Episode 3 – The tears of strangers are only water.

xxx

Zechs had kept his appointment with the project shrink and her assistant, and he'd managed to catch the assistant alone to talk about his trip to Earth. She'd been cool and patient, which annoyed him, but when he left, they both knew he'd have things his way - a matter of time and formalities, no more. It filled him with an unkind satisfaction to see frustration flare behind her carefully kept facade. Yet the moment he left her office, he put it out of his mind and delved back into his work.

Now he was counting the hours, the minutes, every breath while packing his backpack. His scheduled leave was due, and boarding for the spaceliner would start soon. He was keen to leave the confines of the project, the stale air and brackish water, the endless days of sand and drudgery. He longed to stretch his legs and let his mind drift – up here, he could do neither.

The project living quarters consisted of airtight modules of circular, staggered tiers of pod-like cabins, shelves and beds moulded in fibreglass, enforced concrete and opaque grey plastic. In the central module was a communal bathroom with shower stalls and toilets and a separate unit for the women; and a canteen with rows of benches and tables. Everything had a temporary feel, but Zechs knew that it years had passed since the last new pod had been docked onto the structure. Supplies arrived in regular but long intervals, and the terraforming crew had been economical in using spares to replace worn equipment or building new structures. The enclosed, cramped spaces smelled of sweat, unclean clothes and stale food, and a fine film of orange-red dust covered almost every surface because everything was recycled, even the air filters.

Going home in summer... what a difference. What did we do in summer, Tre? Go fishing, fool around in the river, ride naked across the meadows into the forest, and then... I never thought a horse could have such a hard spine. My backside hurt so much, I could hardly sit for days afterwards, and the inside of my knees was chafed... And I was scratched all over from those cursed brambles. I was waiting for some sort of innuendo – if only to blow up at you – but you were sly and kept quiet...

He smiled as he stuffed his personal logbook – the outmoded, paperback kind – into the pack, along with a few rationbars. Rations on Mars came in sealed containers and resembled military meals-ready-to-eat; water was recycled and bottled, and Zechs didn't want to think about how many times it had passed through everyone on station before. The shower stalls were sealed pods that spewed pressurised water from jacuzzi-like nozzles, and a jetstream sucked it down the drain immediately. Only centrally issued, perfume-free soap was allowed, to enable complete recycling. Toilets made a roaring noise when engaged, like the open ones on an old train, because they operated on suction, drawing waste into the recycling system, where it was processed into fertile sludge for the greenhouses.

There, on large ponds of nutrient-saturated water, grew slimy layers of green algae, the first successful attempt at growing green plants on Mars. They didn't look like much, and they stank, but Zechs knew that the biologists working on the experiment were immensely proud of this, aiming to create a critical mass of plants so they could reduce the input of heat. Meanwhile, they were also busy turning that unappealing mass into something edible for the crew, who were remarkably unenthusiastic about green soup and stewed off-green protein cubes that had a whiff of foul pondwater.

So unlike the river – cold, brown, full of fishes hiding in the reeds near the muddy banks. Have I ever gone home in summer before? It used to be Christmas, but the schedules didn't work out this time. We'll have corn apples now. Waxy green, juicy, and terribly sour. I never got used to them, but you were picking them off those crappy old trees behind the yard and eat them like that, warm from the sun, bugs and all. And then you'd slobber all over me. I liked poking clumps of dried sap from the broken bark and chew them. It tasted bittersweet, it was gooey in my mouth, and you'd tease me about it... sly, dirty little jokes that made me crazy with want...

Zechs ducked to step into his cabin on the bottom tier and pulled the sliding door shut. The blind on the large window opposite the door was raised, and the reddish, diffuse light of Mars shone through the thick double plastic of the pod's shell. Long, almost vertical trails of swirling sand moved over the horizon like ghosts, the next duststorm in the making.

At least we've got a view when it's clear. Olympus Mons soaring from the frozen plains – how could anyone see a semblance to Earth in this world? The longer we're here, the more alien it becomes, no matter how much we build and form. We don't belong here.

He thought the tattered, faded newspaper spread someone had cello-taped onto the wall in the mess room was a wry joke – it showed in ugly bleachblue hues a vision of Mars from a sci-fi phantasy, with glossy skyscrapers and lush greenery in glasshouses, smiling, healthy looking, busty models dressed up in skin-tight 'space-suits' made of silvery plastic, and no duststorm in sight. Someone had scrawled a dirty joke across the chest of one of the models, in fat black print, and 'enhanced' her physical features with coarse lines. The psychiatrist complained on her second day on the base about this and the constant innuendo from the men. Zechs shrugged, and when she harangued him about regulations, he told her she could go back home. They had wanted another medical doctor, he said, not a shrink. She should look at the bright side – hadn't she been posted to the project because of an affair with her boss? Well, nobody was going to mind that either, not on Mars.

