Olympus Mons!
by Bud Sparhawk
Illustration by Vincent Di Fate
Haley Surra watched Taylor walking toward her across the Mar-sport concourse. “Cocky kid,” she muttered to herself as he came nearer. Why couldn’t he leave her alone with her misery? He knew that she was a freaking jinx, a lousy albatross, just like everyone said. Hadn’t she already done enough to screw him up? Hadn’t the jinx made him lose the race? Hadn’t her lousy bad luck nearly killed them?
What the hell did he want now?
The first time Taylor saw Surra was in a cheap bar frequented by Mars grubbies and indentured workers; people who could only afford the cheap spiced liquor they served there. He’d taken a cup of the clear, searing, pepper-infused whiskey and nearly choked on his first sip.
“Grew the peppers in the old lady’s dirt,” the barkeeper had boasted proudly as she topped off his cup. “Gives it that added zip, y’know. What brings you to Jovus bubble?”
“The Chu San race,” Taylor’d replied. “I thought that was obvious.” With his expensive clothes and pale skin he knew that he stood out among these hard scrabble types like a beacon on an orbiter. “But right now, I’m looking for a grubbie who knows Mons,” he added.
The barkeeper flopped into the chair opposite him. “Wouldn’t call prospectors that to their faces, were I you. Besides, you’re probably too late.” She looked around the room. “All the ’spectors willing to run the mountain have been hired.”
“Heard there was a woman—Haley Surra—who hasn’t teamed. Said I could probably find her here.”
The barkeeper stood up abruptly. “Don’t know that she’d want to help, though. Got a bunch of family problems that’s taking most of her time, I hear. But I’ll keep an eye out.”
Taylor looked around at the crowd as the woman returned to the bar. Most were paying close attention to the news scrolling across the wall screen but a few were conversing intently in the Martian native’s low growls. A thin woman sat alone and stared at the ruddy desert outside through the observation window behind the bar. There was a half-empty cup in front of her. She turned and glanced his way after the barkeeper whispered something to her.
Taylor smiled at her and returned to his newly refreshed drink, sipping another minute quantity to see if limiting the volume would reduce the sting.
It didn’t.
“Sheila says you’ve been looking for me,” the sharp-featured woman who’d been at the bar said as she sat down. When he didn’t immediately respond she added; “I’m Surra—Haley Surra. What’s on your mind?”
Taylor Blacker looked at her and wondered if he had been led astray. His potential navigator turned out to be a slight woman with sharp cheekbones and a characteristic Mars tan. She was so thin that he wondered why even the weak breezes of Mars hadn’t whisked her away. She was not an imposing sight, not by half. She was hardly what he’d expected.
“Seen enough,” she said gruffly.
“I’ve been told that you know the mountain pretty well,” he started. “Fellow down in Marsport told me that you probably were the best grubbie I could find.”
Surra stared at him for such a long time that he wondered if his inspection of her had given affront. Finally, she responded. “You are so full of crap; the only reason you are talking to me is that you haven’t been able to find anyone else—right?”
Blacker shrugged. “Well—” he began.
“Let’s get something straight right off,” Surra interrupted. “I don’t like people who lie to me. I don’t like people who call us ‘grubbies’ and,” she added angrily, “I don’t particularly like fresh-faced kids who have so much money that they can afford to waste it on a stupid race down the old lady’s skirts. Stuff your bullshit, pack your bags, and go back to daddy, kid. You ain’t got a chance!”
Taylor grabbed her by the arm when she started to get up. “Listen lady, don’t tell me I haven’t a chance! I’ve been getting ready for this race for two years, ever since they announced it. I didn’t drop down here from Jupe Station for nothing.”
“Jovian, eh?” Surra said sharply, her eyes widening in surprise. “Well, that explains the accent and lack of manners.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Name’s Taylor—best damn engineer in JBI. Specialty’s systems and I think my bike’s design has the best chance for winning the Chu San. I’ve got some specialized gear that will give us an edge. Even had the rig modified to provide the extra stability for the steeper slopes.”
Surra slowly sat back with a grin on her face. “Shows how much you know, kid. The old lady doesn’t have much of a slope,” she laughed. “Hell, I doubt that she’s got more than a thirty degree hill anywhere on her. It’s speed you’ll need in this race, and those idiots willing to ignore the risk of cracking up will probably win. You ready to do that, kid? Willing to put your young life on the line for something as stupid as fame and glory?”
Blacker ignored her barbs. “What you know about the mountain might give us an edge. I’m told that you know every square meter.”
Surra nodded. “Worked it for years, me and my partners. Didn’t get anything out of it but lots of debt, busted gear, and a rotten reputation.”
“Is that why they call you Jinx?” he asked quietly.
Surra stood up. “You’ve got a nasty mouth to go along with your wealth, kid. Why don’t you go home to daddy and find some other way to waste his money?”
Family! If she only knew. He’d kept his entry into this race a secret from his precious family. Hell, if gramps or pop knew about this they’d probably have a fit. Gramps would probably send a troop of his security people to kidnap him until the race was over. His father had protested him risking his life working the Jovian moons as an engineer, but his family finally accepted that—lots of training and the best equipment JBI could provide eliminated most of the risk. Doing something that, from their perspective, was as pointless as the Olympus Mons downhill race was another matter entirely.
“Listen, lady, I’ve dumped every centime I earned from working the Jovian moons into passage here, the entry fees, and the modifications I needed on the bike. The money’s my own, not my family’s,” he responded angrily, “and why the hell that’s any business of yours I don’t know. Listen, I might not be able to win this race without you, but I am going to race down that mountain. And I’ll do it alone if I have to!”
Surra looked hard at him. “You’ve got balls, I’ll say that, kid. But what’s in it for me?”
“There’s three thousand when we cross the finish line,” he said quickly. “Win, lose, or draw.” She started to turn away.
“All right, five thousand,” he offered. “That’s all I have left.”
“Not enough to make me risk my neck, kid. What else you got?”
“Share the purse if we win,” he said. Surra sneered. “And you can keep the bike after we’re finished,” he added in desperation and sat back, hoping that was enough. The bike was his last counter. He had nothing else to offer.
“Really?” she said, returning to her seat. “Bike’s a pricey item.” She seemed to consider the offer for a few minutes. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll do it. You have all the permits?”
“Yes, but I have to admit that I was a little overwhelmed by the bureaucrats at Marsport. Took me four days to fill out all the waivers and get them processed. And the fees!”
“Government’s a mite touchy over this race,” Surra said quietly. “They want to make sure that anyone insane enough to enter won’t hold them accountable for anything that happens. Lots of people been killed running the Chu San, trying to beat the record.” The last was said with a note of sad regret in her voice, as if it was personal.