The suit first. Only seconds left now. The tanks were already pushed to the limit, and with a rift this big they didn’t have a prayer of keeping him alive. Not with a hostile with deadly intent incoming.
His hand closed on the pouch containing his RIPs, ripped it open and pulled out the first sheet. He began the countdown as he slapped it over the large gash in his suit, close to the shoulder. Three seconds to stick, five seconds to harden. It did not take. When he let go of it, it fluttered down to the ground, not even giving a hint of trying to seal his leak. Finally losing his calm, he frantically pulled out both a second and a third sheet and held them to his shoulder.
Nothing.
Blackness crept into the edges of his world, just as a figure loomed in from the desert, his tall figure outlined by the setting sun.
◆◆◆
I knelt above the dying man, searching for feelings. There. A measure of regret. He was a useful man, the captain. Hardworking, and he knew how to deal with issues without involving unnecessary resources. A hint of sadness that I had found no way to assert my authority without stooping to murder. Finally, relief that everything had gone as planned.
But most of all, satisfaction of a job well done.
I bent down to retrieve my knife.
◆◆◆
Roger stood mesmerized on the slope leading down to the crashed lander. Drifting pieces of bright blue plastic had stuck on some rocks nearby, and the receding sun made them look like rippling pools of water. At first it was the nearly overwhelming feeling of homesickness induced by the illusionary power of water that nearly drove him to his knees, then it was the sight in the background as he shifted his focus.
The Billionaire was leaning over the captain as if about to help him to his feet. Kneeling, and returning a knife to his belt. Captain Reinholts was struggling weakly, alternatively patting his shoulder and thigh with ever more feeble motions. Rogers hand reflexively went to his own pouch containing his RIPs.
He took a tentative step towards the scene unfolding in front of him, then hesitated. He checked his radio, and confirmed that it was tuned to the correct channel. Nothing. His hand twitched towards the toggle for “send/receive” instead of just “receive,” then fell back to his side. Insecurity filled his entire being as he watched the drama unfold.
The Billionaire stood, glanced in either direction, then stepped over the still-twitching form of Reinholts, disappearing into the interior of the smashed globe. Shortly after, two hands emerged from the darkness, like the very embodiment of all the nightmares Roger had ever had, grabbed the now-still form of the captain and dragged him inside.
Roger was left trembling on the slope, his mind reeling with terror and shame. He had done nothing. In the face of danger, he had turned tail and run away, or rather, stood helpless and useless on the sideline. He could have saved him. He could’ve rushed down and patched the suit.
It would have meant a confrontation, maybe even a fight. With a monster. Roger saw it now. Given the right kind of problem, Roger was a genius, and his brain was now working overtime, high on adrenaline and terror. The previous night, checking each other’s equipment in the tent. Himself slapping the shoulder of the would-be murderer, declaring the all clear. The Billionaire doing the same for the captain, having okayed everything from the seams to the seals. As well as the pouch with the self-sealant pads.
The Billionaire, always lagging behind the others on the maintenance runs on the hull of the wounded Wayfinder on their long voyage here.
The Billionaire, in his seat on the way down to the surface, his fingers randomly tapping on his wrist pad, and the balloons of Lander One failing.
Rebekka saying goodbye.
The first words on Mars. “That went well, didn’t it?”
A single drop of blood slowly making its way down his chin in a downtown restaurant.
The teeth of a predator.
Roger stumbled back a step. Two. Then turned and ran, dragging the wagon after him.
◆◆◆
The return trip was subdued. No unnecessary chatter over the radio, no easy comment regarding the hardship of survival. The captain was dead.
In the end, it had been ridiculously easy. No grand fight, no flashing knives in a match to the death. No speeches or curses. No factions supporting the minority rising up in bloody revolt. Just a carefully measured throw and the master codes for the radios. The rest of it had been easy enough. Dragging the body inside the lander. Finding just the right piece of broken metal. Propping the body up against the wall and pushing it, impaling it on the sharp edge. Watching as the captain settled against the wall, held up by a broken piece of the ship. It hardly took any effort at all. I could feel my feelings in the background, clamoring to get out. Screaming at me, demanding my attention. They were an easy thing to ignore.
