And I could tell you how we went up and retrieved our loads from orbit. How we expanded Mars Shelter One, adding the greenhouse and the machine shop and another habitat wing. I could tell you how we used the Bradbury’s remaining orbits to briefly reestablish contact with Earth, and also with the Collins, so people would know we were still alive. And I could even tell you how we finally lost the Bradbury crashing right on schedule into Valles Marineris. I took some great videos of that. I thought it was some important history.
But why tell you all of this, and all the rest? It’s all in the mission reports; and it really is anticlimactic, because it all ran according to a plan. Captain Aames’s plan. And increasingly Lieutenant Carver’s plan. They were still feeling out their relationship and establishing their territory, but they were clearly becoming a partnership. Carver’s right: Aames needs someone he can trust as that buffer, someone who sees his worst and then decides how much of it to let through. And deep down, I think Aames knows it too.
Of course, Gale was still technically second-in-command, and he bristled at Carver’s expanded responsibilities. It wasn’t proper delegation of authority, not by the book at all. But one day he and Carver took a long hike across the quadrangle, and I think they had a meeting of the minds. After that, Gale deferred to Carver any time Carver had an opinion, and we all could tell who was really second-in-command from then on. I never saw any bruises, and only fools fight in suits, so I don’t think it was like my little dustup with Gale. Instead I think Carver simply told Gale what we found in the historical models, and how furious Captain Aames would be if he found out. I think he offered Gale a little mercy, but with strings attached. Gale became bearable, and he carried his share of the work.
So we followed the captain’s plan, heavily modified thanks to the efforts of Lieutenant Carver, and we survived. We didn’t have fancy dinners, but we had food and water and air and shelter. I lost a lot of weight, back to my preservice size, and I wasn’t alone in that; but we stayed healthy. We eventually found time to do some real Mars science, justifying our presence there a little bit. And with eight months to kill, we really expanded Mars Shelter One, turning it into a full-service spaceport with assist services so that a wider range of landers can use it. It was Carver who renamed it “Maxwell City,” and that name has stuck.
And one night Van came running out from the access turret to join the rest of us out on the plains of Coprates quadrangle. Pagnotto had told him that this new prosthetic leg would work both indoors and outside in a suit, and it worked even better than he’d promised. Van now ran everywhere he could, and he had promised Pagnotto a whole keg of beer in gratitude. The beer would have to wait until we made it back to Earth, but suddenly that seemed a lot more likely.
That night Carver swiped his comp, and each of our heads-up displays lit up with a tracking circle, helping us to pick out the little white dot of an approaching spaceship: the Collins. We all cheered and applauded and hugged as closely as our suits allowed.
Adika, ever our most sober teammate, checked the heads-up readings. “Fast. Very fast. Captain, are you sure you can catch that?”
The captain sounded casual, confident. “With the modifications Pagnotto and Somtow made to lander 1? No ordinary pilot could do it, maybe; but I will. Trust me.”
And we did; we trusted him, and Carver, and their partnership. They had got us this far. They would get us home. In three weeks, we would rendezvous with the Collins as it made its second cycler pass, and we would be on our way home. We all stood in silence at the thought of leaving Mars at last.
Then Captain Aames shook his head and broke the silence. “It’s a damn express train.”
Carver looked at Aames. “Sir?”
The captain pointed up at the Collins. “That. Oh, I don’t mean it’s fast; I mean it goes from point A to point B on a fixed route, no stops in between. Then it circles around and goes back. I’m glad it’ll take us to point B, but it never even stops at either end to explore. This prototype will only make one loop before it goes in for redesign; but they’re already working on her sister ship, the Aldrin, and that one will be a giant express train from nowhere to nowhere, never stopping. What kind of captain worthy of the title would want duty like that when there are worlds to explore?”
7. THE ROAD TO RECOVERY
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF PARK YERIM
5 JUNE 2083
“And yet here he is,” I said as Smitty finished her story.
