As he followed the white sidewalk, Lamont considered Carter’s reaction to his Hail Mary. His thoughts went back three months, when he had been sitting at a concrete table across from a portly older man. The checkerboard between them was empty save for a cigarette tray and a smattering of ashes. The park in which they sat was a long strip of hardy grass and small trees that had been planted along the edge of an open canal that burbled with cold water from the polar reservoirs. On the opposite side of the canal were tall, thin columns of greenish metal that receded into darkness far above them. Small speakers fitted to every other column piped the unobtrusive sound of birdsong, their wires disguised as creeping vines. The man across from him had been a member of the original colonizing expedition to Mars, led by Francis Carter.

  “There were six ships,” the man was saying, his voice low. “Six ships, twelve hundred people, but only one of the ships was designed to make a return trip. But everybody knows that.”

  “Assume I don’t, Albert,” Lamont had urged him.

  “Pioneers is what they called us,” Albert continued. “But I’ll tell you, we didn’t feel like pioneers when we landed. There was something...mechanical...about the whole expedition. Of course, with anything related to space travel, you’ve got to be precise. But this was clockwork. You could just tell that the expedition had been planned in every detail from the moment Carter returned to Earth in ‘59. Now, ten years later, we knew exactly where to land, exactly what equipment and how many people to bring. There was a big sort of elevator platform, big enough to build a house on, and Carter showed us how it could take us down, miles-deep, where there was what we called the Honeycomb.”

  “The Honeycomb?” Lamont asked.

  “A big tower that was partitioned into cells that were perfect for making barracks. And I mean perfect—there was fresh air, a water source…” Albert nodded toward the canal. “I’ll tell you, I’ve stayed at worse hotels. There was this feeling that none of us was expecting, and we kept saying it to each other as we followed the setup plan.”

  “Saying what?”

  “This was waiting for us. It’s been prepared.”

  Lamont scribbled something on his notepad and sat back, cradling his cigarette against his cheek. “What about Carter? Was he overseeing the—settlement?”

  “No, he left the moment we arrived.”

  “Left? Where?”

  “On the surface, that’s all I know. He took a suit with three hour’s worth of air and just started walking. Not a word to anyone as far as I know.”

  “When did he return?” Lamont asked.

  “Weeks later. Maybe a month. Showed up back in the colony and started planning new expeditions. But…” Here he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially: “Of course the rumour was that he didn’t come back alone.”

  Lamont had tried to sound casual. “Was it?”

  Albert nodded. “He had his own chamber, away from the Honeycomb, and nobody or almost nobody else had access to it or even knew where it was, exactly. But there were pioneers who said they’d seen him with somebody—or something—else. It was like a baby, or a small child. They had a name for it, though. Called it Phobos. Like the moon—it means ‘fear’ in Latin.”

  “There wasn’t anyone who could say for sure what it was?” Lamont asked.

  “Well, there was Tyler, but he was drunk.” He paused thoughtfully for a long moment, until Lamont’s interested expression prodded him to continue. “He came back to the Honeycomb one night after going off on his own for a while. Raided the medicine stores and managed to get himself plastered sick. We were kind of buddies, so I ended up being the one to nurse him through it. He was babbling while he was drunk, but afterward he acted like it never happened.”

  “What did he say,” Lamont asked, “Before that?”

  “He kept saying that the planet was made by devils. Devils, that’s what he said.”

  “Did you keep in touch with Tyler?” Lamont probed.

  Albert shook his head. “He didn’t want anything to do with me after that. He was part of the group that returned to Earth with Carter. No idea what happened to him.”

  Lamont’s memory of the conversation played through his mind as faithfully as the tape on which he had recorded it, and to which he had listened at least a dozen times. There were over a thousand members of that original pioneer expedition in 1969, and he had managed to secure interviews with fewer than a dozen. Out of those, Albert was the only one who lent insight into the photograph that had brought Lamont to Mars, and his testimony was second-hand. Albert may not have felt like a true pioneer, but the men and women with him had run power lines and water pipes through hundreds of miles of Martian tunnels, laying the foundations of Cerberus and Medusa. They had facilitated the largest and fastest exodus in human history, and then had quietly receded into the crowd, having simply done their job. In a way, the millions of people who had followed in the three subsequent decades were also pioneers of a sort, building lives and families in a strange subterranean world, atop monolithic structures that had stood silent and alone while humankind descended from the trees. Now, Lamont surveyed the comfortable banality of this Hellas suburb, whitewashed from the planet’s past, and wondered if it was to be the new normal. In another 30 years, would the remaining traces of the first Martians be relegated to museums and tourist attractions?