I glanced over at Roger as he trudged along beside me. He had been quiet ever since he had learned of the death of Captain Reinholts. He had come running almost immediately when I had called him, just the right amount of panic in my voice. The captain had had an accident. I needed his help. Right now. Where was he? Why hadn’t he been outside when I went looking for him? Some mumbled reply about his stomach, then nothing. He had been reluctant to enter the lander, joining me only when said I desperately needed his help. The body was on the floor, RIP pads covering the gash in his suit. I had tried, I really had, but I had been too far away, and the leak had been too much. There had been nothing I could do. Bad luck. Nothing but bad luck, to have survived everything the universe had thrown at him, only to be killed by a broken piece of metal. Roger had nodded glumly, without comment, and had helped me carry the body outside.
We worked all through the night, then the next day, stacking crates on the wagon, stacking the rest outside for easy access. Roger hardly said a word the entire time. He had secured his personal treasure, and in his mind, it had been at the cost of the life of Captain Reinholts. He had abandoned his post, on the prowl for drugs, and the price was steeper than anticipated. For all his bluster about being his own man, I knew he had come to rely on the steady rock that was now dead. As had several others, Nadia first among them.
Well, I would make it work. I would make them dependent on me instead. I alone knew what the numbers said; the protein bars that so wreaked havoc with Rogers’ delicate insides were not enough. The canned goods were not enough. We needed more.
I would provide.
◆◆◆
Roger was numb with terror. His flight from the scene of the murder had not been a long one. After a few tumbles to the ground he had tangled his legs in the harness and had been forced to stop long enough to free himself. And think. Really think. The Murderer would soon be calling for him. Calling for help. That was the only possible action at this time. After that, it was anybody’s guess. Would Roger be attacked as well? Would he be tricked? He calmed himself and focused.
One deep breath. Two. Three.
No. Pulling the wagon was a two-man job. This was not the work of a lunatic. This was the mind of a psychopath executing a preplanned action. It was a power struggle. Roger had been lured away. He had been given the opportunity to take himself out of sight and out of play. He had, in fact, been given free rein to go and fetch his precious seeds. The Billionaire knew Roger would take any chance at retrieving his own, personal cargo, and he had provided that chance. He had opened the door and waved him through, like an aircraft marshal on the tarmac guiding and cajoling with two sticks of light. And like a pretty little firefly, Roger had gone.
And the captain had died.
They were approaching the settlement now, having made the return trip in just over three days. Even with the added weight of a wagon stacked as high as they dared with crates full of seeds, they had made better time than on the trek out. Roger had taken a break from thinking, parking his conscious mind at the side of the road, refusing to acknowledge the information racing by. He worked. He walked. He slept. He allowed himself to relax in the presence of a murde
rer, and he even managed to make small talk. The conscious Roger would have been proud. Time flew by, and after anticipating an eternity, the revelation that time had indeed passed while his mind took a vacation came as kind of a shock.
The tracks were easy to follow, and they planted pingers at regular intervals so that the automated digger they had managed to salvage could traverse the route without guidance. Roger glanced to the side as they approached an open wound in the terrain, a ditch, freshly dug. A grave. He could see several bright yellow suits moving about the newly turned earth, and perspective asserted its presence and he realized that the size of the ditch was larger than what a mere grave would require. Other figures were moving about a newly constructed scaffolding to the side, nearing completion. The greenhouse. The one lucky break they had had after landing. Or maybe they had made their own luck for once, choosing a landing site that allowed them to retrieve one of the caches Roger’s people had managed to land on the surface years before. If they managed to survive, it would be solely due to the added muscle of the digger, together with the built-in water retriever that accompanied the greenhouse. And the seeds he himself had retrieved at the expense of the life of the captain.