She had told the story all through the morning and afternoon, pausing only for Santana and Dr. Baldwin and the nurses to check on us, change dressings, and adjust our medical controls. That happened every hour, at least. During one visit, they removed me from the plastic cocoon, and I was free to sit up and turn my bed so I could watch Smith as she talked. I still wore my dark glasses, but I could see her clearly enough. Her new skin was very pink and tight, exaggerating her natural red coloring. The nurses frowned at her and told her she should rest, but she just kept talking as soon as they removed her own cocoon. I was glad she did. It passed the time, and it gave me something to think about so I didn’t focus on my stiffness and pain.
I didn’t ask about Adika. After Aames’s visit the night before, that subject felt too personal, too risky. But just before noon, both doctors had gathered at his bed, excitement in their voices. I didn’t follow all the medical jargon, but his condition had changed; and from the smile on Dr. Baldwin’s face, I knew it was a change for the better.
“Indeed, here he is,” Smith answered, “lord of all he surveys. Unless you remove him.”
I felt uncomfortable about that. Here I was, only in my midthirties, sitting in judgment of a man who had conquered Mars when I was still a teenager. What had I done to compare with that? What right did I have to judge him?
But it was my job, so I had to do it, somehow. I had to know more. “So how did that happen? How did he end up here?”
Smith laughed. Despite talking for hours, she sounded stronger. “He did that to himself.”
“What? How did he do that?”
“By being Nick, of course. On the long flight back to Earth, he prepared the most exhaustive after-action report of his career. And he’s famous for those reports.”
“So he found out—” I lowered my voice. “He found out about Gale and the AI models?”
“Never did, as far as I know.” Smith lowered her voice as well. “And Yerim, that was off the record, between roomies, right? I’ve never told anyone that before.”
If I kept this to myself, was I choosing loyalty over duty? Maybe Aames had found out. Maybe that had caused friction between him and Gale, and that had led to the current dispute. So maybe I needed to pursue this lead?
But I needed this crew to trust me. And I had given my word. “Off the record, Smitty.” I paused. “But maybe, if Gale had been disciplined then—”
“He wouldn’t have caused that explosion yesterday? I thought of that. But Carver was right, we just don’t know. We know the models were largely to blame—that came out of the captain’s investigation. We just don’t know if a consistency test would’ve found the problem.
“But it wasn’t just the models,” Smith continued. “The captain interviewed every one of us survivors extensively during the months of the return journey. He went through every log, every data recording, every record we had salvaged from the Bradbury. He pulled up Initiative reports from Earth, and he pored over them line by line, looking for discrepancies. He reached one inescapable conclusion. The invalid models were just part of a larger problem: the Initiative’s insistence on running everything from back on Earth. That had barely worked in the first lunar missions, with a two-and-a-half-second communication lag. It was impossible with a forty-minute lag to Mars. Adding Deece was supposed to minimize that problem, like putting Mission Control on-site with us, but she only made it worse. The captain showed, with impeccable logic and data, that every time the decisions were made back at Initiative headquarters, they were inconsi
stent with reality. Their decisions ranged from too cautious to too risky, and they were off the mark far more often than on. Their schedules were too aggressive, and they ignored the consequences, insisting that work was on schedule when it wasn’t. That report was a beautiful thing, a damning indictment of letting central decisions override the people on-site.”
Smith paused to take a drink. Then she continued, “And the idiot was determined to publish the thing! I tried to talk him out of it. He was right, every last word. But I knew what that would do to his career, since the evidence was so damning of the Initiative itself. I tried to talk him out of it, and Carver did too. We told him the report was career suicide, a political firestorm that would finish him off like Mars never could. We argued with him throughout much of the trip home. Finally we understood: Aames just didn’t care. He had the facts, they were right, and he was going to present them to the world. He didn’t give a damn about the consequences.
