1

Marta da Guia peered out of the rain-streaked window of their automobile,
“Os hologramas me faz sentir velha…!”
She now hated the ever-present holos of Marta Fernandes that punctuated their route to Sala Sao Paulo. The current scene showed the precocious eleven year old hard at work in class, surrounded by her fellow explorers. To the twenty five year old, they were both a reminder of her childhood, and a testament to the onward march of time…
Ms da Guia’s companion answered in Standard English,
“…of course, you don’t mind the wealth and fame the child brings you…”
Marta switched to Standard,
“…if she wasn’t such a prig all the time…the child is too perfect…I feel she is up there judging me…for not being a national hero, como a Nossa santa Marta!”
“…that’s no way to talk about a loved one…”
She gave him a warning look,
“I prefer to think of it as a professional relationship…”
The next few minutes passed in silence with Marta reflecting that sometimes she wished she’d been less open with him…
“…and why do we have to travel in this antique…?” she was referring to their limo, so old that it required a driver,
“We cannot land an aircraft in the vicinity of Julio Prestes…and we cannot miss the red carpet entrance…and I thought the limo would add a touch of class…!”
As well as sharing her bed, Salvador served as her personal manager. Raised in Mexico City, he still felt uncomfortable conversing in Portuguese, and preferred not to speak it in private. Marta disliked Spanish, so Standard had become the default between them,
“Sera que essa chuva nao cessam…?”
As a paulistana Marta knew full well that Sampa’s nickname ‘the city of drizzle’ was well earned, but these days the rain seemed never ending…
They were now approaching the red carpet. Rua Mauo had been closed to all other traffic for the event. The rain may have kept the numbers down, but people still lined both sides of the thoroughfare for at least a kilometre in either direction…
The awning didn’t quite reach far enough, so flunkeys with umbrellas rushed forward to shelter them as they prepared to exit the vehicle. She fixed her professional smile in place…
They emerged into the humid night, the camera drones buzzing around them like a swarm of oversized bees. Marta paused to pose and smile several times on her progress along the carpet. Salvador hung back, knowing full well who the media and crowds had come to see…
“I really don’t know why they chose this creaking old ruin…” Marta whispered to him, “…surely Globo Televisao Arena would have been far more appropriate…and convenient…”
They had now arrived at the door. Efficient security admitted them while ensuring any unauthorised drone cams (or people) remained outside. She was glad to be back inside an air-conditioned space, glad to leave behind the constant cries of ‘Marta, Marta’ or ‘Miss da Guia, could you look this way’. A network heavyweight greeted her,
“Senhora da Guia, bem-vindo ao nosso humilde evento…!”
Conscious of the global television audience, she chose to give most of her answer in Standard, knowing also that her words would be rendered instantaneously into the myriad of tongues spoken by her audience,
“Obrigado, Joao…” Marta had dredged up the network chief’s name from somewhere in her vast memory for such things, her ’face could have done it for her, but the almost imperceptible time lag would have come across to the viewers,
“It is, of course, my great honour to be presenting the Alpha Mission Awards once again…”
Time was short and she allowed herself to be moved along swiftly to the next guest and the next… They had now arrived at the VIP area adjoining the rostrum from where she would be hosting the show. She could dimly make out the ornate decor and rococo chandeliers of Sale Sao Paulo, beyond the stage lights. A crowd of almost one thousand waited expectantly at their tables…
Her first task would be to conduct a series of vox pop interviews with assorted celebrities. These could be broadcast live or infilled at crucial points in the show at the discretion of the director. The first two interviews were with routine B list celebrities that even Marta found vacuous, but the third was different…
She turned to the little drone, now hovering a metre in front of her,
“We are privileged to have with us this evening, a very special guest…! One of the fabled Mission Planners, Mr A. M. Bhatt…!”
Mr Bhatt rose from his seat and stepped forward to join her as he was introduced. A small balding man in late middle age, he was beautifully dressed in an exquisitely cut silk Nehru jacket and trousers. The man’s clothes seemed to shimmer as he moved shifting from iridescent turquoise to midnight blue. Marta was impressed as the effect appeared to be achieved entirely by the composition of the fabric. With practiced ease she unobtrusively positioned the man in front of her drone cam,
“Mr Bhatt, may I first say what an honour it is to be speaking to you…Public utterances from Mission are so rare…we must treasure them…”
Bhatt smiled indulgently during this flattery,
“Could you start, sir, by explaining your precise role within the Mission…?”