She had called him a sanctimonious bastard and threatened to complain. He laughed at her, glad that Zero didn't bother rising in his mind. She couldn't reach him. Nobody could. He was alone, the system his shadow.

xxx

He changed into a black Preventer-issue tracksuit. The shield embroidered on the left of his chest had long faded in the harsh light. The thin Mars atmosphere hardly blocked any UV radiation, and the transparent parts of the pod-shells didn't keep it all out either. Time out in those areas – the greenhouses and solar collectors – was restricted, but regulations were not always enforced, and people got tired of them. Some of the men were deeply tanned because they used the collectors as sunbeds, going as far as spreading towels on the rubber matting that covered the gangways between the shiny arrays.

To make best use of the available space and to allow some light into the pods, the arrays covering the top floor of each pod were arranged in tiers and canted at an angle, giving the impression of giant scales. The men would climb up on the strutting and hide between the scales. Smearing themselves with sunlotion – issued as a standard item – and using judiciously extended canvas sails for shade, they would spend time 'in the rafters', naked, drinking and playing cards. The psychiatrist had once ventured up there on a dare; she received such a raucous welcome that she preferred to stay clear in future. When she demanded Zechs stop the practice, Zechs told her that it wasn't his job to mother anyone. He had judged, correctly, that no amount of complaints and paperwork filed on Earth would be able to touch the project – it took too long, such things would be hushed up because the interests behind the exploration of Mars were bigger than concerns over safety and propriety, and career-soldiers bent on enforcing rules did not last so far from home.

You were good at that sort of stuff, Tre. And I've learned. Here, it's us against the rest of the universe. The misfits, the guys who've got problems with rules and orders, the ones that have files marked for insubordination and worse.

And in the scale of things, he thought, it didn't matter whether someone caught a nasty sunburn or shortened his lifespan by a few years. Mars, for most of them, was a no-return posting, a dead end for uncomfortable characters. At the beginning of his posting, the Mars crew had reminded Zechs of Otto and his team. They were smart, hard-working, unruly, independent, unwilling to accept authority without questioning. Most of them were on the terraforming project because Earth had to room for them.

We've become like the colonists on their Lagrange perches. Stuck in no-man's land.

Zechs hit the on-button of his personal computer terminal in passing, and switched on the tiny, sealed-flask coffeemachine wedged into a niche by his cot. The faint smell of fresh coffee began to fill the room as he settled on the high-edged bed, the wireless keyboard on his lap, and called the communication channel to the sickbay.

The sandy picture of a brunette woman with a plain ponytail flickered onto the screen. Her expression was blank, her gaze frosty. "Yes?"

"I am going on leave in-" he checked his wristwatch - "thirtyfour hours."

There was a tiny break, a giveaway moment, before she quickly said, "I haven't got security clearance yet."

"I'll take care of that."

She stared at him. "I don't want this."

"Come on. I'm supposed to watch over you; I can't do that when I'm down there and you're stuck here. Your clearance should arrive any minute."

"I'm not going there. Not with you."

"Whatever." He set the keyboard aside and went to pour his coffee into a lidded mug with a drinking spout "Your choice is to be dumped at Preventers HQ," he said, sitting down again, "where you'll be kept in the holding tank until I get back, or come to the estate with me."

She stood up. "Screw you."

He saluted with the mug. "Marimaia, you're not my type."

xxx

Interlude 3 – Market Week

xxx

In the distance, the whine of a jet engine rose and faded. Zechs glanced at Treize, whose chest was moving slowly in the rhythm of his breathing. Zechs leaned over him to gaze at his face, watching his eyelids. They were still, without flutter or tremble. For a split moment, his heart skipped and he panicked, putting his ear to Treize's chest and his fingers across Treize's lips. Soothed when he heard Treize's heartbeat, felt his breathing, only the aftershocks of his fear trembling through him.

Zechs rose as quietly as he could, and left the room to find out what was happening. Treize turned and hugged the pillow close to his stomach. He breathed in deeply, soaking up Zechs' clean, sharp scent.

xxx

The general stayed on after friends and families had left, and with him Ann and Dorothy, both looking fresh and lovely. Encouraged by Madame, they kept close company with Treize, bracketing him, feeding him, teasing him. A few times, Dorothy tried to draw Zechs into their small group, but he stayed awkward and reluctant in a calculated way, and she gave up, regret in her pretty eyes.

Those eyes reminded him too much of Treize, and it did not help his frame of mind that she seemed to see right through him.

Xxx

The morning was unusually quiet. Zechs picked his way through the debris of the party. The servants were about, clearing fireplaces and stacking fresh wood, cleaning dirty dishes, and preparing gallons of tea and coffee for breakfast. They were chatting, not too concerned about being heard – the guests were not likely to wake up early.

Outside, the sky was pale blue, and the sun shone, its light without warmth. The air was moist, thick with the smells of damp earth and melting snow, and the icicles hanging from the eaves of the house were weeping.

