The Ruins of Mars (The Ruins of Mars Trilogy Book 1)

by Dylan James Quarles

  “There must be more in common between the Earth and Mars than previously thought,” agreed Romulus.

  With a crack of blinding white light, the ground beneath them leaped and rumbled. The great purple beasts turned their heads to the north as a plume of smoke and ash jetted up from the high summit of the distant peak, which towered above all the other mountains around it. The ash cloud turned the sky to blackest night, and the frightened creatures began to wail and stamp, rolling their big eyes and gnashing their flat teeth. The shockwave unleashed from the eruption screamed across the wintry countryside like a tidal wave, lifting the elephants off their feet and tossing them through the air like dry leaves. Red ribbons of magma and rock streaked from the broiling mouth of the volcano into the blackened sky like comets, reaching the crest of their high arcs before returning landward like the brimstone of biblical legend. The snow at their feet began to steam and melt as the hot air, carried on the back of the shockwave, evaporated the serene stillness of winter, turning it into a boiling, churning sea of shifting soil.

  Crashing to the ground like burning fists of napalm, chunks of molten rock and liquid magma exploded, tossing sparks of white hot lava, igniting the howling purple elephants as they galloped like confused children in the raining fire. An echoing chorus of crushing rock, like the roll of a distant drum, reached the ears of the terrified twins as they watched the face of the monolithic volcano slide off and demolish a wide path through the mountain range at its feet.

  More projectiles of deep red and pitiless black fell about them, vomiting thick oozing heaps of lava across the burning carcasses of the dead elephants. A growing whistle drew Remus’s eyes skyward, and he gasped in horror as a mass of fiery stone streaked down from the heavens directly towards them. Crying out, he grasped Romulus and held him close, waiting to be smashed under the thundering inferno. As the comet grew nearer, it blotted out the sky, and Remus squeezed his eyes shut, hugging Romulus, who yelled and wailed in his ear like a jabbering lunatic. For long moments, they stayed like that—clutching one another tightly and moaning with fear.

  When again they opened their eyes, the carnage was gone, replaced by a softly whispering wind and the glowing embrace of a peaceful sun. It was summer again, and they stood amongst thin and stalky river reeds, which listed gently in the light breeze. Turning, the twins gazed out across the lulling countryside to see that many things had changed since they first awakened on ancient Mars. Now, much of the grasslands that had previously covered all that the eye could see were reduced to oases, which dotted a rusty desert of small hills. Skeletal brown trees with drooping branches grew between the reeds that meandered alongside the river to their left. What once was a shallow stream had since bulged and deepened to become a massive and fast-moving river, fed by glaciers in the north. Snaking its way from a wide split in the mountains, it cut a shimmering path through the dusty landscape, spreading swashes of green vegetation as it dissected the red sands.

  Billowing clouds of mist curled up into the air at the base of the distant mountains where another fork of the river rushed to the east and cascaded down into a mighty canyon. The giant volcano, which had decimated the landscape so savagely, now loomed ominously behind the ocher mountain range, slowly breathing steady wisps of steam into the sky. The odor of burning wood, sweet and harsh, hung in the still air. Unsure as to whether or not time would leap forwards, the brothers carefully trudged towards the ridge of a shallow hill and the smell of the smoke.

  Cresting the dusty summit, Remus and Romulus froze with shock and awe as they watched thin tendrils of gray twist up from a cooking fire in the center of a cluster of round thatched huts. Unable to move, the twins watched in pensive silence as figures—men and women—stooped to gather armfuls of wood, which lay in heaps about the perimeter of the fire pit. Tossing the branches into the orange flames, the people talked and gestured with their hands. Some even laughed. They were all very short and wiry, with long thin arms and agile delicate legs. Their faces were drawn and wide with extended flat noses and small mouths. Their seashell-shaped ears sat high on the sides of their broad heads, and, like the mighty dead elephant-creatures, they were all colored a purple so deep it was nearly brown. From the distance at which the twins watched, they could not make out many of the more subtle features of these humanoid beings, but one thing was clear even from afar: the people of Mars had eyes of rich, flat aqua-blue, widely spaced and as large as eggs.

