A Step Beyond

by Christopher K Anderson

  At the sound of her voice his mood darkened. They had not talked in several days. He tried to think of what he should say, but he was afraid that whatever he might say would start an argument—so after several seconds of indecision he said nothing at all.

  He moved on to the next drawer and pulled out a package that was several times larger than the others. It read REHYDRATABLE TURKEY TETRAZZINI. The label struck him as humorous, but then he recalled Sergei Demin, who had been his friend and who had died aboard the Volnost. Demin had an insatiable love for Italian food, and it was likely that the meal had been stored at his request. Vladimir had not thought of his friend in months. He had stood at his widow’s side at the funeral while the pallbearers of the empty coffin waded through the morning fog. These are the types of ghosts I will encounter, he told himself.

  It was not until he was halfway through the corridor that he remembered the deception he had planned. Noticing that he was within a foot of the proper location, he paused for a moment to gather his wits. He pointed the camera situated on his shoulder at a drawer that was eye level. As he opened the drawer with one hand, he reached down and opened a second drawer with the other. His lower hand encircled a soft bag containing liquid. He knew the liquid to be vodka. Twirling a package of strawberries Romanov in full view of the camera, he slipped two bags of vodka into his pouch.

  “Now that looks good,” Tatiana said.

  Vladimir studied the package curiously.

  “Would you like me to bring some down to you?” he asked in a halfhearted attempt at a joke.

  “Oh, yes,” Tatiana replied. “And some pashka, too, if you don’t mind.”

  She laughed, and upon hearing her laughter he hesitantly joined in. It felt good to be laughing with her. Perhaps, he thought, they would talk tonight. He was conscious that his feelings for her had changed so quickly, but he did not let that trouble him too much. It had always been that way. He was simply pleased that they were getting along again.

  “Please,” Komarov interrupted. “Time is limited.”

  The bastard, Vladimir thought to himself. He does not want us to be happy. He is trying to keep us apart so that he can have her all to himself. Vladimir bit down on his lip to keep from cursing—he did not want to behave poorly on camera. The EVA was being broadcast live on Earth.

  “Of course,” he replied, his voice shaking. The location of the next drawer was flashing with annoying persistence on his heads-up display. He placed a silver package on top of the vodka. He did so for three more drawers and finally froze in place.

  “To hell with you,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” Komarov asked. It was clear by the tone of his voice that he had not made out the words and was only looking for clarification.

  “The collection bag is full,” he lied. “Recommend proceeding with investigation of the power failure.”

  There was a pause, in which Vladimir could hear Satomura whispering, followed by a muffled guttural sound that he took to be Komarov’s reply. Several seconds passed.

  “Proceed,” came his commander’s voice. By his tone, Vladimir could tell Komarov was not pleased.

  The Russian Space Agency scientists felt that the environmental-control system was the most likely point of failure within the ship. It was located in the hydroponic garden at the far end of the corridor. He grasped drawers on either side of him and, with a gentle push, propelled himself toward the garden—the point at which the black Cyrillic type converged. He felt as if he were falling headlong into a hole. Upon reaching the hatch, he pulled himself to the viewing port and looked through. What he saw was not at all what he had expected. Sheets of ice, like a maze of broken mirrors, filled the chamber. He knew at once it would be unsafe to enter.

  “I’m going in,” he announced, and proceeded to open the hatch without waiting for a response. The sounds of urgent whispering filled his helmet. He had the lock pulled fully back when the response finally came.

  “You better hold off until we’ve had time to assess the risk,” Komarov said.

  Vladimir pulled the hatch open as if he had not heard anything.

  “Repeat, do not proceed until we have had time to assess,” Komarov demanded, his voice rising.