Zechs was putting the saddle on one of the small, hardy horses that the Khushrenadas kept for work in the forest or on the fields of the estate, when Dorothy caught up with him. She was wearing a skintight black top with a deep neckline, and jeans that seemed to be painted onto her backside. Zechs kept his eyes firmly on the horse as he buckled the saddle belt up.

"You seem pissed off," Dorothy said.

Oddly put out by her crudeness, he shrugged. "I'm fine. You?"

"Want me to ride with you?" Her tone had an undercurrent, and her posture shifted a little, pushing out her chest and accentuating the curve of her hip.

Zechs shook his head. "I'm going for a spin, just checking..."

"Checking?" She pushed herself off the doorpost and leaned against the horse, looking at Zechs across its back. "I could help you."

Before he could react, she grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him deeply. Her breasts pushed up against the saddle, and Zechs could smell her perfume – a heavy scent, mingled with warm sweat and desire. It made him dizzy.

He was breathless when she let go, and he could not help but stare when she winked and left, hips swaying. He was angry and didn't know why, but putting his energy into a wild ride through forest and across the steppe seemed a good idea.

xxx

When he returned to the house late that afternoon, his hair was in a mess, sweaty strands coiling against his temples and neck, and he felt sticky and in need of a bath.

Treize was sitting outside, a blanket across his knees, a book on his lap. Next to him stood Ann, one hand on his shoulder. Dorothy, her arm wrapped around Ann's waist, was leaning over Treize, her face almost cheek to cheek with his. She was combing her fingers through Treize's hair. They were laughing at something, a joke or a few funny lines in the book perhaps, Zechs thought. On Treize's face lay a smile that brightened when he glanced up and saw Zechs. "How was it?"

"Did you have a good ride?" Dorothy threw in.

Zechs pushed his riding gloves into his belt. "Could have been better. And yours?"

Dorothy opened her mouth, but Treize was quicker. "I'm not well enough yet," he said firmly.

Zechs shrugged. "Tough, isn't it? Good job you're getting time to rest." He stomped past, and the panes of the French doors shivered as he slammed them shut.

"Oooh." Dorothy rolled her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes.

Ann, looking tense and nervous, bit her lip. Treize sighed and closed the book. "If you'll excuse me."

"We'll try," Dorothy quipped, "but only because you're having domestic issues."

"I have not."

"Sure you do. Go already and calm your girlfriend down."

Treize's cheeks coloured. "Don't call him that."

"He's a drama queen," Dorothy prodded. "And his hair is almost as long as mine."

"He's just worried," Ann said, drawing back to give Treize room to get up.

"He tastes good." Dorothy shook her head, her lips brushing over Treize's cheekbone. "But he's a miserable kisser. Perhaps he needs practice, or a decent teacher. I'd volunteer. What do you think, cousin? Perhaps if you have a word with him..."

The pink blush bloomed up to Treize's hairline, fanning out over his neck as he tensed.

"Dorothy." Ann gripped her friend's hand firmly. "Let's look at the falcons. I've wanted to see them since we got here, and there hasn't been a chance yet."

Straightening unwillingly, Dorothy shrugged. "If you must. I think they're boring. Why're you wasting your time with birds, Treize?"

"I like them," Ann cut in before Treize could reply. "And I'll come to the stables with you afterwards. You can try teaching me how to ride. You promised, remember?"

Dorothy snorted. "It's easy. And after that, I'll give you a fencing lesson. Say, cousin, have you shown him how to use his blade yet? Or does he keep it in his sheath all the time?"

Treize folded the blanket, then placed it on the chair, the closed book on top. "My uncle should sheathe your sharp tongue," he said, his tone controlled but his eyes angry and his face deep red, "who could keep up with that? I feel sorry for the old man, and for whoever's going to marry you."

"Phew, that was cheap," Dorothy returned, not looking cross at all. "But you know what they say – still waters run deep."1

"Whatever." Treize turned his back on her. "Go sparring elsewhere. Or perhaps a swim in the river would cool you off. I could arrange that." He didn't look back as they watched him cross the room and disappear into the dusky depths of the house.

"Wrong tactic," Ann said dryly, letting go of Dorothy's wrist. "Did you have to spoil it?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

Dorothy shrugged. "He's cute, but I can't stand him."

"Milliardo?"

"He's such a girl," Dorothy laughed, "he got shaky when I kissed him, and he looked completely spooked. But he feels good, and he smelled like cookies. Sweet. I couldn't help it."

"I don't know..."

"...who you'd like better, Treize or Milli?"

Annoyed, Ann shook her head. "I think you've got Milliardo wrong."

"He'll get over it. Perhaps they'll console each other. I wouldn't mind watching."

A pained expression crossed Ann's features. "I'd rather look at the falcons now."

"Treize's birds." Dorothy hooked her arm into Ann's. "Perhaps the only ones he'll ever have. Let's go and look at our competition then."

xxx

Notes:

1 Still waters run deep. – В тихом омуте черти водятся.