But Nick Aames had no intention of running away from Mars without a fight. “Fine, stay strapped in for now. But Carver, drive that bird over to the shelter pit. Let’s not waste any more time than we have to. Now I have my own landing to complete, so stop chattering in my ear.”
The lander started taxiing. The landing pad was half-buried in shifting sands, so Carver had to navigate by pattern recognizers and deep radar. If it weren’t for Deece, we could’ve hoofed it over and prepared the pit, but instead we waited. Carver was just dropping the wheels to the pad when Captain Aames announced, “Lander 1 is down on landing strip B and heading for the nearest shelter pit.”
Of course, that was the moment when Deece pronounced her judgment: “Model suggests no urgent threats that would require immediate liftoff. Recommend crew prepare to shelter lander 2.”
“Thank you, Deece, we would’ve never figured that out.” The captain’s sarcasm was wasted on the AI, so he continued, “Max, take over the taxi. Carver, unstrap and be ready with the rest of them. I don’t like that storm front. It’s picking up speed. I want all hands prepping the shelter pit.”
“Yes, Captain.” Gale had already unstrapped and was crouched near the floor hatch. “All hands, get ready and strap on your toolkits. We don’t want to waste a minute when we reach the pit.”
So it was with a distinct lack of ceremony that I first set foot on the Red Planet: Gale opened the hatch as Max coasted us to a stop, and one by one we dropped down to the runway. It was a slow drop, thanks to Mars’s low gravity. I had a moment to savor the feeling: I’m on Mars! Right where Masha took her first step. Then I had to bounce out of the way of the next spacer, just as we had trained.
As soon as I was in the open air of Mars, I heard yet another rumble, this time from the soft wind scraping past my bodysuit and my helmet. Our leggings and sleeves were soft pressurized tubes with gasket-fitted joints; but the bodysuits were hard, fitted shells that protected our vitals, and the helmets were hard polymer bubbles. Both were good protection against hazards.
I weaved a bit in the first real gravity I had experienced in months. The mactory deck of the Bradbury spun to create low centrifugal gravity, and we each exercised there daily; but as weak as Mars’s gravity was, it was still more than double what I was used to. So I leaned against the lander’s leg as I looked around to orient myself. Just east of the landing pad was the propellant factory, a small egg-like dome that ran on wind and solar as it automatically mined the Martian surface for perchlorates and other compounds that it shaped into propellant disks. These could be loaded into our booster tubes to help us escape Mars, when the time came. On the other side of the pad was the crawler garage; and beside it was an access turret, concealing stairs down into the shelter pit. Between the garage and the factory were the two metal plates of the pit hatches.
Gale was already working on the pit latch by the time I joined him. The latch was designed for manual operation. With the long time between missions and the blowing Martian sands, we couldn’t trust that automated systems would hold up. So Gale was running a blower, clearing the hatches of sand, and I crouched down to unhook the latch. The hatches were designed to be opened easily from above: two large metal covers on hinges, locked together by a big circular compression latch. All we had to do was unhook the pair of meter-long handles in the latch, raise them up, and use them to turn the latch plate. When we turned it 180 degrees, the covers would be unlocked. We could lift them, and the lander could roll down the ramp and into the pit.
Or at least that’s how it was supposed to go. I unhooked the handles easily enough; but when I tried to pull the first one up, it raised half a centimeter maybe, and then it wouldn’t budge. I felt a slight scraping vibration through my gloves, and then—nothing.
I tried the second handle: same thing. “Lieutenant, there’s sand in the shaft housing. These things won’t budge.”
Gale nodded. “Lopez, Van der Ven, Pagnotto, help her out.” My shipmates joined me, two of us on each handle as we pulled. Elvio Pagnotto and I pried our handle for all we were worth. The months in low G hadn’t weakened us, thanks to a ruthless exercise regimen on the trip out, but raw strength wasn’t cutting it. I pulled with my arms and pushed away with my legs, trying to pry the handle from the ground.