  Even as he pieced an editorial together in his mind, Lamont kept a careful eye on the display windows that he strolled past with forced aimlessness. The three men who had followed him from the soda shop still kept their distance, but had seemingly abandoned their pretences of other occupations. Their dark eyes were locked on him as they hovered a half-block away. Lamont felt a grim satisfaction that his plan had worked so far. He had drawn them out, and now he would oblige them to make their intentions plain. But he needed bystanders, and all the better if there were a police officer or two among them. He opened the door of a department store, curious to see whether they would follow him inside or wait for him to come out again.

  It was mid-morning on a weekday. Lamont didn’t expect the store to be crowded, but felt certain that there would be at least few shoppers. The only person he saw as he walked past the neat displays and well-dressed mannequins was a clerk behind the customer service desk. She was primly appointed in a belted dress of the slim, sleeveless style that represented the latest fashion from Tomorrow.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “Can I help you?” She asked, turning toward Lamont. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of him; she was perhaps surprised to see a man in a heavy trench coat over ruffled shirtsleeves.

  Lamont hesitated. “Er, menswear?” He blurted after an uncomfortable pause. The men had followed him inside the store and were standing in front of the door, watching him intently with hands in their pockets.

  The clerk surveyed him suspiciously and, with a barely discernible shrug, lifted a demure hand in the direction of the escalator. Directly above it, a large and prominent sign read, “MENSWEAR.”

  Lamont flinched, muttered a thank you, and made his way toward the automated staircase. The men were now walking toward him with steady purpose. Lamont found himself speeding up, climbing up the escalator two steps at a time even as they carried him upward. From the upper floor, Lamont could see that the store was nearly empty of shoppers. He didn’t feel ready for a confrontation yet, but at least he wasn’t out in the open. The men were watching him, standing in a neat row on the escalator and moving steadily closer.

  He stood at the bannister near a display of wristwatches and produced a cigarette, lighting it swiftly and casually as he watched the three men emerge at the top of the escalator. Meanwhile, a male store attendant in a slim blue suit slipped away from his station to meet Lamont.

  “Excuse me, sir, but we don’t allow smoking inside the store,” The attendant said, gesturing toward a sign posted to that effect on a nearby column.

  Lamont ignored him, turning his attention instead to the three men who had stopped several paces away. “All right,” he said. “Let’s sort this out. What do you lot want with me?”

  “Is there a problem?” Asked the attendant. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing about the store for fellow employees that could be flagged for help.

  The small man with high cheekbones stepped forward from the group. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he pulled out a small leather case and dropped it open to reveal a copper badge. “There doesn’t have to be,” he said in a flat, even voice. “We were just concerned that Mr. Townsend here was trying to give us the slip.” His accent, surprisingly, was English.

  Surprised, Lamont scoffed and addressed the attendant. “That’s not real,” he said. “These blokes have been following me from Cerberus.”

  The attendant frowned. “It looks real enough to me.”

  “Of course it is,” said the man, returning the badge to his pocket. “We’ve been keeping an eye on him for some time now.”

  “And why is that?” Lamont asked pointedly.

  “We have some questions about Mrs. Elizabeth Townsend, formerly of London, Earth.”

  “My wife!” Lamont exclaimed. “What—has something happened to her?”

  “That,” said the smaller man, “Is exactly what we would like to know.”

  “Now, look,” Lamont said darkly, his back straightening and his cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, “I know what you lads want, and we both know it has nothing to do with my wife.”

  “Is that so?” Asked one of the men, who was lanky and had a surprisingly nasal voice.

  “I left for Mars eight months ago. That’s the last time I saw her.”

  “True,” agreed the man with the high cheekbones. “In fact, that’s just about the last time anybody saw her.”

  “That’s a fabrication,” Lamont said flatly. “I haven’t seen her, but I’ve spoken to her. I mean, I’ve heard from her. Several weeks ago. Harry Rowan, editor of the Atlantic Free Press. He can tell you where to find her.”

