Old Mars Read online

  In the fast-paced adventure that follows, he takes us to the remotest wilds of Mars, on a search for the Tomb of the Martian Kings, lost for eons, and spins a story of greed and betrayal and the lust for riches—and how sometimes it might be better not to find what you’re looking for.

  In the Tombs of the Martian Kings

  MIKE RESNICK

  IT WAS CROWDED IN RAZZO THE SLUG’S.

  There was no reason why it should be. There were twenty-three ramshackle bars surrounding Marsport, each with a don’t-hear-don’t-tell policy, but for some reason Razzo’s was the one that was always crowded.

  Razzo himself wasn’t much to look at. It was Cemetery Smith who’d first remarked that he looked like a slug, and it stuck. No one knew where he came from, though it was clear from his accent and some of his mannerisms that it wasn’t from any of the inner planets. Not that anyone cared as long as he didn’t water his whiskey too much, provided an endless array of dancing girls from half a dozen worlds and moons, and made sure that nothing he heard was ever repeated.

  The bar was long, made of some gleaming alien metal, and different sections raised or lowered as it sensed the size of the various races sidling up to it. On the wall behind the bar was a large holographic representation of whatever world Razzo had come from, and it usually made the assembled drinkers glad that they’d never set foot on it. There were two robotic bartenders, but Razzo spent most of his time behind the bar as well. The common assumption was that he stayed there to make sure the robots didn’t fill the glasses too high.

  Right at the moment, Razzo’s was playing host to fifteen Martians, a dozen Venusians, a pair of miners from Titan, two more from Ganymede, and a scattering of Earthmen. The only one who drew any notice was the Scorpion, and that was mostly because of his companion.

  The Scorpion’s real name, which hardly anyone ever knew or used, was Marcus Aurelius Scorpio. He was tall, a good six or seven inches over six feet, and lean, and hard. He had a thick shock of brown hair that was just starting to show specks of gray, a week’s worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, and pale blue eyes, so pale they seemed colorless from certain angles.

  He was dressed in nondescript browns and tans, and he made no attempt to hide the burner he carried in a small holster on his hip. Most observers couldn’t tell that he had a smaller one tucked in the back of his belt and a wicked-looking knife in one boot.

  There was really nothing about him to attract any attention—except for the creature lying on the floor at his feet. At first, it seemed like a dog, but there weren’t any dogs on Mars, and certainly not any that approached the size of a lion. It had four nostrils—two in front, one on each cheek—eyes that seemed to glow even though they were totally shielded from the dim lights, and a tail that ended in such a sharp point that it could very well be used as a weapon. The animal was covered by a dull blue curly down, and when it yawned, it displayed a double row of coal-black fangs.

  All the patrons gave the table—and the creature—a wide berth. The diminutive Mercurian waiter, who was used to him, paid him no attention as he brought Scorpio a drink and continued making his round of the tables.

  Scorpio lit one of the local cigars, took a puff, and settled back to watch a Martian woman gyrate in a slow dance that looked awkward to him but was clearly driving the Martian customers wild. The music wasn’t quite atonal but was so alien that he was sure he couldn’t hum it if he heard it around the clock for a week.

  Scorpio sipped his drink, trying not to make a face as it burned his throat on the way down, and puffed away on his cigar. After a minute, he pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it to the blue creature, which caught it, chewed it as it made loud, cracking sounds, and finally swallowed it.

  The Martian girl’s dance ended, the Martians in the audience cheered and uttered those strange hoots that were unique to their species, and then a girl from Io climbed onto the stage to complete indifference.

  The Martian girl was walking to a dressing room behind the bar, but she stopped at Scorpio’s table.

  “You are here again, Scorpion,” she said.

  “I like to visit my money,” he replied.

  “Did you like my dance?”

  “It was unique.”

  “Perhaps I should perform another, just for you.”

  “I’m always open to new experiences,” said Scorpio.

