But no-no, it wasn't a disk. It was a dish, a great metal bowl, as if an entire crater had been lined with aluminum, and- "Jesus," said Don.

"What?" replied Sas.

"It's an antenna dish."

"Who could have built it?" asked Sas.

Don tipped his head up to look at Mars-but he couldn't see Mars; they were on Deimos' farside.

The farside! Of course!

"Sas-it's a radio telescope!"

"Why would anyone put a radio telescope on the back side of Deimos?" asked Sas. "Unless... oh, my.

Oh, my."

Don was nodding inside his s.p.a.ce helmet. "It was built here for the same reason we want to build a radio telescope on the backside of Earth's moon.

Luna farside, with all those kilometers of rock between it and Earth, is the one place in the Solar System that's shielded from the radio noise coming from human civilization..."

"And," said Sas, "Deimos farside, with fifteen kilometers of rock between it and Mars, would be shielded from the radio noise coming from..." His voice actually cracked. "...from Martian civilization."Sas and Don continued to search, hoping there would be more to the installation than just the giant dish, but soon enough Deimos' rapid orbit caused the sun-only half the apparent diameter it was from Earth and giving off just one-quarter the heat-to sink below the horizon. Deimos took thirty hours and nineteen minutes to circle Mars; it would be almost fifteen hours before the sun rose on the tiny moon again.

"This is huge," said Sas, when they were back inside the habitat. "This is gigantic."

"A Martian civilization," said Don. He couldn't get enough of the phrase.

"There's no other possibility, is there?"

Don thought about that. There had been a contingency plan for Apollo 11 in case it found Soviets already on the Moon- but NASA was no longer in a s.p.a.ce race with anyone. "Well," said Don, "it certainly wasn't built by humans."

"Zakarian and company are going to have a lot to look for on the surface," said Sas.

Don shrugged a bit. "Maybe. Maybe not. There's weather on Mars, including sandstorms that last for months. All the large-scale water-erosion features we see on Mars are at least a billion years old, judging by the amount of cratering overtop of them. That suggests that whatever Martian civilization might have once existed did so at least that long ago. In a billion years, wind erosion could have destroyedevery trace of an ancient civilization down there."

"Ah," said Sas, grinning. "But not here! No air; no erosion to speak of. Just the odd micrometeoroid impact." He paused. "That dish must have been here an awfully long time, to get buried under that much dust."

Don smiled. "You know," he said, "every s.p.a.ce station humanity has ever been involved with has been inhabited by successive crews-Skylab, Mir, Alpha. One crew would go down; another would come up."

Sas raised his eyebrows. "But there's never been such a long hiatus between one crew leaving and the next one arriving."

When they knew the sun would be up on Deimos farside, Don and Sas headed back to the site of the alien antenna dish. They had almost finished making their way around its perimeter when they found a spoke, projecting outward from the rim of the antenna. They kept digging down, following it away from the dish, until- "Allah-o-akbar!" exclaimed Sasim.

"G.o.d Almighty," said Don.

The spoke led to a buried building, and- Well, its inhabitants had been astronomers. It made sense that they'd have a gla.s.s roof, a clear ceiling through which they could look up at the stars.

As Don and Sas brushed away more and moredust, they were better able to see in through the roof.

There was furniture inside, but none of it designed for human occupants: several bowl-shaped affairs that Don imagined were chairs, and low worktables, covered with square sheets of something that seemed to serve the same purpose as paper. Scattered about were opaque cylindrical units that looked like they might be for storage. And- Slumped against the wall, at the far end- It was incredible. Absolutely incredible.

A Martian, perfectly preserved for countless millennia. Either they had no such thing as bacteria leading to decay, or everything had been sterilized before coming to Deimos, or perhaps all the air had leaked out somehow, preserving the being in vacuum.

The former resident of the building was vaguely insectoid, with rusty exoskeletal armor, four arms, and two legs. In life, he would have walked proud and upright. His mandible was tripart.i.te; his giant eyes, lidless behind crystal sh.e.l.ls, were a soft, kind blue.