  Emergency EVA—Sol 4

  Gathering around the holographic projection table in the communications station of the dome, the six members of the ground crew embraced the electric warmth of the room. Outside, the sand-filled winds showed no signs of abating, and the radiation unleashed by the anomalous solar flare continued to batter the red planet like the bullets of a firing squad. Although dropping steadily, X-ray saturation was still high enough to cause deadly burns to anyone unprotected by a pressure suit, and there was sufficient gamma radiation in the air to mutate an uninhibited human cell into a cancerous abomination. Worse yet, electromagnetic radiation unceasingly bathed the surface of Mars in particles of energy that disrupted communications and fried computer linkages.

  Were it not for the fusion of alloys, gold and aluminum woven into the fabric of the dome’s shell, the explorers would have lost all computer functions by now, leaving them alone and in dire straits. Unfortunately for Harrison and Marshall, the tactical EVA skin suits could not be manufactured out of the same material as the dome. Thus, they were far less resistant to the extreme levels of radiation now cooking the planet. If they spent too long outside the shield of the dome’s shell, the computer uplinks within their suits would burn up, and their connection to Braun would be lost.

  As a holographic image of the base slowly rotated in the air above the table, Udo Clunkat reluctantly reached up to highlight an enormous, ventilated metal box with several ducts protruding from it. Winding their way up the westward-facing side of the dome like vines of ivy, the ducts converged onto one another at the zenith, then fed into the dome’s ventilation compressor.

  “That is the regulator up there,” said the German. “It combines all of the gasses into the atmo we use and breathe in here. Right now, it can’t do what it was designed for because of the problems in the life-support station down here.”

  Bringing the view back down the side of the dome to the large metal box, Udo parted his clasped hands and made the holograph turn transparent. As the opacity of the life-support station reduced, its complicated internal workings were revealed in color-coded sections. A wide tube located between two ribbed squares of plastic glowed with soft blue light as it drifted away from the tangle of machinery surrounding it.

  “Here,” he pointed. “Is where the air scrubbers are.”

  Sliding a hand from right to left, he cut the image of the fat cylinder into a cross-section.

  “Because this base uses an internal air pressure of fourteen pounds per square inch to push against the low Martian surface pressure of .087 PSI, we must continuously circulate a breathable atmosphere of at least nine PSI to keep from succumbing to altitude sickness. If we were to reach a tipping point, then the pressure would drop very quickly. And if it were to fall below one PSI to the levels outside the dome, our blood will boil.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before Udo resumed speaking.

  “Our life-support system garnishes the usable gasses, such as nitrogen and argon, from the thin Martian air, then combines them with supplemented oxygen and hydrogen. This process creates the Earth-like atmosphere needed to maintain safe pressurization and healthy lung functions. Because argon and nitrogen are fairly plentiful, it is safe for us to rely on the Martian atmosphere to provide them for our mixture. However, because there are such small amounts of oxygen and water vapor out there, building up a surplus of those without using electrolysis is impossible for any real length of time.”

  The German paused and closed his eyes, sighing softly.

  “That’s
why the air scrubbers are really just a temporary measure, chosen because the electrolysis machine wouldn’t fit in the Lander. Up to now we have been alleviating the situation by adding pure oxygen and hydrogen to the mixture from reserve tanks, but those are depleted.”

  Glancing around the group, he smiled painfully, then continued.

  “Now, inside the Arc there are plenty of reserve tanks, but, alas, they are buried in there, and we are stuck in here. What we really need is our electrolysis machine. If we had been able to install that, it would be splitting the hydrogen from the oxygen within the Martian permafrost, which is actually just frozen water, and supplying us with all the O2 and hydrogen we could ever hope for. Unfortunately, it was never unpacked or assembled because of all this—”

  He made a waving gesture towards the roof of the dome as a gust of wind outside howled viciously.