  This is silly, said a voice inside Scorpio’s head. Tell her to go away.

  Scorpio looked down at the blue creature. Do I interfere in your sex life? he thought.

  Damn it, Scorpio! Why are you wasting time? She’s a Martian, for Podak’s sake. She couldn’t accommodate you even if she tried.

  Scorpio smiled a very cynical smile. Love will find a way.

  “You’re talking to your dog again,” said the girl.

  “He’s not a dog, and you haven’t heard me say a word.”

  “You lie to me,” she said. “All the time you lie to me.”

  “Of course I do,” answered Scorpio. “We’re in Razzo the Slug’s. It might even be against the law to tell the truth here.”

  She uttered a Martian obscenity. “Earthman!” she added contemptuously, stalking off.

  Happy? asked Scorpio.

  Thrilled, came the answer. By the way, someone’s looking for you.

  The girl went and got a weapon?

  The creature snorted. By the door. The Martian with the bag.

  Scorpio looked across the bar at a Martian who had just entered. He was small, stooped over (which was rare in the lighter gravity), showing signs of age, and carrying a cloth bag over what passed for his shoulder.

  You’re sure he’s for me? thought Scorpio.

  Of course I’m sure, came the reply. Not everyone requires speech to communicate, you know. Some of us evolved beyond that eons ago.

  Then why were you living in a swamp when we met? asked Scorpio with that unique, not quite humorless, smile of his.

  Why are you in a bar with criminals and reprobates from all over the solar system? I went to the swamp where the food was, and you go where the money is so you can buy the food, an extra step my race has no use for.

  Scorpio stared down at the creature. So why do you hang around with such a primitive being as me?

  You’re the deadliest being I have ever encountered, came the answer. There’s always the chance of fresh food when I’m with you.

  Scorpio watched the Martian approach. Okay, you’re the telepath. What does he want?

  He’s come a long way. I’ll let him tell you.

  Why bother? I’m just going to send him packing.

  I don’t think so, replied the creature.

  Then the Martian reached the table and stood there, staring uneasily at Scorpio.

  “You are the Scorpion?” he asked hesitantly.

  Scorpio nodded. Then he remembered that most Martians didn’t know that nodding was an affirmative. “Some people call me that, yes.”

  “May I … May I sit down?” asked the Martian, indicating an empty chair opposite Scorpio.

  “Go ahead.”

  The Martian took a step toward the chair, then realized that he would have to pass very close to the blue creature. He froze and just stared at it, afraid to move.

  “It’s all right,” said Scorpio when he realized that the Martian might well stand there motionless all night. “His name’s Merlin. He’s my pet.”

  Your pet?

  Why tell anyone what you really are? It works to our advantage to have them think you’re a dumb animal.

  I may just bite your leg off.

  “I have never seen anything like him,” said the Martian timidly.

  “Not many people have,” replied Scorpio, as the Martian carefully walked around Merlin and seated himself. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have been told that you are the one being best suited for the work I am preparing to do,” said the Martian.

  Who does he want killed, I wonder? said Merlin
wordlessly.

  You could tell me right now.

  Me? I’m just a dumb animal.

  “Just what kind of work do you have in mind?” asked Scorpio.

  “Perhaps I should properly introduce myself first.”

  Scorpio shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”

  “My name is Quedipai, and I spent more than a century as a professor of ancient history at the university in Baratora, which you know as New Brussels.”

  “Okay, so you taught history and you’re not a kid anymore,” said Scorpio. “What has this got to do with me?”

  Quedipai leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I believe that I have discovered the location of the lost Tomb of the Martian Kings.”

  Scorpio snorted contemptuously. “Sure you have.”

  “But I have!”

  “On my world, it’s King Solomon’s Mines. On Venus, it’s the Temple of the Forgotten Angel. On Mercury, it’s the Darkside Palace. And on Mars, it’s the Tomb of the Martian Kings.”