“Of course, it was a long time ago…” said Bhatt, “…and I am now semi-retired, but my role was essentially designing the education programmes for the children…”
“Fascinating…” cut in Marta, “…and could you explain something that has always puzzled me…? Why do the children speak Standard with that strange accent and idiom…? It has always struck me as rather old fashioned…”
“Well, my dear! As an Indian, like many of my generation, I have a great regard for English literature…” He paused to clear his throat, “In particular, I am an admirer of the works of Mr C. S. Lewis…of his tales of that most magical of places, Narnia…! I think something of that must have come out in the programmes I wrote, the programmes used to teach the children to speak, read and write…”
“I see…” she said doubtfully. The broadcast director whispered urgently in her ear,
“Old children’s film, the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe…”
Marta had a vague recollection, but Bhatt was not finished,
“…of course, this whole enterprise is basically the Truman Show in space…you are familiar with that film…?”
“Yes, I believe I saw it as a child,” said Marta cautiously.
Bhatt continued,
“The basic flaw in that film was its assumption that the public would have to be deceived into having their lives open to view, when subsequent history tells us they were only too glad to volunteer…”
“I don’t think the children on Alpha 5 have volunteered…” said Marta quietly,
“We’ve pulled the feed, wrap it up…!” said the director tersely,
“Well, thank you for that most illuminating insight, Mr Bhatt…! Now we must move swiftly on…!”
Later, she was angry with herself for losing control of the interview. The director had fortunately cut live transmission just as the man had started lecturing the television audience on the subject of reality programmes. The built-in delay ensured none of his more controversial comments made it to air…but it had looked bad…
She was now waiting in the backstage area ready to introduce the show. Marta went through her pre-show routine, fine-tuned her appearance, her hair now Monroe blonde, trademark condor tattoo wrapped around her right shoulder, backless dress set to maximum shimmer… Salvador gave her a thumbs up, the orchestra struck up the AMA theme,
“…And now, would you welcome your host…! Sao Paolo’s own…! SENHORA MARTA DA GUIA…!”
“OLA…!” cried Marta from the rostrum,
“OLA…!” chorused back the invited audience… As ever, her now famous catchphrase instantly relaxed her,
“Ola paulistanos, fellow Brazilians, and our audience worldwide… Ola and welcome to AMA ’06…!” Marta paused to regard her audience,
“It is hard to believe that another year has passed…another year in the lives of our brave star travellers…”
On cue, holos of the nine children appeared above and behind her,
“Tonight is the night, of course, when you, the viewers, get to vote on your favourite moments from this year’s Alpha Mission, which is, of course, brought to you in conjunction with Pepsi, Tata, and Globo Televisao Holdings…”
“It’s been a busy year in the life of the children, with Brazil’s own Marta Fernandes emerging as a potential leader among the explorers, and with the older children going out on Mission by themselves for the first time… Our first category is however on a lighter note… Our nominations for best comic moment are…Priya and her first encounter with an arthropod…! Han and his…”
And so it went on, the various categories were nominated and voted on… Priya, the baby, won best comic moment and cutest explorer… Marta Fernandes appeared to be keeping her powder dry, but was nominated for the more important categories later on…
Sometime during the technical awards, she caught sight of a disturbance in the hall out of the corner of her eye. Three tables back stage right, a man was standing… Shaking off attempts by his neighbours to restrain him, he raised his arm in a clenched fist salute, shouting something unintelligible in Portuguese.
Marta glanced at the musical director in the pit in front of her, who instantly cued the band into a lively tango, drowning out the man’s words. The protester now triggered a holo which flared into life above his head. She could make out the image of a photogenic child against the backdrop of an urban shanty…with the Standard English slogan ‘Alpha Mission: Against the laws of God and man’. The individual had now broken through the cordon of tables, and was now advancing towards the rostrum, yelling inaudibly,
“I see the after-show party has started a little early for our friend…” she said this with a practised smile that masked her growing alarm… Security men had now appeared unobtrusively on both sides of the man, one spoke urgently into his throat mic…the shouting man abruptly folded. The security guards caught him with well-rehearsed ease before he hit the floor, and hustled him out of the room…”
“Someone has been making too much use of our free hospitality…” said Marta. The laugh she got was more an expression of relief, but it broke the tension and the show proceeded…

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2

Salvador hugged her as she came off stage. The rest of the show had passed without incident, with Marta Fernandes, as expected, winning the coveted title of ‘crewman of the year’… Ratings were up, the networks and the sponsors were happy…but Miss da Guia was not, she shook herself free from her manager’s embrace,
“How did that fucking lunatic get past security…” she raged, “…Eu deveria alimentar os seus testiculos aos meus Dobermans…!”
