in LA. Haven’t touched a steering wheel in years.”
“You may be about to.” She pointed to a stolid-looking blocky sedan. “Might as well charge that one up, too. We may want to look official.”
He went off to do that. “How long do they take to charge up?”
“An hour, maybe a couple of hours. Depends on the range, mainly. And whether they’re hooked up to free energy. You probably want to take the sedan to get the most miles.”
“Couldn’t fit Snowbird in there.”
“Well, the panel truck, then.” She pointed back at the building.
Paul was at the door. “Carmen,” he called, “we have a problem.”
“Only one,” Alba said. “How nice.”
I went to him. “Snowbird’s hurt. Another stray round hit her.”
“How bad?”
“Who can say? She didn’t even tell anybody about it; Dustin saw the hole.”
We walked back to the snack area, where the Martian was standing in a corner. That was normal; she even slept standing up.
“It’s a small thing, Carmen,” she said. “Just a small bullet, which didn’t hit any vital organs.”
“Let me see.” She turned around and showed me, a small black dot high on her back, about where a human shoulder would be. There was a little pink froth of blood.
“I can feel exactly where it is,” she said. “It’s not doing any harm.”
Paul was standing behind me. “Are there any doctors for Martians at that Russian place?”
“There are members of the blue family. They’re something like doctors.”
“We have to get you there anyhow, for food. This just makes it a little higher priority.”
“It’s too far,” she said.
“Not anymore,” he said. “I’m a pilot. We just have to dig up
Perhaps a closer analogy would be in our study of microorganism cultures. A drop of nutrient doped with penicillin would create a clear circle that was the purposeful destruction of millions of creatures. And after their survivors had been measured and photographed, the whole small universe went into a red bio-waste bucket.
When the Others are done with us, will they leave us there on the table, to work out our individual and collective destinies?
Or will they be more fastidious than that . . .
5
We spread through the building, flipping light switches on and off. Suddenly, I heard a sustained musical note.
“What’s that?”
“A-440,” Namir said. “Like a tuning fork.” We followed the sound to the Women’s Lounge area, where a small cube had been left on.
“Same guy,” Alba said. The one we called Spy—it couldn’t be the same one literally; we’d left him twenty-five light-years away. Just a standard “human” interface for the Others.
He looked out of the cube, unblinking, for another minute or so. Then the tuning-fork sound ended, and he spoke:
“We have decided to give you power again, for one week, to see what happens.” The screen went blank.
“One week,” Paul said. “What do we do first?”
“Let’s see if the cars work,” Alba said. “One of those panel trucks, or a little bus.”
I followed her out to the lot, carrying my superfluous pistol. Card came out, too. The morning was pleasant, still cool, about nine o’clock.
She got into the first car and punched in N-A-S-A on the dash keyboard.
“Shit.” Faint numerals appeared on the windshield, OOH OOM. “They probably all drained out.”
We tried two others and got the same. Card found the recharging station and unreeled a cable out to a small bus. He plugged it into the rear.
“All right!” Alba called out from the driver’s seat. She hopped down. “Is there another cable?”
“Two more. Maybe do that panel truck?” She looked at me and rubbed her chin. “Do you know how to drive?”
“Umm . . . it’s been a while.” I had a license back in 2070, but moved to Mars in ’72. “Sixty-some years. I suppose cars are a lot different.”
“But you can,” she said to Card.
He shrugged. “I have a car, but I live in LA. Haven’t touched a steering wheel in years.”
“You may be about to.” She pointed to a stolid-looking blocky sedan. “Might as well charge that one up, too. We may want to look official.”
He went off to do that. “How long do they take to charge up?”
“An hour, maybe a couple of hours. Depends on the range, mainly. And whether they’re hooked up to free energy. You probably want to take the sedan to get the most miles.”
“Couldn’t fit Snowbird in there.”
“Well, the panel truck, then.” She pointed back at the building.
Paul was at the door. “Carmen,” he called, “we have a problem.”
“Only one,” Alba said. “How nice.”
I went to him. “Snowbird’s hurt. Another stray round hit her.”
“How bad?”
“Who can say? She didn’t even tell anybody about it; Dustin saw the hole.”
We walked back to the snack area, where the Martian was standing in a corner. That was normal; she even slept standing up.
“It’s a small thing, Carmen,” she said. “Just a small bullet, which didn’t hit any vital organs.”
“Let me see.” She turned around and showed me, a small black dot high on her back, about where a human shoulder would be. There was a little pink froth of blood.
“I can feel exactly where it is,” she said. “It’s not doing any harm.”
Paul was standing behind me. “Are there any doctors for Martians at that Russian place?”
“There are members of the blue family. They’re something like doctors.”
“We have to get you there anyhow, for food. This just makes it a little higher priority.”
“It’s too far,” she said.
“Not anymore,” he said. “I’m a pilot. We just have to dig up
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