  “There have been two attempts on my life already,” said Quedipai. “I need protection. More than that. I am an academic. I need someone who is aware of all the hazards I will encounter in the wildest section of the western dead sea bottom, and who can avoid or neutralize the worst of it.”

  “I wish you luck,” said Scorpio.

  “You will not accompany me?”

  “Not interested.”

  “You have not heard my offer yet.”

  “I’ve been to the western sea bottom. It’s called Balthial, and whoever told you it was dangerous understated the case,” said Scorpio. “I’m happy right here.”

  “Will you at least let me name a price?” said Quedipai.

  “Buy me another whiskey and you can talk your head off.”

  “What kind?” asked the Martian, getting to his feet.

  Scorpio held his empty glass up and studied it. “I’m tired of this stuff. I’ll have a glass of that bluish joyjoice they brew in Luna City.”

  The Martian went to the bar and returned with a glass, which he set down carefully on the table in front of Scorpio, then took his seat.

  “It’s smoking,” he noted.

  “It’s old enough,” replied Scorpio, lifting the glass and taking a swallow.

  “You are not my last chance, Scorpion,” said the Martian. “But from everything I’ve been able to find out, and I am a very thorough researcher, you are my best chance.” Scorpio stared at him patiently and with very little interest. Finally, he took a deep breath, leaned forward, and said so softly that no one else could hear: “Four hundred thousand tjoubi, the hunt not to exceed fifty days.”

  Quick, thought Scorpio. What’s that in real money?

  A quarter of a million credits, answered Merlin.

  You can read his mind. Is he telling the truth, and has he actually got the money?

  Yes, and yes.

  Scorpio stared at the Martian. “What was your name again?”

  “Quedipai,” was the answer.

  “Cutie Pie,” said Scorpio.

  “Quedipai,” repeated the Martian.

  “Right,” said Scorpio, nodding. “Cutie Pie, you’ve got yourself a deal. Half down, half on completion, and we’re yours for the next fifty days.”

  Quedipai pulled out a sheaf of large-denomination bills. Scorpio took it and stuffed it in a pocket.

  Don’t you want to count it?

  Flash that much in Razzo’s? Don’t be silly. We’ll count it later. If he’s short, we’re not going anywhere till he makes it up.

  “You mentioned ‘we’?” asked the Martian curiously.

  “Merlin and me. Like I told you, he’s my pet.”

  Quedipai stared at the creature.

  You wouldn’t believe what he’s thinking right now.

  “Trust me,” said Scorpio, “if we run into any trouble, you’ll be glad he came along.”

  “I will take your word for it,” said the Martian. He took the bag from his shoulder and placed it on the table. “Is it safe to show this to you now?”

  “If I can’t protect you in a bar, I sure as hell can’t protect you once we leave what passes for civilization around here,” answered Scorpio.

  Quedipai reached into the bag and pulled out a very old map. He opened it and spread it on the table.

  “Okay,” said Scorpio, “it’s Balthial.”

  “Do you see this small mark here?” asked the Martian, pointing a triply jointed finger toward it.

  “Looks like a speck of dust.”

  “It is three miles across.”

  “Okay,” said Scorpio, unimpressed. “There’s a three-mile speck of dust on the sea bottom.”

  “I cannot give you an accurate translation,” said Quedipai. “The closest I can come is the Crater of Dreams.”

  Scorpio frowned. “I’ve heard of that, a long time ago.”

  “Some say that it was caused by an asteroid,” said Quedipai. “Others say it is the result of an ancient war when we had horrific weapons that are completely forgotten today. Still others say it occurred when an underground city collapsed beneath it.”

  “And what do you say?” asked Scorpio, staring not at the map but the Martian.

  “I say it was caused by the fist of God.”

  “Why should you think so?”

  “My race is not the first to inhabit this world,” answered Quedipai. “Before us, there was a race that strode across Mars like the giants they were. A tall man like you would not come up to the waist of even the smallest of them. Nothing could stand in their way, but soon their triumphs made them arrogant. It was when they decided that they themselves must be gods that the true God brought His fist down and flattened their kingdom with a single blow.”