“Aames was more valuable to the space program than Carver or me, so we came up with a plan of our own. I still think it was a good plan, if it had worked, but it ended up being the dumbest move of our careers. Carver hacked in and got a copy of the captain’s report. Then we proceeded to edit it, putting our names as chief investigators in place of Captain Aames’s. With the changes, Carver was certain that no one could prove that Aames had a hand in the report. Oh, anyone who knew Aames’s work could recognize his style and his attention to detail, but there was no proof. And then we blasted the report out ahead of our return. The captain had planned to make his formal presentation upon debriefing when we got back to Earth; but by the time we got home, everyone had already heard the conclusions in ‘our’ report. We had broadcast it, and we hadn’t encrypted the stream because we had hoped in that way to get out the word with no chance the Initiative might bury it; and at the same time we hoped to draw any fire away from the captain. We would get blamed for the uncomfortable conclusions, not him.”
Smith shook her head and took another drink. “But we hadn’t accounted for the captain’s stubborn insistence on facts and facts alone. Admiral Knapp contacted Aames via teleconference, full of fury, and demanded our heads. Not just because we broke security by broadcasting the report, but because of its conclusions. Like I said, they made the Initiative look pretty bad—including Knapp himself—so breaking security was just his excuse to hang us. He insisted that Aames confine us to quarters until the Admiralty could get its hands on us and put us up on charges. The captain could’ve thrown us to the wolves and saved his career. We urged him to do just that. But instead he stared straight into the camera and said, ‘They didn’t write that report, Admiral, I did. And I stand by it. The Initiative needs to clean up its act before it gets more spacers killed.’”
My eyes widened. “You and Carver had actually expected something else? From all I have learned about Nick Aames, he had to do that.”
Smith nodded. “I know that, now. Back then, even as long as I had served under him, I didn’t realize how absolute he was about facts. Every fact in the report was accurate, everything but the name at the top, and that would’ve done everything he wanted to accomplish with it. But it wasn’t good enough for him, it wasn’t the truth. So Carver and I ruined our careers trying to protect his, and then the idiot threw it away anyway.”
She sighed, and continued, “We could find work with transport companies, and there were lots of consulting opportunities for designing private Mars missions; but we were done with Initiative missions. We were both decommissioned. I was sure I would never leave low Earth orbit again. Aames was a wreck. He spent a year arguing with officials and avoiding reporters. And drinking, lots of those Brazilian caipirinhas he likes. That got him drunk enough to get into a bad marriage. Not that Hannah was a bad woman, but Aames was a lousy husband. Sullen, bitter Aames is even worse than ordinary Aames. The marriage lasted only a couple years. They barely talk now, though I know Aames still sends holiday gifts to Hannah’s son from her first marriage.
“And that might’ve been the end of his career—drunk and depressed on a Brazilian beach. But that all changed when Holmes Interplanetary hired Captain Aames to command the Aldrin. The first thing he did was hire Carver and me. He insisted on that in his contract.” Smith smiled at that, pride beaming through her new pink skin. “And so here we are, on an express train to Mars.”
Smith settled back, and I thought about her story. There was so much to absorb: not just about Aames, but about her and Carver and Gale. The three spacers who had been so closely tied up in his career. “Thank you, Smitty. You’re right, the official reports don’t show me Nick Aames as you know him.”
She waved a hand, but carefully. “That’s nothing. If you really want to understand Captain Aames, the one person you have to talk to is Chief Carver.”
I frowned. “That’s a problem. He’s Aames’s right-hand man. He’s hardly objective.”
That remark brought Smith suddenly back to full alertness. She sat up, wincing, and glared at me; and I wondered if I was going to be thrown against the bulkhead. “I like you, Yerim,” she said in an even tone. “You’re cute, and you have a lot of potential. You’re also young and naïve, so I’ll forgive you that remark. Once.” Her glare grew darker. “But don’t ever bad-mouth Anson Carver where I can hear you. He’s the most honest, trustworthy man in the entire International Space Corps, and he’s worth both of us put together and then some. Captain Aames trusts him implicitly, and so do I. And so should you.”
I was flustered. I knew Smith’s loyalty to Nick Aames extended to Carver as well, but I hadn’t realized how strongly. “Sorry,” I mumbled, not sure what else to say.
