"Hold on!"
She did so.
The repulse engines fired at top thrust, blackening the ground below the hovercar. The chasma walls went by the window in a blur. He pressed hard against the seat, and the sensation that he was seeping through the bottom of the ship made him want to stop, but he ignored his fear.
A gust of wind and pebbles pushed down across the car. The patter grated on his nerves. The hovercar veered toward the portside wall. Almost blind with the shower of Martian dirt, he made minor adjustments to his control stick to center the ship.
Almost immediately upon exiting the chasma, the circling vortex of the storm swept the hovercar up and away. A few seconds passed before Seth realized what had happened to the hovercar; they had exited without slamming into the wall, and he decided, as he looked at the altitude gauge, that the hardest part of their ascent was over. The hovercar rose faster and faster out of the storm. The momentum gained from exiting at such a high speed had caused the hovercar to tumble into the storm virtually out of control. He fought with the control stick—against common sense and a desire to exit the spiraling hurricane—to lower the speed of the ship’s ascent. The altitude gauge spun like a pinwheel, and leveling the hovercar at this speed didn’t seem possible. Unable to level the ship, he decided to ride with the storm up out the top. Perhaps there would be more stability when they were out of the storm.
The hovercar reacted in protest, and Seth clenched his teeth. Buzzing alerts were ringing chaotically: temperature, altitude control, and low pressure in one of his fuel tanks. He managed to coerce some of the alerts to go away by pure instinct at the controls.
BOOM!
"Jinx!" He looked down at his alert panel, and to his dismay, more red lights were flashing than green ones. So much for clearing those alerts, he thought.
After a quick assessment, he found the portside engine completely blown, with smoke pouring out the back of the hovercar. An alert for an engine fire blatted. The heat spiked on his temperature gauge. A plasma fire! Before it could melt away the inner hull and fill the cabin with a fiery pool of napalm, he shut off all fuel and energy flow to the engine, extinguishing it in the thin atmosphere.
Next, he tried to orient the hovercar, and he immediately became aware that, not surprisingly, riding on one engine in this storm was more difficult than riding with two engines.
Abruptly, the sun shone into the cabin of the ship. By reflex, he turned on the window tint and then moved his hands on the control stick to swerve the hovercar back into a position for their descent. He shifted the stick from left to right with the slightest of motions. Without the crosswinds from the storm, he managed, over shrills of protest from the hull, to tame the hovercar enough to reorient the wings back to level.
He glanced at Chloe. Had it not been for the dire situation, the expression on her ashen face would have agitated him: wide eyes, flared nostrils, and gaping mouth.
Jinx, I didn’t do that bad, he thought, and then glanced at the red alerts on his dashboard. Well, maybe I have . . . but I handled the spiraling ship as well as any great pilot could.
"We got through the first part of the flight plan in not too bad shape," he said, to calm her nerves.
She nodded and tried to say something, but her mouth was too dry.
He continued, "The bad news is: we lost an engine, we are still rising, and I can’t tell if our repulse engines are connected to the fuel lines I had to shut down to snuff out that engine fire. The good news is: everything else appears to be okay."
"What’s left?" she croaked.
"Funny."
The navigation computer indicated they were almost halfway to Trivium Port, and if he could find a safe route down, they should make it back in record time. "We are fifteen thousand feet into the air now."
"You said that the engines couldn’t navigate above ten thousand feet," she said. "How can we fly up here?"
"We can’t. The remaining engine is gasping for intake air, but I’m more worried about our momentum on the way back down. The computer says we’ll top out at about twenty thousand feet. But on reentry, I’ll need to blast the repulse engines the entire way down to stop us from smashing into the surface."
"We are rising awfully fast. Don’t we need to pressurize the cabin?"
"The ship has automatic pressurizing capabilities. I will get us down safely. Don’t worry."
"I know."
The storm swirled with an assortment of red and orange hues that distorted the surface for miles in all directions. He stared at his altimeter as it approached twenty thousand feet, and the apex wasn’t too far above the estimated total. The numbers started to lower, and he grabbed the control stick. "Hold on again."
He adjusted his orientation a bit higher to increase wind resistance and slow the hovercar enough to save them when they reached the surface. The engines offered no assistance at this point. They were choking on the thin atmosphere. He glanced down at the altimeter: fifteen thousand feet.
Looking out of the bottom viewscreen, he calculated that his forward momentum wouldn’t take him into the storm again, and his navigational screen confirmed his conclusion.
They were falling fast. He didn’t know whether to cut into the wind to slow their descent or to cut away from it to ride the wave of air like a glider to the bottom. Neither alternative soothed his nerves. He pounded his fingers along the control pad to get readings on anything that might help.
In response, the hovercar’s computer buzzed back an array of alerts with a new pitch and cadence that sounded like a panicked child. He thanked the computer for the panic attack and silenced the squawks right away. No help there.
Eleven thousand feet.
He placed his finger on the repulse engine’s start button. "Come on, come on," he muttered, "these engines had better start." He would rather die because of poor piloting skills than an engine malfunction. At least he could accept death if he were at fault.