“Calm down…!” said Salvador, “…security dealt with it…no-one was hurt…the show was not disrupted…”
With her hair its normal chestnut colour, her tattoo gone, her dress now merely conventional fabric…without the augments provided by her ’face, Salvador thought she looked strangely vulnerable…
Later, when she had calmed down, the Network security head came to see her,
“Meus humildes desculpas, Senhora Marta…!” said the man. She nodded regally and he continued in Standard,
“The man’s name is Eduardo do Nascimento…he is known to us, a Christian Environmentalist with links to the Camposettas. My operatives are interrogating him, prior to handing him over to the civil authorities…”
“But how could an associate of the Camposettas gain entrance to the AMA…?”
The man paused,
“It seems he was able to gain access to a black market interface, which identified him as Jose Barros, a rancher from Bahia and important contributor to ruling party funds…this was sufficient to get him through into the hall…”
“This is very serious…”
“However the same technology he used against us, proved to be his downfall…”
“How so…?”
“My operatives were able to hack his ’face and neutralize him…”
Marta shuddered, remembering how the man had collapsed. It was little known fact that security agencies possessed the ability to render unconscious (and, it was rumoured, kill) any interface user… There was a price to pay for the luxury and convenience of the technology… The health of ’face users was monitored constantly, therapeutic nanobots deployed and medical help summoned at the first sign of trouble…no user of the technology ever had to prove their identity, or lack access to funds, or be out of touch anywhere on the planet… But there was a downside, users were monitored at all times by the authorities…the price of membership of this exclusive club was perpetual loyalty and strict adherence to its rules…
Of course, such privileges were only available to the few. It was estimated that less than 10% of world population used interface technology, most people still used older forms of ICT. A rising proportion of Brazil’s population lacked any access to tech at all… This included the stateless and the destitute, people who were literally off-the-map as far as the authorities were concerned… It was from these people that the Camposettas drew their support, and their recruits…their very invisibility posed the biggest threat to state security…
Marta pleaded ‘nervous exhaustion’ and she and Salvador skipped the after-show party heading straight to their suite in the adjacent hotel. Later in bed they talked over the night’s events,
“…that funny little man reminded me of a little known fact about Alpha Mission…” said Marta,
“Pray tell…?”
“Did you know that the networks ended up providing almost a third of the cost of the Mission, way back when…?”
“So this whole thing, the show, .was part of the design specification…?” Salvador was amazed,
“It had to be written into the contract…” Marta turned to gaze up at her lover, “…the various governments had fallen out over money…nobody was prepared to put up extra cash… The breaking-point came when they got the message back from the Probe telling them that the original colonists weren’t viable, that the genetic material the ship had carried was sterile…Well, you can imagine how that went down…relationships between the Powers were already ‘difficult’. Russia had pulled out, and the remaining four countries started blaming each other…decision making just ground to a halt, with no-one prepared to take responsibility for the failure, and nobody coming up with solutions…”
“…so what happened then…?”
“This is where the Networks come in; they’d been peripherally involved right from the start, but now seized the opportunity to go centre stage…”
She paused to wriggle a bit closer to him,
“…it turned out they’d been funding some of the research, and it was one of their scientists that came up with the fix…The conglomerates offered to fund the necessary work, in exchange for complete access to the lives of the children created…”
“Doesn’t it bother you, that your existence, your whole life…is the result of an experiment…?”
“…It’s the only life I know…” said the woman philosophically, “…and it’s not such a bad life…”
They were silent for a time while Salvador took in the implications,
“Wow…! That’s what I call a long term investment…! And now, twenty five years later, it’s really beginning to pay off…”
“…best ratings in history…”
*******
A couple of hours before dawn she woke to find him no longer in their bed. She felt a cool breeze on her cheek, and traced its source to the open balcony doors. Slipping on her robe, she joined him leaning on the balcony, together they looked out at the night,
“Couldn’t sleep, huh…?”
“I was wondering which of these lights in the sky is Alpha 5…”
He’s smoking a contraband cigarette, she takes a drag,
“It’s cold, why don’t you come back to bed…”
But despite herself she stays, looking out at the black immensity of the night…

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Coda

The following day they checked out at 9.45.
