Sunset on Mars and Other Stories Read online

  Bonus: Excerpt from Flyday

  June 15, 2507

  A missile exploded into the Halcyon, sending it into a dive.

  “No, no, no!” Zoë yelled, righting the ship. “No, you are not doing this to me.”

  One of the control panels blinked, and a voice crackled: “Pilot, explain your actions immediately. You are in violation of international law—”

  Zoë shut off the radio com. “Jack, why is the communication system working on their end, but not mine?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Martínez.” The robot plugged one of its arms into a port in the cockpit. “It was functional when we left.”

  Another blast sounded, knocking the ship off course again.

  “Perhaps you should let them board,” the robot suggested. “We can explain the discrepancy in person.”

  “Sure. If they don’t decide to shoot me down completely.” Her ship blasted forward, skirting past the fighters. Okay, she’d been selected for a random search; quite reasonable, as she was flying from Paris with no passengers. And with no way to contact the ship that was tagging her, she’d been labeled a threat. Also a natural progression of logic.

  On the controls, she saw a wide Celestial ship attach itself to the Halcyon. “Celestials boarding,” came the pleasant voice of the ship’s computer. “Manual piloting locked.”

  Zoë sat back, defeated. “That’s it.” She heard loud knocks on the hatch door, then swung toward her co-pilot.

  “Jack,” she said, “let me handle this one, okay?”

  The hatch’s lock twisted with several clicks, and the hatch burst open. Five soldiers, all carrying weapons, marched toward the pilot’s cabin.

  “Hi,” said Zoë, putting up her hands. (Her robot, too, raised its wiry arms.) “I can explain everything—”

  A Celestial officer, sharply dressed from his white beret to his black combat boots, pointed a blaster at her. “Pilot, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t detain you immediately and take a blaster to your ’bot’s processors.”

  Zoë looked down at the robot. “Maybe you should take this one.”

  2.

  Thomas Huxley tapped his fingers on the desk, watching the seconds tick by on a wall clock.

  “And what is your relation to Miss Martínez?” a stern clerk asked.

  “I’m her fiancé,” said Thomas. He glanced over at Zoë, who was sitting with her hands in her lap, dejected. They were in the security office of the Tenokte airport, and a police officer and a clerk were looking over Zoë’s identification and running down a list of questions.

  “Tsk, tsk,” said the police officer, glancing over a written report. “Failing to obey a captain’s orders, resisting a search, fleeing from a Celestial ship … we’ve looked over your ship’s systems, Miss Martínez, and while the communication system was indeed malfunctioning, that doesn’t excuse your behavior.”

  “My behavior?” said Zoë, lifting her head. “You guys were shooting missiles at me. What was I supposed to think?”

  “But the laws are quite clear on the matter. You were chosen at random for an inspection; there’s a one in ten chance of that happening. You were supposed to slow down and allow the Celestial patrols to board. You did not.”

  “They didn’t give me enough time. By the time I got their messages, they were right on my tail. I sped up because I thought they were going to crash into me.”

  The police officer ignored her, pretending to be immersed in his paperwork.

  Thomas leaned over the counter. “Is she being charged with anything?”

  “No. But her pilot’s license will be suspended.”

  Zoë stood up. “My license? But I’ve never been in trouble before. There’s usually just a fine—”

  “I could pay it right now,” Thomas offered. “What’s the fine?”

  “Five hundred credits,” said the clerk.

  “Uh … well, I could pay it in a month or two…”

  “I’ll pay it now,” Zoë said. “Just run it through, and I’ll authorize it.”

  But the police officer held up his hand. “It’s not so simple. Reports have to be filed. You understand.”

  “I have a lot to do today,” said Thomas; but he instantly realized it was the wrong thing to say.

  The police officer looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Where are you from?”

  “Tenokte.”

  “Hah, not likely. What’s your accent, British?”

  “He lives in London,” Zoë supplied, weary. “But he grew up here.”

  “Ah. So you’ve just come back home to visit family, I see.” The police officer’s eyes narrowed.

  “Actually, I came for work.”

  “Really.”

  He tried to explain: his editor had sent him here to cover the king’s speech and the annual summer celebrations, and his fiancée, a pilot, wanted to rediscover in a vacation the city she had known briefly as a teenager.

  “But I’m usually a music journalist,” he finished. “I interview bands, talk about new releases.”

  “Hm,” said the police officer, looking at Zoë. “That’s right. Didn’t you run around with that band? What was it called … no, now don’t tell me; Bio—”

  “Biological—”

  “Bio … bio something…”

  “Biochemical Pathways,” said Thomas, finally.

  “Yes!” said the clerk. “That’s it.”

  “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound right at all.”

  “Oh, you know, Biochemical Pathways! With that crazy singer, Jamie Parsons.”

  “He’s not crazy,” Zoë replied, defensive. “He’s just … sensitive.”

  The police officer and the clerk looked at each other, not convinced, but they dropped the matter.

  “What did you say your name was?” the police officer asked Thomas.

  “Thomas Huxley.”

  They exchanged a glance, then the police officer coughed and quickly started shuffling through their paperwork.

  “Uh, I’m sorry,” said the clerk, “but what was that name again?”

  “Huxley.” Thomas pulled out his ID card and handed it over.

  The clerk picked it up and studied it. Thomas Huxley was indeed born in Tenokte, MA; his last place of residence was London, England. The clerk handed the card back, and the police officer nervously flipped through the report.

  “So what was that, a misdemeanor? Not responding to a Celestial cruiser?”

  “Easy mistake,” said the clerk.

  “Exactly,” said the police officer. “I’ll let you off with a warning. Miss Martínez, you’re free to go.”

  “Are you sure? What about the fine?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He pushed the perplexed couple toward the door. “Your ship’s communications system malfunctioned, happens to everyone. Just make sure you get that fixed before you take off again, hm? Have a good day now.”

  And then they were back in the middle of the airport, with the door to the main security office slammed shut behind them.

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