Suddenly my grip slipped, and all my leg strength threw me violently into the Martian air. Despite myself, I yelled out loud. The sky and the horizon spun crazily as I rose and fell, and I noticed more sand whipping by, moving faster. I wondered if I would damage anything when I crashed.
Fortunately Carver was on the ball. He loped after me, caught me, and set me down. “You all right, Ensign?”
I smiled through my visor. “Except for my dignity.” I spoke into my radio: “Lieutenant Gale, those things are stuck tight.”
Captain Aames came on the line, and we all heard his exchange with Gale: “The latches are fine here, Gale. You must have more sand in the system for some reason. You’ll have to clear the housing from underneath. Move, people. That front is picking up speed.”
“The models—”
Aames cut in. “Screw the models, Horace! Look at the horizon.”
I did, and I saw a growing cloud of sand. Again, I heard Aames’s voice: “Move!”
Carver had caught me right near the access turret, so we set to work on it. The door was partly blocked by sand, but we were able to clear it. The space inside was five meters across, with flooring along the west half and the east half open into the pit. Into that opening led a circular staircase made of tall steps protruding from the shaft wall. On Earth, these tall steps would be almost a ladder, with just a thin handrail to separate us from the two-meter central shaft; but here on Mars, the steps were easy to descend, even with a suit, an environment pack, and tool kits. When we reached the bottom, the shaft ended at an open pressure door. Beyond that was a short, wide tunnel ending in another open door. The tunnel could serve as an airlock, if needed; but the doors had been left open, since neither end was under pressure.
The tunnel opened out into the pit. Light panels in the ceiling automatically came on, showing us the artificial cavern with its ramp to the surface at the far east end.
“At least the solars worked,” Carver said.
“Uh-huh.” The light panels, powered by a solar generator station on the surface, were bright enough to illuminate the entire pit. A mechanical lift sat beside the ramp. We would use that to reach the hatches from below. Supply and tool cabinets lined the walls, as well as fold-out benches. A pressure door on the far side of the pit from the turret led to a shelter beyond.
But already the shelter had a problem: the main pit area was ankle-deep in loose dust. “Lieutenant Gale,” Carver radioed up, “the seals have failed. There’s a lot of sand down here. That’s probably how it got into the housings.”
“A lot? Can we get the lander down?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, it’ll just make things messy.”
“Messy we can handle. Get to work, you two.”
Trudging through the loose, powdery sand all around our feet, we set to work on the hatches. Despite the sand, the lift still worked, raising us up above the ramp and then extending out so we stood at the underside of the hatches. Everything looked different from underneath, but Captain Aames had drilled us on all the first expedition’s equipment. We knew how this system worked.
The handles below were much like the handles above, so Carver and I tried pushing up while Van der Ven and Pagnotto pulled from above. No go. We would have to clean and lube the shaft housings. Looking at them, I knew that would be impossible in their current position. “Lieutenant, pull the handles down. We can’t fix them like this.”
So we changed direction, Van der Ven and Pagnotto pushing down while Carver and I pulled. We had to hook our boots into the lift rails, or all we would do would be to pull ourselves up in the 0.38 G. We were panting and sweating, but eventually we pulled the first handle down. Carver and I each took a shaft housing, pu
lling them apart and cleaning them out and applying lubricant from our toolkits. Then we put them back together, and Carver radioed up to Gale, “Handle one is done, Lieutenant. Moving on to two.”
But then Captain Aames came on the comm. “No time, Gale. Get your team down into that pit. Now!”
Deece’s even, soothing voice answered, “My model shows the storm will not reach the vicinity for ten-point-three minutes.”
“Your model is wrong, Deece. We’re past the limit now. Gale, you’re about to be buried. Move!”
“Yes, Captain,” Gale answered. And moments later we saw dim light from the turret as the upper door opened and our shipmates came scurrying down amid billowing clouds of sand.
Gale was the last into the turret, pulling the door shut behind him, and the dust whirls died down. Gale looked around and shouted, “Bloody hell, Carver, you weren’t kidding. There’s sand everywhere. Everyone look around, find that bad seal.”