  A slight grin appeared on Vladimir’s lips as he considered how best to proceed. The ice was indeed dangerous. A prick from any one of the broken shards could cut open his space suit and bring about almost certain death. He surveyed the compartment. The ice was thicker near the walls where the hydro-ponic containers were lined. He requested the computer to superimpose the electrical grid for the compartment upon his heads-up display. An intricate network of green neon lights appeared before him. As he turned his head the grid remained stationary. In the far right-hand corner, through the maze of ice, the neon formed a bright rectangle. It was the primary circuit box for the supply ship. He would begin at the box.

  “Vladimir, recommend that you close the hatch until we have had—”

  “I believe I have determined the cause of the outage.”

  “We need time to—”

  “Time is limited. Remember? Don’t worry, I’ll take precautions.”

  Vladimir looked around for something to clear a path through the ice. He decided if he could remove two of the supply drawers, he could use one as a shield and the other as a battering ram. He pulled back with both hands on the nearest drawer, ripping it from the wall and sending silver and gold packages down each end of the corridor. He placed the empty drawer at his feet and proceeded, with even greater force, to do the same with the adjacent drawer. Packages of food bounced off his space suit and ricocheted from one wall to the next. He held both drawers at arm’s length.

  “I have shut down the voice link with Earth,” Komarov said, making no attempt to hide his anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I have just emptied these drawers of their contents,” Vladimir replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “You are to close the hatch, now!”

  Vladimir pushed off and went flying toward the garden with an empty drawer in each hand.

  “That is a direct order.”

  “The transmission is breaking up,” Vladimir replied calmly. “I’m having difficulties hearing you.”

  Vladimir raised a drawer high over his head, paused for a second, and then, with a giant swing, brought it crashing down into the ice. The ice exploded violently and hurtled shrapnel-like projectiles at him. He ducked behind the drawers. He felt several shards as they crashed into his makeshift shields. Glancing out, he saw a maelstrom of ice swirling chaotically inside the room. He knew at once he had made a mistake. Komarov was yelling in his ear. He returned to his shelter behind the drawers and turned down the volume to the comm link so that he would not have to listen to Komarov. Nearly ten minutes passed before he felt it was safe to emerge from his cover. He was surprised at what remained. His single blow had destroyed the entire structure. The ice was still moving, but had lost much of its momentum.

  With the drawers extended before him, he cleared a three-dimensional path and stepped into it. Shards of ice converged on the opening he had created. He put the drawers down and blocked the ice with his hands and forearms, carefully moving them from one position to the next. He did not want to increase the momentum of the ice particles by striking them. He decided for so much water to be present a pipe must have burst. He instructed the computer to overlay the schematic for the environmental-control system. A maze of lines representing pipes, bleed valves, gas-pressure regulators, heaters, chillers, and various other parts of the system appeared before him. He then requested the computer to highlight the points in the system most likely to break. The schematic transformed from a uniform blue to a kaleidoscope of colors. He focused upon the bright red areas. One area, where the ice appeared to be the thickest, caught his attention. It was immediately adjacent to the main power line. He pivoted and proceeded to clear a path toward the pipe he believed to be the origin of the break. As he
made his way, he noticed that the hydroponic containers were still intact and that they contained vegetables suspended in blocks of ice. The vegetables looked remarkably fresh. He reminded himself that the radiation would have rendered any food aboard the supply ship unsafe to eat.

  From a hole in the side of one of the containers a fountain of ice blossomed. The hole was as thick as his fist, and the ice looked as if it had sprung from a fire hydrant. He cleared some of the ice floating in front of him to obtain a better view. The fountain extended approximately half a meter before it broke. Vladimir realized that this was the origin of the ice sculpture he had shattered. He stepped around the protruding formation and up to the container.

  He looked inside. Frozen within a block of ice he saw some carrots. He then realized that the containers should not have contained so much water . . . the shutoff valve must have failed. The containers had filled with water and the container in front of him had burst from the pressure. He instructed the computer to display the location of the shutoff valve. It was at the far end of the containers, inside a control box. Through the portal near the control box he could see the backup lander. It was an earlier version of the one they had aboard their own supply ship. As he picked a path to the control box, he wondered what they might be thinking. He was pleased that Komarov was angry and that Tatiana seemed to have gotten over their last fight. Opening the control box, he quickly identified the valve and confirmed that it was indeed open.