"Amazing," said Sas softly. "Amazing."

"There must be a way inside," said Don, looking around. For all they knew from what they'd exposed of the transparent roof so far, the building might be no bigger than a single room. Still, it had been carved into the rocks of Deimos, so the air lock, if there was one, should be somewhere on the roof.Don and Sas worked at clearing debris, and, after about twenty minutes, Don found what they were looking for. It was a transparent tube, like the one George Jetson shot up through, stretching between the gla.s.s roof and the floor. The tube had an opening in its circular walls at ground level, and a hatch up on the roof, forming a chamber that air could be pumped into or out of.

Any s.p.a.ce station had lots of electrical parts, but doors were something sane engineers would make purely mechanical. After all, if the power went out, you didn't want to be trapped inside or outside. It took Sas and Don a few minutes to work out the logic of the door mechanism-a central disk in the middle of the roof had to be depressed, then rotated counterclockwise. Once that was done, the rest of the hatch irised open, and the locking disk, attached by what looked like a plastic cord, dangled very loosely at one side.

Don glided down the tube first. He wasn't able to open the inside door until Sas closed the upper lid; a safety interlock apparently prevented anyone from accidentally venting the habitat's air out into s.p.a.ce.

Still, it was immediately obvious to Don, once he was out of the air lock tube, that there was no air inside the habitat. The rigidity of his pressure suit didn't change; no condensation ap-peared on his visor; there was no resistance to waving his arms vigorously. Doubtless there had been some air once, but, despite the safety precautions, it had all leakedout. Perhaps a small meteor had drilled through the roof at some point they hadn't yet uncovered.

Sas came down the air lock tube next-the locking disk could be engaged from either side of the iris. By the time he was down, Don had already made his way over to the dead thing. Its rusty color seemed good confirming evidence that Mars was indeed the being's original home. The creature was about a meter and a half tall, and, if there had been any doubt about its intelligence, that was dispelled now.

The Martian wore clothes-apparently not for protection, but rather for convenience; the translucent garment covering part of its abdomen was rich with pockets and pouches. Still, the body showed signs of having suffered a ma.s.sive decompression; innards had partially burst out through various seams in the exoskeleton.

While Don continued to examine the being-the first alien life-form ever seen by a human-Sas poked around the room. "Don!" he shouted.

Don reluctantly left the Martian and glided over to Sas, who was pointing through an open archway.

The underground complex went on and on. And Martian bodies were everywhere.

"Wow," said Sas. "Wow."

Don tried to activate the radio circuit to Earth, but he wasn't able to pick up the beacon signal from Mission Control. Of course not: this facility had operated a ma.s.sive radio telescope; it would beshielded to prevent interference with the antenna.

Don and Sas made their way up the air lock tube and out to the surface. There they had no trouble acquiring the beacon.

"Mission Control," said Don. "Tell Chuck Zakarian we hope he has a good time down on Mars'

surface-although, given all the erosion that goes on there, I doubt he'll find much. But that's okay, Houston; we'll make up for that. You see, it seems we're not the first crew to occupy..." He paused, the perfect name coming to him at last. "...Mike Collins Station."

THE FRANCHISE.

