Olympus Mons Read Online Free Page A

like me he’d had been given a living death sentence as a Marsrat after what must’ve been a really unpleasant earthside experience. He’d righteously deny ever confiding the tale to another living soul, but he would be wrong. One evening maybe three E-years ago we were sitting in Art the Barkeep’s sleazy watering hole when he’d babbled the highlights to me. Seems he’d once been on the payroll of a government spook show that’s shy of being talked about, and had somehow come to do less than what was expected of him. A mysterious Asian fem was involved — aren’t they always? — and a fly speck-sized data microdot he’d somehow let stray into the wrong hands. The half-told tale came spun out all fuzzy and cloak ‘n daggery, leaving me mainly in the dark about whatever details he’d decided to keep under his hat. He never came right out and said so, but catching the general drift was fairly easy. His big boss had offered simple options: termination with prejudice, or Mars. I know exactly how Jess must’ve felt, but I still believe we both made the worst of two choices.
    Once upon a time, a stonefaced, white bread judge looked down his long nose at me and offered what Jesperson once called “Hobson’s Choice,” whatever that means. The rambunctious gent I’d tangled with in a San Berdoo gin palace had already taken on an overload of white lightning. He’d gone out of his way to provoke the scuffle, and his foulmouthed lack of manners had pushed me in the same direction. What lit his fuse, I later learned, was that his kid, a defensive tackle with two left feet, had screwed-up during a losing game. I’d yanked the baby bull off the field, sat him down on the bench to think about his sins.
    The bo swung and I ducked, in that order. We went at it hot and heavy for a half-dozen heartbeats, except once the chips were down the tackle’s proud papa was handier with his mouth than his mitts. My right fist hit the left side of his mouth, and the back of his head hit the edge of the bar, also in that order.
    The assistant DA knew a Murder Two indictment wouldn’t hold water. Even so, she argued, waffled, beat her gums, and ended up grudging a manslaughter plea-bargain deal that gratified the young public defender assigned to stand up for me. Unlike Jesperson, I’d had no “termination” worries, yet thoughts of five-to-ten in the slam when you’re young are, well . . . I was a lot younger then, and black, and ten times more arrogant than I am now. Hizzoner didn’t care for arrogance. He cared even less for Afro-American football coaches. It’s a dull story.
    Anyhow, once the fallout fell out, unbeknownst to either of us at the time we’d each opted for a one-way ticket to Mars. I found Lorna here, fell for her big time, and managed to earn my keep, and a sore back, by virtue of the dexterity and industry I demonstrated picking up, carting hither and thither, and setting down objects of various sizes, shapes and weights.
    Jesperson wasn’t that fortunate; only thing he found here was Olympus Mons. Now no one in his right mind, underscore no one — taking it for granted the term applies to my partner — had ever given serious thought to climbing Burroughs’ humongous next door neighbor. Yet I think mountaineering must get in your blood, and stay there. My partner had been a world-class climber long before he made the mistake that got him cashiered and made him agree to have his insides reworked so he could get boxed and shipped to Mars. According to Doc Franklin, the enclave’s self-appointed areography expert, Jesperson had once ranked among the homeworld’s top “alpinists,” if that’s the right word. When prodded extra-hard, he’d now and then open up part way and spin a tale about climbing some “hill” in the Dolomites, Alps, California’s Sierra, the Canadian Rockies