The limo would take them to the nearest heliport and the flyer direct to their downtown penthouse. A porter took their bags to the vehicle. Marta noticed he was wearing one of the now-popular ‘crusty buttons’, bearing an idealised version of an Alphane arthropod. ‘Crusty mania’ had really hit three years ago, when seemingly every child on the planet had (or wanted) a soft toy arthropod…
Just after ten a bomb exploded at the nearby railway station. The shockwave rocked their vehicle, while a dull roar echoed off the surrounding buildings. Without thinking she wound down her window and leaned out to look at the pall of smoke rising two blocks away,
“…I’d prefer it if you kept that window closed from now on…”
Guiltily she complied, noticing that Salvador was loading and checking his pistol…
At first, no-one knew anything, but gradually news began to seep through… Bombs had gone off at six locations, all major transport hubs…there were ‘an unknown number of casualties’…
They were waiting in their vehicle following events on their interfaces when, just after eleven, the mayor declared a state of emergency. This was followed by the State Governor declaring martial law across parts of the city, where rioting was reported to be taking place… All flights were now grounded in the central area following reports of ‘terrorists armed with surface-to-air missiles among the towers…’
“Looks like we’re stuck with this heap of junk for a while longer…” said Salvador ruefully.
Marta felt reasonably safe. The limo was armoured and capable of withstanding a high-velocity round. In addition to Salvador’s pistol, the driver had a carbine clipped to the underside of the dashboard…and was proficient in its use,
“Do you know which day it is…?” she asked, after they’d been driving for ten minutes,
“No…!”
“October 12th, Nossa Senhora Aparecida…!”
Salvador had lived long enough in Sao Paulo to understand the significance,
“It seems Our Lady has abandoned Sampa in its hour of need…” said Marta in a small voice.
Later, a harassed looking Guarda Nacional officer manning a checkpoint flagged them down. He and the driver conferred. The driver’s voice came through on the intercom,
“He says it is too dangerous to proceed…rioters have set up barricades…”
“I think it’s best if we head directly for the Estate…!” said Salvador.
Her ranch lay roughly three hundred kilometres north of the city limits. Fortunately, the driver had refuelled the previous night and they had more than enough juice to get there. They bought sandwiches at a roadside cantina, the only place they found open….the driver spotted the traffic queuing to join the freeway just in time, and pulled over. He and Salvador conferred,
“…my ’face now says traffic is at a standstill on all major routes, the Grid’s gone down and everyone’s having to remember how to drive themselves…” said Salvador grimly,
“but Hector…” he indicated their driver, “…he says he knows a route through the northern suburbs that might be running freely…”
“What about the driver…?” asked Marta
“He says he has people in the area he can stay with…he can take back the car when the situation improves…”
‘I think it’s a case of if, not when…’ she said to herself
“You’re the boss…it’s your call…” a sudden fatalism had swept over her…
The suburbs were deserted. Fearing the worst, the residents appeared to have barricaded themselves inside their homes. They made good time, and at noon they hit a little frequented highway heading north. Out here in the boondocks there were no holograms. On either side lay abandoned and overgrown cane plantations dating from the methanol boom earlier in the century. Her religious upbringing was coming back to haunt her,
‘I think we are no longer in a state of grace…’ she thought, and wished she could bring herself to pray,
“You know…” she said to her companion a while later, “…we should think about relocating, to Mexico City…until all this blows over…”
Salvador squeezed her hand by way of reply…
They stopped to eat the sandwiches they’d bought. A thin white dog appeared from the canebrake. They threw it a sandwich which it devoured greedily, but when it appeared to want to stick around, Hector the driver scared it away…the abandoned pet watched them mournfully as they pulled back on to the highway…
Just before three, the vehicle’s elderly methanol-fuelled engine began misfiring. The driver slowed and announced he would take a look…
They had pulled up by a wayside shrine. Marta went to over to see. Here, new gods seemed to have superseded the old…the central icon was a small magnetized colour image of Marta Fernandes, of the kind sold in a thousand bazaars…the shrine was dedicated thus,
‘Nossa filha santa entre as estrelas, nos abencoe e nos mantor’
“Our holy child among the stars, bless us and keep us…” she translated for Salvador who had joined her.
They stood in silent veneration. The shrine was well visited, as the fading flowers and small personal items left before it testified… Obeying an impulse that passed all understanding, Marta took one of the cheap self-igniting tapers, kneeled before the altar, and lit a candle for her sister. The flame burned strong…
The driver announced that they were now ready to resume their journey… As they drive off, the flame continues to burn, until a sudden gust of wind catches it, leaving only a wisp of smoke rising toward heaven…

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Chapter 13. Another Girl Another Planet >>