“In polite society, it is considered rude not to introduce yourself, Copper.” I talk like a Peerless, not the Pixies he so eagerly emulates.

“My apologies!” he stammers in alarm, sweeping into a bow so deep I fear he might touch his nose to the floor were it not for the cushion of his substantial gut. “I am MineMagistrate Timony au Podginus, your humble servant. And may I say, if it is not too bold”—he’s still bowing—“your aspect is grander than I had indeed expected! Not to say that I did not expect you to be broad and tall—the ArchGovernor has only the best of the best in his employ, naturally—but the HC does you the barest justice.”

“You may stop bowing.”

He straightens self-consciously and peers behind me into the garden, fiendishly seeking the reason someone like me came unannounced to his mine.

“As I know you’ve no doubt heard from others, the MineMagistrates were overjoyed to hear the planet had been liberated from Bellona control. War, those men may know, but mining? Pfah, amateurs.”

“They don’t know war either, apparently.”

Swallowing, he glances again to my razor and then to the garden.

“A beautiful space, is it not?” he asks. “It reminds me of my time on the Pyrrus River. The tulip blossoms there—oh, the color! Nothing like it, as I’m sure you know. And the trees, aren’t they so very like the birches that stretch along the steppes of the Olympus Mons? I stayed there at the Château le Breu.” He makes a strange expansive motion with his hands. “I know, I know, but sometimes one must treat oneself. In fact it is where I discovered the most unique sottocenere cheese.” He smiles proudly. “They call me Marco Polo, my friends, because I relish travel. It’s the culture I seek. Refined company, as you could no doubt guess, is the damnedest thing to find around here.…”

I don’t know how long he would continue trying to impress me if I didn’t look at his men’s best uniforms, then at his best rings, and frown.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

“You’re right,” I say.

His beady eyes scurry back and forth between his best Grays, searching for signs of the inequity I noticed. It disgusts me how desperate he is to please me. This man stole from my family. He had me whipped. Watched Eo be killed. Hanged my father. He’s not wicked. He’s just pathetic in his greed.

“I am right about what?” he asks, blinking at me.

“That it is impossible to find refined company in places like this.” My eyes fall so heavily on him I fear he might burst out crying. Seeing him, seeing Dan, does nothing but fill me with a distant strangeness. I wanted them to be terrible, hideous monsters. But they aren’t. They are petty men who ruin lives and don’t even notice. How many others are there like them?

In a panic, Podginus waves to the cheese plate.

“Sottocenere, my liege. It’s an Italian import with notes of licorice, winks of nutmeg, a dash of coriander, a sprinkling of cloves, and a playful but mysterious bit of cinnamon and fennel coated onto the rind. I’m sure you’ll find it to your—”

“I did not come here for cheese.”

“No. No. Of course not.” He looks around nervously. “If I may beg to ask, what did you come here for, my liege?”

I begin walking. Podginus hurries to keep up. “Ragnar.” I nod to the titan, who pulls a small datapad from his pocket. Took Pebble less than an hour to teach him to use it.

“Your output of helium-3 has decreased by fourteen percent over the last quarter. Your projections show an expected shortfall of 13,500 kilos for the current fiscal quarter. Praetor Andromedus wishes you to explain.”

Podginus doesn’t know what to do. He looks back and forth between me, the Obsidian, and the datapad. He stammers a response. “I—I—we have had issues with the populace. Grafitti, illegal pamphlets.” He addresses me. “You know we were the nucleus of the Persephone movement.…” Ragnar taps him heavily on the shoulder.

“Praetor Andromedus is busy.”

“I—I—” Podginus wheels about, in a nightmare he doesn’t understand and cannot escape. “I forgot what I was—”

“You were making excuses.”

“Making excuses. Making excuses? How dare you!” He squares his shoulders. “There’s a current of rebellion running through Mars. Not a mine has been untouched by dissent. My mine is hardly the exception. There have been killings. Sabotage. And not just from the Sons of Ares. From the miners themselves!”

Podginus turns to me again, desperately sensing his demise is fast coming, feet struggling to keep up with our long strides.

“My liege, I’ve gone above and beyond in following the proper method of quelling dissent as laid out in section three, subsection A of the Department of Energy’s Guide to Mine Management. I have docked their rations, cracked down on enforcement of legal violations, and discredited leading thought-makers by luring them into liaisons of homosexuality. I have even introduced the recommended scenarios from On Defusing Rebellion. Over the past six years I’ve introduced Plague and Cure, Rebellion and Suppression, Natural Disaster, Pitviper Migration, and even considered the Extraplanetary Government Upheaval package!” Panting, he waves imploringly for me to stop. “No man would have done better than I.”

“Your position is not in jeopardy,” I say.

He shudders with relief. Suddenly his head snaps back. “You wouldn’t …” He leans forward. “You’re considering Quarantine! Aren’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I quarantine this mine?” I continue on down the corridor till we reach the landing pad where my ship waits. There, I stop. “As you said, its populace has failed to respond favorably to strategies endorsed by the Department of Energy and the Board of Quality Control. Why not pump the air full of achlys-9 gas and replace the unruly Reds with clans from compliant mines nearer the equator?”

“No!” He actually grabs me. Ragnar doesn’t even bother threatening the fat man.

“Choose your words carefully,” I say.

“My liege, don’t do it.” Tears sparkle in his greedy, panicked eyes. “My mine’s profits may have decreased, but it is still viable, still functional. A model of how to weather a storm.”

“You are its savior,” I say, mocking him.

“The Reds here are good miners. The best in all the world. That is why they’re wild. But they’ve calmed now. I’ve increased their rations of alcohol and increased pheromone circulation in the air units. They’re breeding like rabbits. I’ve also had my Gamma plants tamper with their machinery and maps. They think the mines are drying up. They’ll walk on pins and needles, fearing they won’t make quota. Then we’ll fix the machines, and they’ll be filled with fresh purpose. I can even tell them the terraforming is complete and migration will begin in ten years, and that Earth has begun sending immigrants. There are still so many options before we must accede to Quarantine.”

I watch the man as he sputters to an end, slumping down, lifeless as a wet shirt on a hanger. Is this all for his own vanity or does he really care for Reds? This was a test to see. Now I can’t tell. He might actually care in some strange way. Another monster from my past made human by Society’s lash.

“Your mine is safe, for now. Maintain your workforce. Increase rations, beginning tonight. I want happy workers and flush coffers. In my ship you will find provisions. Food and libations. Throw the Reds a feast.”

“My liege … a feast? Why?”

“Because I said so.”

I sit alone in the viewing room, watching the celebration unfold through the glass beneath my feet. Thousands of Reds drink and eat as the young dance around the gallows to “The Ballad of Old Man Hickory.” The tables are filled with foods these Reds have never tasted, drinks they’ve never downed. And though they laugh, though they dance, I cannot find any joy myself. They live in horror, but it’s one they know. It’s one they can find refuge from. Will there be any refuge left when the Sons of Ares reveal the great lie? It will shatter their way of life. They will be lost in the greatness of the worlds. And they’ll be polluted by them. Like I am.