Ten thousand feet: he pressed the button instantaneously. The repulse engines sputtered like they had on the ground. He pumped the button several times, and the engines sputtered even less than the first time.
He yelled out: "Cross your fingers again."
The engines churned and churned until finally, they roared into life. "It worked!"
The jolt to the hovercar felt like the hull had ripped into two pieces. His body jerked violently, and he pulled hard on the control stick to slow the rapid descent. The ground came quickly toward them, and he conceded a touchdown landing wouldn’t happen. The ship not ripping apart would be a success at this point.
"We are going to crash land!" he yelled. "You will want to brace yourself . . . and get your breathing mask on." Whether she followed his instructions, he didn’t know. He pulled on his own mask and secured it to his head.
In the distance, the lights of Trivium Port flickered, and he tried to orient the ship toward the port. He had no chance of making up the distance as the hovercar raced toward the surface, closing in faster than he expected. He tried to steer the nose upward, but the air rushing over the top of the cabin pushed too hard for him to control any pitch levels. Gripping the release stick, he pulled the landing bays open, and the struts extended into position. He wasn’t opening them for the landing but to obliterate any kind of aerodynamics the hovercar was using to slice through the sky.
Suddenly, the ground was upon him.
With a shuddering, rumbling crash, the hovercar hit the surface. The landing gear fought back, springing the hovercar back into the air. He heard the shrieking sound of metal being torn from the bottom of the ship, and with a glance at his rear viewscreen, he saw the landing gear tumbling along the Martian surface behind them.
He pulled his arms inside of his chair, anticipating the next impact.
The hovercar slammed back on the surface and began to spin. The jolt rocked the hovercar, and the canopy flipped open. A heartbeat later, the wind caught the canopy and tore it from its hinges, tossing it clear of them.
&n
bsp; Before he was aware of the canopy flying past the cabin, the bitter wind swept across his face, along with a million pebbles and stones. He wished he had slipped on his goggles. With eyes closed, he bore the pain.
After the initial surge subsided, out of the corner of his squinting eye, he saw a rock formation dead ahead. This is it, he thought. They were about to be ripped into pieces.
The hovercar collided with the rock and stopped immediately. The next thing he realized was that he was flying through the air. He tried to find Chloe in all the confusion, but then, out of nowhere, there was total darkness.
Chapter 21
Alone in her apartment, Gwen sat at her computer terminal playing with the curls in her hair. Her screen kept displaying,
She had sent a communication request to her father more than thirty minutes ago. Perhaps he was still mad about their dustup in his office. She would apologize; that was first on her agenda.
She sat back, let out a long breath, and skimmed over reports she had collected on Martian mutations and other genetic anomalies. She had been reading the same reports continually for the last five hours and couldn’t understand why the information was so thin and sparse. The reports were dubious to say the least. They contained only rumors and news articles from the tabloids, nothing close to scientific studies. The hard evidence eluded her. She tossed the datapads across her desk, scattering them with a rattle against the floor.
Chirp.
After what seemed to be forever, her father’s face appeared on the viewscreen. She said nothing for a long second or two.
"I am sorry for the way I acted earlier," she finally said.
He nodded.
"I wanted to talk to you about the medical shuttle that arrived on Lunara—before the attack."
"What about it?" The heaviness of anger riddled his tone.
"I—"
"You are just like your mother."
"Excuse me?"
"The ambition, the drive, the motivation. You got that all from your mother."
"And none from you?" She smirked.
A rare disease killed her mother when she was young. Her father took her mother’s death hard, and for months, he wasn’t able to look Gwen in the eye without crying. She remembered her mother in only a few flashing images and the fleeting warm memories of a few children songs. As to her personality and her views, Gwen had learned everything from her father.
"You should stay on Mars," he said. "A position is open for you."
"I like Lunara. I’m not ready to return yet."
"So I hear."
She frowned. "Your ear is pointed toward Samantha these days." And not mine!
"You believed in her. She is my best ally. But you can be."
"No! I’m not having this conversation again. You sent me to Lunara, and I told you I would choose when I returned."
"I thought you would return the next month."
She bristled. "Someone needs to keep an eye on the Zephyria property on Lunara, and I’m doing perfectly fine. While doing my job, I poked around the Martian databases on the subject of mutations and other anomalies of Martian and non-Martian people. Maybe you can answer some questions for me."
"What got you involved with mutations?"
"Just something Hans said when I greeted him before we had our little disagreement."
"So what’s the question?"
"Why are so few records on mutations in the database? I checked in the Mars Central database, the Zephyrian database, and even Aethpis. A subject of this size should contain a lot more information. All I found were children’s stories, novels, and early Martian medical records that were next to useless."
"The records might not be missing from the public database."
"Mutations from the Martian environment were studied."
"Perhaps not to the extent the legends lead us to believe. Ignorance is bliss."
She chewed on her lip. Nothing about her father’s answer satisfied her. "The medicals records are still closed from that time period. I don’t understand why. Everyone is dead."
"I presume someone sealed the records because the Principles of Man are clear about privacy. I’ll have a few of my data miners search for you."