  “It’s the shutoff valve,” he said, turning on his mike.

  “Ah, you can talk,” Komarov said.

  “Of course I can talk,” Vladimir replied smugly. He was feeling somewhat vindicated by his find. “You may want to open the comm link to Earth. I suspect they would very much like to see this.”

  “You disobeyed a direct order,” Komarov said. “I must report this.”

  “Dima,” Tatiana said disapprovingly. “Must we report every little disturbance. Wouldn’t it better for all if nothing were said. Really, you must learn to contain your anger.”

  The camera mounted on Vladimir’s suit swung drunkenly from one wall to the next. She was pleading with him as if he were her lover. That tone. He had heard it so many times before. But only after they had been intimate. And besides, she had called him Dima. No one called him Dima. No one except perhaps his wife, but certainly not anyone who dealt with him professionally. Certainly not Tanya. Vladimir reached back against the wall to steady himself. The very thought of her with him made his insides tighten. How could she? All the son of a bitch wanted was sex. He didn’t give a damn about her. He didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. In the distance a voice, Komarov’s, was saying something. The voice sounded urgent.

  Vladimir noticed that he was floating. He was in the middle of the compartment surrounded by swirling pieces of ice. He looked below him and saw the container that held the carrots and the fountain of ice that shot out from its side, frozen in place as if for it time had stopped. He started to flail his arms in the air like a swimmer struggling to keep his head above water.

  “What is wrong?” Komarov asked. The very sound of his voice annoyed Vladimir. He was trying to sound sincere, as if he actually cared what might be wrong. Why could she not see through him? Vladimir grabbed the corner of a container and pulled himself to the floor.

  “You’re fucking my wife,” he said, “that’s what wrong.” There was a long silence, during which no one dared say anything.

  “Vladimir,” Tatiana said softly.

  He did not reply.

  “Vladimir,” she repeated.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  If anyone else had asked him, or if she had asked him in a different way, he probably would have erupted with even greater rage than he had the first time. But none of his anger came forth. He felt foolish for his outburst. He actually stammered.

  “Yes, I’m all right,” he said. “A little tired. I did not sleep well last night.”

  “You do sound tired,” she said, agreeing with him. They had shifted the blame to something they both knew had nothing to do with the problem, and they were grateful to have done so.

  “Yes, I am tired,” he said, half-hoping he could give the deception some substance by repeating it. He sounded much like a defeated man. “This suit is very heavy. I am going to head back to the ship. The mission here is complete.”

  Colonel Nelson tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the nose of the Mobile Unit for Surface Exploration, or MOUSE, tipped downward into a ditch that had caught him unaware. His foot was pressed against the brake, but it was already too late. He released the brake in an attempt to regain control. The miniature rover slid sideways down the rocky slope and nearly flipped over before he was able to bring it to a stop at the bottom of the slope. He brought up the topographical on the heads-up of his telepresence goggles. The rover was sixty kilometers east of the landing site, and he had to remind himself that he was actually aboard the Shepard, not the MOUSE.

  The walls of the ditch stretched upward, and from the perspective of the cameras they could have belonged to a great canyon. He knew the MOUSE was incapable of ascending the steep incline, so he pointed the vehicle down the length of the ditch and proceeded to go wherever it might take him.

  So much has gone wrong, he thought to himself as he steered around the rocks in the way of the rover. Carter was asleep, drugged, with his leg strapped down to keep it stationary. Without a proper cast it was important to limit his movement. The physicians were concerned about how the bone would mend under the weaker gravity and were recommending that Carter remain immobilized for at least another week. That, of course, interfered with many of the mission objectives. The oxygen-extraction experiment required two people to deploy and had to be scrapped altogether. It was a proof-of-concept experiment designed to extract oxygen from the carbon dioxide in the Martian atmosphere. And until Carter was able to walk and serve as backup, EVAs were restricted to the landing site. Even though Nelson agreed with the decision, he was not pleased with it. He did not like being confined to such a small area. Not when there was an entire world to be explored.