We searched all around the pit, but we found nothing.
Finally Shannon thought to check the turret. “Here it is, Lieutenant.” Gale climbed up the spiral stairs to join her on the floor above. There was no room for anyone else up there, but Van der Ven and Pagnotto looked up from below. “See here? It looks like something cracked the joint between the carbon panels. The panels are cracked, too, but vacuum resin sealed those.” An epoxy-like compound, VR turns rigid in vacuum. The turret walls had a VR core to automatically seal leaks, but it was a new VR formula for the Martian atmosphere. It didn’t harden quite as fully as the real stuff, but the seal was good enough if you didn’t stress it. The same compound flowed between the inner and outer shells of our bodysuits.
Gale looked at the joint. “Maybe erosion, or radiation made the seal brittle. There’s a quarter-centimeter gap here. Good job, Lopez. Get some seal tape on that. When the storm passes, we’ll have to reweld that seal.” Gale came back down the steps.
Carver called across the pit, “Lieutenant, the lander’s registering dust piles. It’s starting to get buried. Our own seals could develop problems.”
“Damn. Deece, what’s the storm model say? Can you launch the lander, get it away from the storm?”
“Analyzing.” Deece paused for several seconds. “There is time to boost above the storm front, but we would have to refuel at the orbiter.”
Captain Aames broke in on the comm. “Gale, that model’s wrong. Look at the live images.”
Gale checked his comm. “Captain, dust is high, but within the safety margin for a launch. If we wait, it won’t be, and we’ll have a lander crippled by dust. Deece, boost. Now.”
If Captain Aames had any response, it was lost in the subsonic rumble of the solid rocket boosters igniting. The hatch plates rattled, and I was glad the lander wasn’t any closer.
I noticed Carver looking at his own comm. Suddenly his eyes grew wide. He shouted something, but the shout was buried by the engines and the rattling hatches. Frantic, Carver punched a warning on his comm, and it popped up on my heads-up display: GET UNDER LIFT! EXPLOSION! Then he scrambled for the edge of the lift. I didn’t wait, leaped after him, and I saw that Gale and the rest were diving for cover under it as well.
The engine rumble had diminished a bit, surely a sign that the lander was boosting skyward. I rolled up in a crouch just in time to see Shannon bolting down the stairs.
Then a much louder sound wave shook the entire pit, an explosion that quickly deafened us. The ground around us shook, ceiling panels fell, and the turret collapsed on Lopez. I tried to run to her, but Carver held me back. Then the ceiling fell in, and the lift dropped on us, and everything went dark.
And then I died in the mess.
GROUND CONTROL
I know, I know, I promised I would never use that joke. But you seemed awful tense, so I wanted to lighten the mood.
Well, all right, maybe I’m the one who’s tense. I still don’t like to remember that cave-in. It felt like I died: a crushing pain in my side, everything went dark all at once, and then I went unconscious from the shock. I could’ve died in the mess.
And there’s another reason I don’t like to think about it: Shannon was killed instantly. And Fadila van der Ven’s left leg was caught in the lift mechanism and crushed. His suit’s auto-tourniquet kicked in immediately, so he survived; but the leg was already a lost cause from the knee down.
I knew none of that at the time, though; I was too far out of it. The first I knew was a voice on my comm. “Smith. Smith, what’s your status?”
It took me a moment to clear the fog from my brain. “Captain?”
“Report, Smith. Your suit shows you’re injured, but not critical. Can you move?”
I flexed my legs and arms, trying to move; but something metal—the lift platform?—pinned me down, and the effort made my left ribs spasm in pain. Something soft around my legs and arms made movement difficult. Sand?
But I didn’t need to move, the suit was on voice control. “Suit, lights.” Nothing. “Suit, lights.” Still complete darkness. “Lights, damn it! Lights!” I started breathing rapidly.
But Captain Aames kept his voice steady. “Calm down, Smith. Your suit comp says your lights are on.” As captain, Aames had a circuit for each of our suits, and could check on our status, both mechanical and physiological. “If you can’t see the lights, you’re probably buried in sand. Now report: Can you move?”