“Well, you should be.” Smith settled back into her bed. The air in the infirmary felt suddenly cold. I was glad I had my dark glasses on, so Smith couldn’t see the hurt in my eyes.
Before I could think of something to say, Dr. Baldwin came in from her office and straight over to my bed. She looked at my readings and frowned, but then she turned to me. “Do you think you can get out of this bed, Inspector?”
I leaned forward and braced my elbows behind me. As Dr. Baldwin put a hand behind my shoulder to steady me, I asked, “Is there something wrong, Doctor?”
“Wrong?” She listened to my heart. “We’ve got dueling admirals, the whole ship is ready to explode, and the only thing that may stop it is if you can convince everyone that you’re fit for duty.”
“What’s happening?”
“Admiral Reed has been on my comm every hour asking for status reports on you. He’s getting pressure from Admiral Knapp to declare you incapacitated and unable to fulfill your duties due to your injuries.”
I exploded. “The injuries that his men caused!”
Dr. Baldwin frowned at my diagnostics. “He’s overlooking that little issue. He’s an admiral, he can do that. I’ve told him you’re recovering ahead of schedule, but he says the investigation is falling behind, and he’ll take steps to prevent that.”
“Falling behind? We’ve got five months to get to Mars. No one’s in a hurry.”
“Knapp is. He has ordered Admiralty guards on all decks. ‘Security measures,’ he says. And he’s angling to have you replaced with someone who won’t hesitate to empanel a court.”
I shook my head. “Matt’s a good aide, but he’s not ready for this level of responsibility.”
“No, not Harrold. Knapp pulled out the rule book and found a regulation that allows any command-rank officer to serve in the absence of an inspector general. He’s ready to move on that regulation. If you’re not on duty within the hour, he’s going to demand that Admiral Reed turn your assignment over to another command-rank officer.”
“Not Gale!” I shouted, and then regretted it: the repairs in my larynx and lungs were still raw, and they hurt from the strain. I lowered my voice. “There’s no way in hell I’ll let Gale do my job. He put me in here; and he’s such a suck-up, he’ll be a rubber stamp for whatever Knapp wants.”
; “It won’t be Gale,” Dr. Baldwin said. “He’s in the next ward, busted up bad. But Knapp has other toadies.”
“Doctor, my uniform, please.” I sat up and swung my legs over the side of my bed; but suddenly, I felt weak and dizzy. I feared I might pass out if I bent over to pull on my pants. “Oh, hell, the comm pickup will be from the waist up. Just get me my uniform jacket.”
Dr. Baldwin dropped my pants on my bed, and she handed me my jacket and helped me to put it on. She rearranged my two IVs and my nano sump so they ran out under the back where they wouldn’t show on the comm pickup, and then she helped me carefully off the bed. She offered me an arm to steady myself, and I took it. Low gravity or not, my legs were still pretty wobbly. “Thank you, Doctor. Can I use the comm in your office?”
Dr. Baldwin nodded. “Are you sure you can do this?”
I thought carefully before I answered. I wondered how I was going to manage two angry admirals. “I have to, Doctor. I won’t be a party to a kangaroo court.” But my voice sounded frail in my ears. As we set off across the infirmary, I was still so tired and weak. It was tempting to let Knapp just have his way so I could rest. But I kept walking, my automated IV stand following behind me.
I stopped, almost to the office, when I heard the sound of a wolf whistle. I carefully turned back to Smitty just as she added, “Nice legs, Yerim.” And she grinned, and I knew she was over my comment about Carver. I grinned back, and turned back to the office, feeling recharged.
In the office, I sat in front of the comm pickup and arranged my uniform. Dr. Baldwin found me a comb and a mirror so I could straighten out my hair, which had gotten tangled, even as short as it was. I took off my dark glasses, and I winced: not just at the bright light, but at my eyes in the mirror. They were sunken and red rimmed. I looked like I hadn’t slept in a week. I put the dark glasses back on. Regulation or not, I looked more fit for duty behind them.
The Last Dance Page 23