by Julie E. Czerneda

Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the John W. Campbell and Philip K. d.i.c.k Awards, as well as two-time winner of John W. Campbell and Philip K. d.i.c.k Awards, as well as two-time winner of John W. Campbell and Philip K. d.i.c.k Awards, as well as two-time winner of John W. Campbell and Philip K. d.i.c.k Awards, as well as two-time winner of the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels with DAW Books, most recently with DAW Books, most recently with DAW Books, most recently with DAW Books, most recently Species Imperative: Survival. Species Imperative: Survival. Species Imperative: Survival. Species Imperative: Survival. A proponent A proponent A proponent A proponent of using SF in cla.s.srooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series of using SF in cla.s.srooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series of using SF in cla.s.srooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series of using SF in cla.s.srooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series Tales from the Wonder Zone, as Tales from the Wonder Zone, as Tales from the Wonder Zone, as Tales from the Wonder Zone, as well as well as well as well as Realms of Wonder. Realms of Wonder. Realms of Wonder. Realms of Wonder. Julie edited the Julie edited the Julie edited the Julie edited the anthology anthology anthology anthology s.p.a.ce Inc. s.p.a.ce Inc. s.p.a.ce Inc. s.p.a.ce Inc. for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming Revisions, Revisions, Revisions, Revisions, alternative science alternative science alternative science alternative science histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel , In the Company of , In the Company of , In the Company of , In the Company of Others, Others, Others, Others, led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise ." ." ." ."

t.i.tan University Archives Public Access Reference: Post-Quill Era; Colonization; s.p.a.ce Station Repatriation ONCE the menace of the Quill, the alien pest accidentally and tragically released on the terraformed planets, had been overcome, and the first of these worlds declared free of the deadly Quill Effect, it was with relief and enthusiasm that humanity undertook Phase Four: colonization. There were, of course, minor details to be settled before full, unrestricted immigration could be inst.i.tuted. During the two decades of Protective Isolation, the great transit stations had sheltered hundreds of thousands of would-be immigrants. These individuals were now eager to resume theirchosen destiny. Earth, and all of Sol System, wished to reestablish routine travel via the stations to the new worlds, but some stations had fallen into disrepair.

Fortunately, all affected agencies worked in harmony to move colonization and station repatriation forward as expeditiously as possible. Humanity's Great Dream had begun anew and the transit stations would prove key to making that dream a reality.

t.i.tan University Archives Excerpts from briefings conducted by a.s.sistant Secretary Wayne Umberto Access Restricted to Clearance AA2 or higher ...It's clear the 16 transit stations presently-viable- will be granted self-governing status as the public demands. Your task in this negotiation, sir, will be to obtain a firm understanding-however worded-that this enfranchis.e.m.e.nt is conditional upon those stations a.s.suming responsibility for repatriating the nonviable ones. It's a salvage stationers are uniquely qualified to undertake and our experts predict a success rate of 30%.

There is the obvious added benefit of relieving the extreme population pressure within the surviving stations. Less apparent, but no less critical, sir, is that the System Universities and TerraCor, by providing crucial transport and technical support, will reestablish a permanent presence on the stations before they become too independent. The stations must remain service-oriented facilities, to be expanded or decommissioned as we see fit, not become homes...

"Doesn't make much sense," Annette whispered.

"What doesn't?"

"Him. Here."

Dave Bijou didn't need to follow the slide of his wife's eyes to know who took up the first bench in the Earthers' fancy-new shuttle. The rest from Thromberg Station squeezed four together, despite the Earther crew's uncomprehending stares and their provision of only two safety restraints per seat. Elbow room was a not-yet-accepted luxury; companionship was more rea.s.suring.

Only the old ones remembered when it had been otherwise, more particularly, the Sol-born, who'd come to the station thirty years ago.

Sammie would remember, Dave told himself, thinking of the man alone and silent, back to them all. Samuel Leland, former proprietor of Sammie's Tavern, Outward 5, Thromberg Station. Undisputed leader of that community and least likely to ever leave it. Forty years since dirtside, some claimed. Could have been longer. On-station since Thromberg powered up, most believed. Rumor said he'd been an educated, cultured businessman, one with connections and backers in plenty on Earth.

Hadn't mattered. The past wasn't currency worth spending on any station during the Quill Blockade, when everyone had been quarantined to prevent the spread of the pest to Earth and Sol System, even if no station had ever held a Quill. A liability was more like it, in an environment where pasts no longer carried shields of family, property, or place. The survivors learned early to deal in the here and now.

For the same reason, the future hadn't been a popular topic for casual talk, given the lack of it. Then, suddenly, the universe changed. The Quill were no longer a threat.

The blockade had been lifted! People could leave!