I slowed my breathing, trying to dispel my panic. Claustrophobes don’t last long in a spaceship, so I could handle a little sand, a little darkness. Gingerly, I tried my right arm again. It was definitely stuck between sand beneath and around it, and the metal lift platform above; but I could wiggle it back and forth. I couldn’t feel the grains through my suit, but I could feel the powder give if I pushed. Maybe if I pushed enough . . . “Ow. Sorry, Captain. I think I’m trapped under the lift, and my ribs are pretty sore. But I can move a little. If I take it easy on these ribs, I can dig out.”
“Be careful, Smith.” Aames sounded almost empathetic. “Your suit says those ribs are only bruised, but suit comps can’t always diagnose breaks. Your seals are intact, and you’ve got plenty of air, so take it slowly. Carver and Gale have dug free already, they’ll get to you soon enough. There are others in front of you.”
“Others?”
And as I dug—it felt more like pushing than digging, and the powder was getting looser—the captain told me about the others: about Van der Ven and his leg; about Pagnotto, who had proven it’s not impossible to get a concussion in a helmet, just damned hard; and about poor Shannon. She had been a good friend, and I cried at the news, but not so as Nick could hear me. He thinks I’m strong, and I didn’t want to let him down.
Then the captain made me feel even worse. “So they can help you dig out, but first they have to amputate Van der Ven’s leg.”
Then the sobs came, despite my efforts to control them; but I didn’t have time to cry, so I kept digging. When I could speak without choking up, I decided to change the subject. “I think I see light, Captain.”
Then Pagnotto’s voice cut in. “Smith, I see movement. Is that you?”
“Elvio, yes, I’m almost out.” Sand slid from my visor, and I saw the wreck that had been the shelter pit. The surface hatches were intact, and though dozens of ceiling and wall tiles had fallen all around, the bulk of them were still in place. A few of them hung down, swaying in a breeze. Damn. That meant we had a much bigger leak than before. Sand swirled around in occasional eddies.
Most of the light panels were out, and the swaying tiles and swirling sands cast shifting shadows; but through them I saw Elvio sitting on a wide bench folded out from the wall, waving to me. I couldn’t see his face through his visor at this distance, especially not in the flashing light, but his suit had a prominent European Union flag painted across the chest.
Elvio pushed up with one arm and wobbled to his feet. “Wait, Smith. I shall come help.”
“Negative,” Captain Aames ordered. “Pagnotto, yo
u’re not even supposed to be sitting, much less working. Rest, and that’s an order.”
“Si, Captain.” I saw Pagnotto collapse slowly back to the bench. Then he lay sideways. I couldn’t see Shannon’s body anywhere around. Gale and Carver had probably taken her into the shelter.
“What happened, Captain?” I asked. “What went wrong with the lander?”
Nick snorted. In my mind I could see the sneer on his face. “It was that damned AI.”
“Captain,” I whispered. Some people think AIs have feelings, but they don’t. I wasn’t worried about “offending” Deece. But she represented the Initiative planners here on Mars. Criticizing her felt kinda like insubordination.
“She can’t hear; I cut her out of the ground loops.” Now that was insubordination. But before I could raise an objection, the captain continued, “Her models from DC Command have been getting more and more erratic. Her programming is fine, but her premises are flawed. The dust was thicker than she accounted for; and when the lander took off, she shifted east for better visibility. Right over the propellant factory.”
I stopped, stunned, my arms and head just clear of the sand. “Oh, fuuuuuck . . .”
“Yep. The entire propellant store went up. Max can’t get a clear image through the storm, but the factory’s probably a total loss.”
That certainly explained this collapse. The automated factory had reported enough stored propellant for twelve trips to orbit—more than our mission plan called for, even. A lander could get to orbit again without refueling, but only if it could avoid maneuvering too much. Each lander had enough propellant on board for one launch, but not enough for future launches.
I couldn’t bear to just lie there. I needed to do something, so I resumed digging as I asked, “So lander 2 was lost?”
The Last Dance Page 14