  Most rocks in the MOUSE’s eye were boulders, and it was such a boulder that now blocked its path. Nelson backed up the rover to obtain a better view. The computer informed him that the rock was several centimeters high and that the MOUSE would not be able to climb over it. The ditch was too narrow to turn around in, so instead he looked for a way past the obstacle. He decided if he were able to pick up enough speed, he might be able to climb the side of the ditch just high enough to pass over the rock.

  He slammed down on the accelerator, and the MOUSE achieved its maximum speed of ten kilometers per hour almost immediately. When he was several centimeters from the rock he steered for the wall. He held his breath as the tiny vehicle scaled the side. It started to slip, and he felt as if the MOUSE were about to roll over, so he turned the wheel and headed back down. He was on level ground again, with the rock just behind him. He traveled several more meters when he encountered a fork in the ditch. He had a choice of two directions. Both paths sloped upward. He chose the path that forked right, only because he was right-handed.

  He was concerned for the Russians. They did not even know if the Gagarin could lift off. The contingency plan called for the backup lander, but then they would have to depend on Vladimir. The psychiatrist said that he might be suicidal. Nelson was inclined to believe it. Vladimir did not seem stable. Particularly after the incident on the old supply ship. He had suggested the Russians make for the American lander in the dirigible, but the Russian Space Agency did not feel that was necessary. The damn fools. Their pride would be their undoing.

  To his relief the path that he had chosen led back to the surface. The sky was streaked with dark red tentacles. He thought of Tatiana and wondered if she were the type of woman who would cheat on her husband. She was full-figured, and although she did not flaunt her sexuality, she did not hide it either.
He suspected that she enjoyed the effect it had on men. He shut the engine off and watched the sun set as he thought of his wife and of how different she was from Tatiana. His wife was not the type to sleep with another man. She loved him and their children and, besides, was too happy with the life that he provided. She was attractive, though, and two years was a long time. He wondered what he would do if she did have an affair. He knew that in his heart he would forgive her, but he also knew that he would divorce her. The sun was fully set when he pulled off his goggles and went to check on Carter.

  Satomura marveled at the vast size of the dirigible, which darkened the sky and towered overhead like one of the great German zeppelins of the early twentieth century. It stretched 153 meters from bow to stern and was filled with hydrogen that had been extracted from the Martian soil. The dirigible, along with the rover, had been transported by the supply ship and had arrived on the surface several days after the Gagarin.

  He stepped inside the small cabin underneath the balloon and turned around to lend a hand to Tatiana. The cabin was just large enough to fit two people. Tatiana sat down in the uncushioned hard-plastic chair intended for the pilot. They would have to keep their space suits on, since the cabin was not pressurized. The flight was scheduled to last seven hours and thirteen minutes.

  The flight-deck console did not possess the sleek and finished appearance of the consoles aboard the Druzhba. There was a stick that controlled horizontal movement and another that controlled vertical. The altimeter and other navigational indicators appeared on an active-matrix display above the two control sticks. A second display was situated in front of the observer’s seat.

  Satomura felt a keen sense of excitement as he sat down. A checklist appeared in the corner of both displays. Tatiana read the list out loud as they checked the equipment. His mind was elsewhere, however. They were to descend into the grand canyons of Valles Marineris and examine the layered deposits within the divide between Ophir and Candor Chasmas. He looked over at Tatiana and could see that she, too, was excited, but he imagined for different reasons. She was not a planetary geologist. She had not spent her life peering through the small end of a telescope or hovering over photographs of dead planets. She was an engineer. Her field of study was aerodynamics, and she had actually participated in the design of the dirigible. This was to be its maiden voyage. They had not flown the dirigible on Earth because it was not built for Earth’s gravity and, consequently, would have collapsed under its own weight.