Those with somewhere to go.

Dave sighed at the memory. He and Annette had been among those betrayed bytheir pasts. They were both station-born, to immie parents; another meaningless legacy, since it turned out to be where you were born that mattered.

Thromberg Station might have rioted again, when this became painfully clear. It came close. His voice, Sammie's, and others, insisted on reason. Might have been ignored, Dave admitted to himself, but even the angriest of them quieted at the return of those who'd desperately raced to the new worlds, only to discover themselves unable to endure the reality of sky, moving air, and distance. Their shamed, exhausted relief to be within walls proved desire wasn't nearly enough.

The Earthers brought tests to oh-so-kindly weed out those unsuited to life dirtside.

Kindness. Dave didn't make the rude noise this called for, considerate of his seatmates. Station folk-stationers, immies, 'siders alike-knew the motive behind this convenient "kindness." Those stranded these last twenty years deserved and received first immigration rights without question. But Earth and Sol System hadn't stayed sterile. A new generation waited impatiently to become colonists. The stations' relics would have to hurry or lose their chance.

So they'd lined up for the tests. Outsiders pa.s.sed, those who'd fled the blockade around Sol System only to be exiled in turn to Thromberg's outer hull because the station feared to let them back inside, in case they carried Quill. Why else would Earth fire on defenseless civilian ships? 'Siders were used to living with horizons, those of their ships and the station herself. First of many ironies, since most 'siders weren't interested in life dirtside, preferring a return to the independence of s.p.a.ce.

The First Rounders pa.s.sed, to no one's surprise, being those colonists preselected for experience outdoors and b.l.o.o.d.y determination. But while 'rounders might be young enough to tame a world, they were too old to populate it.

The rest? Stationers and immies born in that last generation, before the Earthers added sterilization drugs to food shipments with the foresight of hysteria, ran headfirst into the new blockade: most could never live outside a station's comforting walls. With a guilt no one mistook for generosity, Thromberg was officially given to those who now had to call it home forever.

Of course there was a catch. The stationers expected one. Perhaps they felt better knowing it.

The waves of immigration to the terraformed worlds would need the transit stations-all of them. To keep the stations which had survived, they would have to restore those which had not.

Starting with the most infamous-Hamilton Station.

Dave found himself holding Annette's hand. She leaned closer, nestling her small head into his shoulder. They'd almost backed out of the deal when their destination had been revealed. Hamilton had turned on its own, corridor-talk said, in riots more deadly than any which had ripped Thromberg. The last communication from the station had been a final, endlessly cycled: "Do not approach." A series of aid ships from Earth had tried, and never been heard from again. The other stations, consumed with their own troubles, had left well enough alone. Borrowing trouble was not a survival skill.

Until now, when the Earthers wanted Hamilton Station up and running again.

If Sammie hadn't been in the room, rock-calm and scornful, maybe all of those in this shuttle, and the dozen paralleling their course, would still be on Thromberg.

Annette was right, Dave thought uneasily, looking at Sammie's wide, bowed shoulders. It didn't make any sense. Why him? And why here?

Linda Gulliver, former Patrol recruit at the top of her cla.s.s, now one of twopa.s.senger attendants on TerraCor Shuttle 881-the need for new patrollers to guard Sol System approaches having been extinguished with the Quill threat-steeled herself and reached for the door control.

"C'mon. It's not that bad," teased fellow attendant Pavel Romanov. Despite his lean height, he managed to make the crew cot look comfortable. There were six lining what had been a s.p.a.cious corridor between the shuttle's bridge and the back pa.s.senger hold. Linda wouldn't willingly lie in one without taking a sleepy beforehand. She said her legs cramped within minutes; no one's business if she couldn't bear lying so near anyone else.

"It's worse," she told Pavel, unsmiling. "We contracted to transport thirty-three pa.s.sengers and their gear, not sixty-five. We're supposed to use some of the pa.s.senger hold for ourselves-and not have to give up our quarters. And have you smelled it in there today?"

