The Rust

Chapter 2.2

Next morning starts early and with a makeover. Olivia sits on Mig's bed and uses his helmet's visor as a mirror. She tucks, loosens, then retucks strands of hair. Small curls emphasize the curve of her neck. The hairpin contrasts sharply with her black hair. Plastic silver beads have to be stuck in to complete the look. He pushes the last one in to a strategically placed curl and then shrugs.

"We done, your highness?"

"A good dynasty starts with good servants."

"I'll get on it." 

Olivia flicks and pulls at her fringe. "How is it you can put a bullet through someone's head at 100 yards but you can't avoid stabbing my scalp?"

"Better aim with a gun."

She shoots him a dirty look, then goes back to preening. He gives himself a once over. A deeply tanned face and pink everything else. It's the Martian mask. Week old stubble, close-cropped black and grey hair, and a smattering of scars that start on his lip and end at his eye. Another grizzled old ḡarīb.

"Let's go."

"Fine, fine." Olivia grabs her crutches and stands up. "How do I look?"

Her clothes are hand-stitched. They're drab and formless, but they fit. Her wrists and ankles are wrapped in bandages. He could never find any shoes big enough for her, so he made do with the cannibalized parts of his old suit boots, foam, and spacecraft tape. He'll have to make a custom suit for her, too. His won't fit.

"It's not a fashion walk," he says and dons his helmet.

"Everybody stares."

"Yeah, well." He slides the strap of his M189 over his shoulder and pats the barrel. "You point, I shoot."

The corners of her mouth twitch. Mig pushes open their front door and steps outside. The Honeycomb is starting to stir. The lights are still dimmed to conserve power overnight. He looks at his control module and switches his radio to CEW52. It reports terrestrial and near-earth weather all the time. A woman's voice fusses in.

"...and if you are heading out of orbit today, watch yourselves. A spike in solar activity this morning is expected to push the Van Allen's outward. It has also prompted the Space Weather Centre to issue a warning for a category G3 geomagnetic storm later in the week. Expect significant communication blackouts."

Olivia swings out on her crutches. "That's Betty Martinez. I like her."

He shuts their front door and engages the lock. "Why?"

"She could make eating a sandwich sound dangerous."

They start walking down the steep, zig zagging stairs carved from the rock and sealed with paint. Mig clears the way, although most people move as a courtesy.

One of their neighbours steps aside and points towards the ground level. His name is Azizi. An old combat medic who settled here with his grandson. He has no suit, no contacts with blue caps or skimmers, but that hasn't stopped him from looking after people once the doctors leave.

"Better hurry. The line's already forming."

Mig presses his index and middle fingers against the corner of his visor. It's the Martian gesture for hello, thank you, and goodbye. Azizi mirrors it by pressing his fingers just underneath his eye.

Olivia slumps over her crutches. "We won't make it."

"We'll make it."

They clamber down to the second, then the first level. By the time they reach the ground, people are leaving their homes. The lights come on full force. He half-turns and makes sure Olivia is right behind him before crossing to the other side of the Honeycomb. The bar's getting loud and rowdy already. He scans two old men sitting outside. Black and Turza. His old drinking buddies are already knocking back beers. They give a haphazard tap under their eyes when he walks by.