  “He told us where to find you, mate.” Smiled the man with the nasal voice.

  The attendant’s gaze darted uncomfortably. Around the store, eyes were beginning to emerge from behind racks and displays to peer curiously at the scene. He hooked a finger into the infinitesimal space between his prominent Adam’s apple and his pink-tinted collar. “Excuse me,” he interjected, “But would you mind taking this outside?”

  “That’s a fine idea,” said the man with the high cheekbones. “Mr. Townsend, if you would kindly come with us.”

  The two other men moved to form a loose circle around Lamont, who found himself turning to appeal to the attendant. “What? Just because they flash a tin badge, you’re going to let them do whatever they want? This is obviously a setup.”

  “And this,” said the attendant, demurely waving Lamont’s cigarette smoke away, “Is a respectable establishment.”

  “Come on, then,” said the high-cheekboned man, “We just want to ask you some questions. All you’ve got to do is not resist.”

  Lamont glanced about. He was surrounded, with a fifteen-foot drop to one side and a man standing a pace away on every other.

  “All right,” he said, straightening his coat. He took the drop.

  Gripping the banister, he vaulted his legs over the side and fell ten feet before landing atop a well-dressed mannequin family. For a few seconds, there was a confusion of limbs. The men on the landing above shouted exclamations. A woman standing not far from Lamont screamed as a little girl’s head rolled past, tumbling on its molded pigtails.

  Having regained his orientation, Lamont bolted for the door. In his peripheral vision, he could see that two of the supposed officers were already halfway down the escalator, taking quick but careful steps in the direction of the moving track. A third had unthinkingly opted for the opposite escalator; he was comically working against the mechanism, but would be downstairs soon enough. Lamont had bought himself precious little time.

  Or perhaps he had guaranteed that he’d be doing a great deal of time, a small and adversarial part of his journalistic mind told him. As he burst through the door of the department store, he shed the thought—along with a slender arm with a faux pearl bracelet to which he had unconsciously been clinging. It fell into a perambulator that was being pushed by a young woman making her way up the sidewalk. The occupant of the carriage squealed in delight even as the woman went visibly pale.

  Lamont had something like a forty-pace head start. He veered right around the block, glancing backward to see the men already emerging through the store entrance. In front of him, a few storefronts quickly gave way to the white picket fences of the surrounding suburb. What was his plan? He was in a self-contained settlement that was utterly unfamiliar to him. He decided that his best chance was to evade the men long enough to find a bus. All he needed was a few minutes and a phone.

  He turned left and crossed the street, thinking that perhaps one of the men had gone around the other side of the store to catch him on the back of the block. That cost him precious time, though, and he could hear the shouting voices of the men as they reached the corner, just after he had disappeared behind a furniture store.

  There were very few private cars on the road, which was typical for Mars, and not a bus to be seen anywhere, which was less common. Lamont zig-zagged around two more blocks and through an alley before he began to feel really desperate. He could hear that at least two of the men were less than a block away, and he was now at the edge of the housing development.

  He took a gamble. A hundred yards from him was a patch of trees outside a park with a playground. They looked dense enough that, if he could make it there in time, he might emerge on the other side with sufficient time to form a plan. He bolted across a broad crosswalk, breathing heavily as he made a dead run for the treeline. Three more seconds. Two more seconds.

  Lamont’s vision went red with sudden, jarring pain. At full clip, he had run headlong into a solid wall. He was crumpled at the foot of it, and in the scene that swam before him, he could make out a patch of blood dripping surreally down a patch between two trees. The forest was an illusion.

  Lamont cursed bitterly, struggling to his feet as he saw one of the men emerge around the side of the candy store across the way and heard him whistle triumphantly to the others. This was it, Lamont told himself grimly. If he were to attempt another run for it, he would only be delaying the inevitable. Then he noticed: As the men flocked toward him, they were pulling objects out of their pockets and pointing them in his direction. They looked like firearms! Weapons of any kind were strictly forbidden in Mars, impossible to smuggle in and rarely seen even in the hands of law officers. What was this?

  Just then, a lean black shape interposed itself between Lamont and the gun-wielding men. Not black, actually, more of a deep iridescent purple. A private car, silent and streamlined. A window rolled down two paces away from his bloody nose to reveal the long, sober features of Francis Carter.

  “You look like you could use a ride,” The astronaut observed.