"Research papers and even medical records should be available to me with my access level. I did find a report from Mars Medical, signed by none other than Hans Bauer. Rumors of the safety of our industrial infrastructure from Castor Colony are upsetting the people. Several mutation-related documents were, suddenly and illegally, made classified. Mars Central doesn’t want to upset the population with rumors and speculation about Martian safety, but taking the people’s right to information is preposterous."
Her father pulled his facial muscles in. "Mars needs to keep the peace, primarily. We don’t want the revolutionary days to return. Dr. Bauer is a valuable asset to Mars, and if you don’t respect him as a man, you should respect his work."
Her father offered his usual political facial expressions and words. She didn’t buy that excuse. She wasn’t one of his political pawns. "Why are you supporting men like Hans Bauer and organizations run like Mars Medical? He is poking around, keeping secrets, and waving his authority. The Principles of Man can’t be ignored because they aren’t convenient."
"Darling," he said with a condescending laugh, "we need to investigate all types of health risks to our population on Mars and on Lunara. You know better than anyone else."
"Why are they harassing people? Shouldn’t this be all voluntary testing? I don’t like the idea of the government ruling people’s lives."
"No one forced anyone to do anything against their will. Minister Cortez and Mars Medical ask people to take these examinations. Their involvement is voluntary. I would step in if any of this wasn’t in the interests of Mars and Lunara."
"I guess I don’t care for the method of asking. They used their employment physical as an excuse to conduct these examinations." She shook her head, then gathered a handful of datapads and held them up for her father. "Father, what I am trying to ask is, are Seth and Chloe under investigation for being mutants? Any announcement of this sort will make them outcasts or a public spectacle."
His eyes dodged her for a split second—a cue that he was hiding something from her. She knew he had to hide things from her because of his position, but she could tell when he forced himself to lie. Well, not lie, but withhold the entire truth.
"No one is under investigation for being a mutant," he said. "Mars has evolved."
"And if the press or the courts catch wind of the invasion of their privacy. What will Mars Medical do then?"
"Don’t threaten Mars Medical," her father said. "You’re an Arwell in name, but you don’t have our clout yet."
"Perhaps it is time to garner some," she said. "Someone has to watch out for the people. For Seth and Chloe."
"Don’t!" His nostrils flared. "They can send you to far worse places than Lunara."
"Is that a threat?" She caught her words. Was her father threatening her? Why was he concerned about the media? "I can fight from Pluto."
"Gwen, don’t try to take on Mars Medical. Hans Bauer has the ear of the minister. You’ll further complicate matters for yourself and your friends."
"And for you?" She stared at him for a long moment.
He rubbed his hands together. "I must go. I’ll see you at the gala. We can talk more afterwards. Don’t do anything before then. No leaks!"
"I understand," she said.
But she didn’t. Did the minister have incriminating information on her father? She didn’t see the logic from the minister’s side. Kaelin was a good man . . . but politics has a way of corrupting the mind.
She pressed the disconnect button, and her father’s image disappeared. More than ever, she had to find out what was going on.
Chapter 22
The trip to Aethpis Colony was uneventful for Parker McCloud and Jan Falloom aboard the Protector. Occasionally, Roche would
transmit his status on his way to Zephyria Colony, but neither he nor Jan nor Roche were interested in idle chitchat, only mission comments and questions.
Parker guided the Protector around the base of the Aethpisian crater, trying to find the landing spot given to him by his old friend, Will Dasher. He found the spot a moment later, programmed it into the computer, and sat back as the ship executed the landing.
His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten all day, and considering all the work he had to do on the Protector, not to mention the mission he was leading against the wishes of his captain, he didn’t have the time or desire. He reached over for a tube of algae paste and squeezed it into his mouth.
Algae paste was the staple diet for Mars, but he found the paste dreadful. The sweetening substitute in the green goop always disappeared after a few bites, leaving a bitter taste. But the algae meant survival, so who was he to complain to Algreen Company? They tried hard enough to make it bearable: algae chips, algae gelatin, algae crackers, algae pudding, and worst of all, algae loaf. He threw the remaining tube to the floor of the bridge, disgusted.
He sat in the captain’s chair and looked out toward the darkening Martian sky. He swallowed the last mouthful of the gooey paste and thought back to the morning meeting aboard the Protector. Seth’s insistence that Earth remained humanity’s home planet resounded in his mind. Not many people believed that anymore. Humanity had terraformed Mars, and this was considered the pinnacle of human achievement, outshining anything people had accomplished on Earth.
The Earth had been a womb for humanity, nurturing it and keeping it safe. But Mars had tested humanity, inspiring greatness and accelerating intellectual growth. The Earth, an ominous gray sphere in the sky, was depressing, from the poisonous methane-rich atmosphere to the cloud of soot perpetually caught in the upper atmosphere. He still didn’t know how Seth found beauty in it.
Granted, Seth had always been a dreamer. His secret obsession was to restore Earth to its former glory, and destroying the meteor cluster with his starwing was a way for him to do that. The Protector's mission was more than a job to him.
Lunara: The Original Trilogy Page 20