  “Did you learn this in history class or in church?” asked Scorpio sardonically.

  “You do not believe me, of course,” said the Martian.

  “For four hundred thousand tjoubi, I’ll believe you for fifty days and nights, starting”—he checked his timepiece—“four minutes ago.”

  “I do not blame you for your doubts,” said Quedipai. “Until last week, I shared them.”

  If he tells me he had a vision, I’m quitting, money or no money.

  Just listen to him, responded Merlin.

  “We have many religions on Mars,” began Quedipai. “Most of them stem from historical incidents, or occasionally the origins of these beliefs can be found in the works of the great philosophers. But there is one religion—it is pronounced Blaxorak; there is no translation or approximation for it in Terran—that has survived longer than any other. Its temples have all been demolished, its monuments torn down and broken into rubble, only the sacred Book of Blaxorak still exists. And in the rarest and most obscure of our ancient writings, I have found enough clues to convince me that answers can be found in the Crater of Dreams.”

  Scorpio frowned. “What answers?”

  “The clues I have put together lead me to believe that the Tomb of the Martian Kings actually exists in or beneath the Crater, and within the golden tombs, I will find the one remaining copy of the sacred Book of Blaxorak, interred with the greatest of the kings. Even if the existence of the book is a myth, even if there is no truth to it whatsoever and there is nothing but a series of empty tombs, it will still be the most important historical find of the millennium.”

  “Golden tombs, did you say?” said Scorpio.

  “Jewel-encrusted,” replied Quedipai.

  Is he telling the truth?

  He believes that he is, answered Merlin.

  And he’s really a scholar who specializes in this stuff?

  Yes.

  “Where are you staying?” asked Scorpio out loud.

  “At the hotel across the street.”

  “The Fallen Torch?” said Scorpio.

  “Yes.”

  “I suggest you go there right now and get some sleep. I plan to start this expedition at daybreak tomorrow.”

  “But I have mo
re to show and tell you,” protested the Martian.

  “You’ll show and tell me along the way,” replied Scorpio. “Suddenly I’m anxious to get this show on the road.”

  “But I’ve barely mentioned—”

  “Your wildly evocative descriptions bring the past back to life and make me want to see it for myself,” said Scorpio, getting to his feet. “Come on, Merlin.”

  “Where shall we meet?” asked the Martian.

  “I’ll pick you up in your lobby at sunrise,” said Scorpio. He took a few steps toward the door, then turned back. “Pay my bar bill before you leave, Cutie Pie.”

  Scorpio had counted out the money, the total was correct, and he drove Quedipai to the airfield in the morning.

  “I have the coordinates right here,” announced the Martian, indicating his shoulder bag.

  “Keep them where they are,” replied Scorpio, climbing out of the three-wheeled iron-plated vehicle, a leftover from a recent war.

  “But surely you didn’t study the map long enough to pinpoint the location!” protested Quedipai.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then—?”

  “You told me there have already been two attempts on your life,” said Scorpio, lighting a cigar. “Were you just trying to impress me, or were you telling the truth?”

  “I do not lie,” said the Martian with all the dignity he could muster.

  “Then that means that someone besides you thinks you know where the Tomb of the Martian Kings is,” continued Scorpio, “and you don’t have to be a master scientist to be able to track a planet-bound flyer once it’s aloft. We’ll land a couple of hundred miles from the edge of the Crater and waste a day there before we head toward it, just to put anyone who’s watching us off the scent. I’ll have plenty of time to study the map.”

  Quedipai’s dark eyes opened wide. “I never considered that.”

  “You don’t have to,” answered Scorpio. “That’s what you’re paying me for.”

  “I chose the right person for the job.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Scorpio. “We’ll leave as soon as Merlin arrives.”

  “He is missing?”