  “Essentially, we are running on systems never meant to be used under these conditions. It can limp us along for a while, but not if the scrubbers are so clogged with sand that they can’t skim off what little O2 there is out there. Normally, Braun would have warned us of any dust storms this big, and we would have grabbed more reserve tanks or something. But the nature of this storm and its sudden arrival have coupled with our barely operational status, and led us into what NASA calls an unknown unknown.”

  “What is our internal air pressure now?” asked Harrison, standing at the rear of the group.

  Braun quickly replied from the shadows of the darkened ceiling above.

  “The internal air pressure of the dome has fallen slightly to 10.86 PSI.”

  Shuddering, Viviana began to mumble under her breath, drawing concerned glances from the rest of the crew.

  “Not to worry,” comforted William as he gently patted her shoulder. “We’ll have this all taken care of before it gets dangerously low.”

  Snorting, Marshall jabbed a thumb at Harrison.

  “No, William. We’ll get it taken care of. You’ll sit in here and suck your thumb.”

  Frowning, William ignored Marshall’s taunt and tapped at the projection of the air scrubber. The wide blue tube burst apart into an alarming amount of individual pieces, which floated slightly spaced out from one another. Within the unassuming cylinder was a network of screens and filters, complicatedly layered over one another as they ribbed the length of a copper conduit.

  “Let me walk you through what you’ll need to do to change the filters,” said William coolly. “Then I’ll go suck my thumb.”

  An hour later, the tutorial was finished, and Marshall and Harrison were ready to step into the airlock. Everything William and Udo had shown them was uploaded into their suit computers to be accessed through Augmented Vision when they started their work. The process was simple enough: open the life-support station box, find the air scrubber cylinder, open it, replace all eleven filters, rewire the new filters and close the cylinder. Once that was done, put the system back together, close the box and get back to the airlock. It all looked easy on a computer graphic, but to actually complete the task within an hour and a half seemed like a long shot. Add to it the blizzard-like dust storm outside and the sickeningly high levels of harmful radiation, and there was little hope things would go as smoothly as promised.

  As the last of the air within his suit’s torso and limbs was pumped out, Harrison felt like a mummy wrapped in a death shroud that would cling to his skin for a thousand years. Standing before him, clutching his helmet with white-knuckled tension, Liu looked up into his dark face.

  “Alright?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, bending his head from side to side as the gasket around his neck choked down on him.

  “Is that too tight?” she worried, shifting the helmet under one arm so she could touch the coupling at his throat.

  “It’s always like that. There’s nothing to do about it I guess,” he sighed nervously, then quickly reached up and grasped her hand as it trailed away from him.

  Casting her eyes down, Liu nervously bit at her lower lip.

  “I’m scared for you, Harrison. I—”

  Trailing off, she met his gaze and started to speak again, but quickly stopped herself. Clenching his jaw, the young archaeologist, still holding her hand, brought it to his face and kissed it softly.

  “What?” he urged hopefully. “What were you going to say?”

  Shaking her head, Liu looked away again and let her hand slip from his. They stood like that for several minutes, silent and unmoving. Behind them, Marshall and the rest avoided the slightly awkward scene, allowing Harrison and Liu their moment of imperfect tranquility in the face of great danger.

  Finally, there could be no more postponement. Pressure levels were dropping, and the time had come to enter the storm or perish. Helmets securely sealed and utility belts deftly strapped across their chests, the two white-suited astronauts stepped into the cramped airlock and gave one final thumbs up. Shaking noticeably, Liu swung the heavy airlock door shut, then peered through its round glass window. Her eyes twinkled and flickered as tears built up behind them, and her lips moved silently to form three words in what looked like Mandarin Chinese. Feeling his stomach ache with the longing to hear those words clearly, Harrison forced himself to turn from the window and face the airlock’s outer hatch. A soft green light ticked on above the door, signifying that the airlock was fully depressurized, and Marshall reached for the bolted handle.

  “Ready?” he said in a steady voice.

  “Ready,” exhaled Harrison.