"The ship's rated for twice what we've on board. So we're tucked a little tight-not as though it's a long trip."

Linda snorted. "Where have you been the past three days?"

"Keeping you happy, Linda my girl," he grinned, then pretended to duck.

"What's the holdup, Gulliver?"

Linda snapped to attention out of habit, then made herself relax. "Nothing, Captain," she said to the woman entering from the bridge access.

Captain Gwen Maazel might not be Patrol, but she was capable of the same searing look when in doubt. "See it stays that way."

Linda collected her tray and went through to the pa.s.senger hold.

The portside aisle had been kept clear, safety as well as instant access to the suits webbed against that bulkhead. The starboard aisle was packed ceiling-high with belongings-those from Thromberg resisting any attempt to move their tawdry things to the cargo hold. Not that there was much room in cargo, Linda reminded herself. Thromberg's docking personnel had jammed it with what they euphemistically called "gear," a collection of patched, antique equipment the crew privately referred to as "garbage."

Matched the pa.s.sengers, Linda decided, firming her smile as she walked to the end of the pa.s.senger hold and began handing out drink tubes from her tray. All wore clothing that might have begun life similar to her own one-piece coveralls, but twenty years of wear and repair had morphed their garb into strangely unique creations. A third were sleeveless. Others had additional layers sewn or glued in various areas, as if for padding or reinforcement. Color? The fabric varied from faded and incidentally stained-or scorched-to faded with what appeared to be decorative stains. More common were loops or pockets filled with a.s.sorted objects, most looking the worse for wear, things which should have been discarded long ago. The occasional shiny, new object-doubtless Earther issue-was usually tucked into a pocket, as if there was some shame attached to its ownership, however functional.

Objects. Easier to deal with those. Linda had grown used to the way her pa.s.sengers preferred to sit so they touched constantly, but the way their eyes slid away from hers when thanking her, the way they spoke too softly, too quickly, as if to be done with any conversation with an Earther, sent chills down her spine even after three days.

Their faces didn't help. The older ones, in the back four rows, had an uncompromising harshness in their eyes, an alertness as they watched her every move with disapproval-not to mention appalling teeth when they did speak. The rest, none younger than Linda herself, were no better, each lean to the point of gauntness, manybearing scars from injuries or perhaps, she shuddered, disease. Such disfigurements hadn't been seen on Earth in her lifetime.

But the worst of them all was the pa.s.senger sitting in the front row. Linda braced herself and her smile as she came beside his seat.

Possibly he was alone because he needed the room. He'd been a big man. The frame was there: broad shoulders and chest, heavy, long arms that would have been muscled once. The torso was still thick, not as if he'd had more to eat than the others, but as if his skin remembered more bulk and refused to tighten. His teeth were mismatched and his face-suffice it to say age and the loss of underlying flesh hadn't been kind to what had started out as asymmetrical and blunt. The eyes tended not to focus. His coveralls were like the rest, except for a lack of fading in the color of the front, as if he'd always worn something else overtop. Ap.r.o.n, she'd been told. He'd been a bartender on the other station. Linda avoided looking at his feet, one look at those splayed toes in their homemade thongs being enough.

He might have been alone in his seat because of his size-or unpleasant appearance.

But, Linda knew, incredible as it seemed, this bartender was the leader of the Thromberg contingent. He sat alone because the others here granted him that privilege. Something else to mystify the Earthers on board.

"Drink, Mr. Leland?" she asked.

His hand, like those of the others, reached involuntarily for a pocket, then stopped.

It had taken those from Thromberg most of this trip to stop trying to pay her with the little slips of metal they called " 'dibs," but the reflex remained. Since 'dibs involved a complex exchange of work for goods, Linda took this as a hopeful sign Thromberg had remained more civilized than it appeared from her denizens. There was little else to go by.

Though if she turned around, she knew she'd see no one drinking yet. They were waiting for Leland to take and open his. In fact, they used to wait until she left as well.

Politeness? She wasn't sure.