  Pushing the handle down, Marshall swung the hatch inward, and the airlock instantly filled with blinding red sand. It billowed through the opening like the smoke of a raging fire, engulfing the two in a thick blanket of rusty haze. Harrison reached out ahead of himself like a sightless ant, feeling for the rim of the hatch while shuffling his feet along the floor to keep from tripping.

  “Turn on your A-Vision’s dimensional enhancement ping,” commanded Marshall in his suit speakers.

  Quickly obeying, Harrison engaged his Augmented Vision, and the face shield of his helmet glowed to life. The shapeless view of swirling brown and red was enhanced one hundred fold as computer-generated images, like the blueprints of a building plan, were imposed over the blurs of dust and sand. He could now see the airlock’s interior like a bat might see the curved walls of a darkened cave. The computer in his helmet sent out pings of high frequency radio waves, which bounced off of everything they touched to paint an illuminated diagram of his surroundings. Before him, the image of Marshall stood silhouetted in the open hatch.

  “Come on,” he beckoned as Harrison made his way to the exit.

  The two stepped out into the boiling Martian air and made a quick left, heading for the life-support station. Knowing it was just his imagination, Harrison still felt as though he could sense the radiation microwaving his organs.

  Within minutes, they had reached the stocky life-support station, which glowed a brilliant green on the inside of their helmet glass. Kneeling in the sand at the base of the box, Marshall reached out and took hold of the two, bottom-corner locking handles. Applying a quarter turn to both levers, he waited until his Augmented Vision confirmed the action before quickly moving to the next set of panel locks. Nervously, Harrison watched a timer in the upper right-hand corner of his face shield tick off the minutes. So far they had been outside the dome for nine minutes and forty-nine seconds.

  “There,” grunted Marshall as he turned the final two levers. “That’s the last one. Let’s open this puppy up.”

  Taking hold of the panel’s top right-hand corner, Harrison helped Marshall lift the vented side-wall out of its track. Resting the flat sheet of steel and alloy on the ground, the two peered at the innards of the life-support station as they waited for their Augmented Vision to update and show them what to do next. The following twenty-five minutes were spent fastidiously removing all of the machinery and couplings that blocked their access to the fat cylindrical air scrubber buried deep within
the belly of the life-support station. As Marshall worked his way further into the maze of connected systems, Harrison carefully applied digital labels to each piece of machinery handed to him. In this way, once their task was completed, Harrison and Marshall could correctly reassemble what they had disconnected.

  As the driving winds hurled wave after wave of gritting Martian sand against their suits, the two explorers crouched low and moved quickly.

  “I see it!” shouted Marshall with excitement. “I can almost reach it.”

  Checking the clock, Harrison winced as they neared the forty-minute mark.

  “Fifty minutes left, Ralph,” he warned.

  “Okay, okay. I’ve got it. I just need to unplug one wire here at the end, and I’ll bring it out. Get the filters ready.”

  Opening a large pocket on the front of his tool belt, Harrison ran a gloved fingertip across the thin filters within.

  “Ready when you are,” he breathed.

  With an almost childlike giggle, Marshall backed out on his knees from the inside of the life-support station, cradling the air-scrubber tube like a newborn baby. Huddling together, the two made a human shield against the violent winds as Marshall twisted the top free from the cylinder and extracted the contents slowly. A hard gust of wind shook the paper-thin filters in his hand, and the two exchanged a nervous look.

  “Careful,” hissed Harrison as Marshall handed him the unprotected filtration unit.

  A narrow copper pipe of thirty centimeters ran from the center of the cap to a plastic port on the opposite end of the tube. Attached to it like slices of onion on the skewer of a shish kabob, the delicate air filters sagged with two solid days’ worth of rusty sand and dust. Working his nimble fingers like a surgeon dissecting the vertebrates of a human spine, Harrison slipped the worn filters free from the copper conduit—one at a time. Letting the tattered remnants fall to the ground, neither man made an effort to collect them as they were spirited away by blasts of wind. Time was running out, and this was the first human trash to litter the planet since the Curiosity Rover of 2012. The timer on the inside of Harrison’s visor flashed red as they approached the forty-minute mark.