They came closer to the settlement, and some of the figures spotted them and waved. The radios were not working properly, refusing to send and receive at irregular intervals. Vacation-Roger had no idea why. Conscious-Roger acknowledged the work of sabotage, or at the very least deft manipulation. He waved back. He recognized the shape of Nadia as one of the figures broke from the rest and made its way towards them. As much as he had dreamed of that woman running towards him, this was not how he had envisioned the moment. In fact, he dreaded it. He took a shuddering breath and steeled himself as at his side the Billionaire unhitched the harness and walked off to intercept the approaching figure. They were one less than when they had set out, and like a thunderstorm moving in off the sea, the gathering crowd could sense the tension in the air.
The captain was dead.
◆◆◆
Anna knew the crew were returning, and she knew that something was wrong. She had been trying to hail them on the radio for more than three days now, but had received no response. She would have sent a rescue team had it not been for the fact that she knew at least some of the expedition were alive. The pingers were being placed, one by one. They were coming home. She leaned back in her makeshift chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She had a headache, and she desperately wanted to just lay down and sleep for the rest of her days. But, alas, no sleep for the wicked, nor for the obsessive-compulsive. She pulled up the work schedule and continued her calculations. They were burning a lot of calories at the moment with all the construction teams working around the clock, but hopefully it would be remedied by whatever the captain and his team of misfits could find out there. Nothing mattered any longer if all they found had been wreckage and broken ships. They needed those seeds, so she worked on the assumption that they would get them. The headache almost immediately increased at the thought. She was not good with assumptions.
She switched over to the general band and listened to the chatter as the rest of the crew excitedly discussed the approaching wagon. After a moment, she closed her spreadsheet and turned on the camera on the digger. After a little fiddling, she could see the grainy image of Nadia, now running, approaching two staggering figures pulling a towering wagon filled to the brim and beyond with square boxes. She allowed herself a little smile before switching to the other operating cameras to get a better view. They all showed the same thing: Nadia reaching the men, swaying for a few moments in front of them, then falling to her knees. The Billionaire, for who else would it be, placing a hand on her shoulder and letting it rest there for a moment before helping her to her feet.
She tried to access the camera installed in Erasmus, the little stone man she had given the expedition as a good luck charm. Nothing. She would have to go out there herself to retrieve it, now that her suspicion had proven right. Three had gone out, and two had returned. But she could not go today, there was work to be done. She closed the program and pushed off, already calculating how much seed there would be on the wagon and how to best make use of it. She spared a thought for the presumably deceased Captain Reinholts, then pushed him to the back of her mind. She was alone in her opposition now, and she could not afford to be sentimental.
◆◆◆
Nadia’s world collapsed. None of the two men approaching her were the one she wanted. She was on her knees, with no memory of how she got there. A hand on her shoulder, reassuring her. The same hand that had forced her to choose this life, this exile. She allowed it to help her to her feet. Numb, she staggered back towards the lights in the distance, clutching her stomach.
Alone again.
23. The Delivery
Nadia woke with a shudder. A shudder that would not end. She was cramping, hurting, getting worse every second. Her baby! Something was happening to her baby! She pulled breath into her lungs, ready to scream for help, when the cramps suddenly subsided. She fell back onto her bed, breathing heavily. She had dreams every night, these days. Awful dreams, nightmares about losing her baby, stillbirth, nightmares about giving birth in a vacuum, about her baby being too weak to survive in this harsh world and weak gravity. She was a pioneer in more than one way. Never before had another human being been born on another planet. And even though others in the crew were quite visibly pregnant by now, she would be the first. She, and her baby. Slowly, she relaxed and fell back on her bed, both hands stroking her distended stomach. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. She would be all right, this time.
The cramps started again, and the familiar fear flooded her. No, not cramps. Contractions. She ticked the seconds off on her fingers. Twenty-four. She reached for her wrist pad and checked the time. Twelve minutes since she woke last. It was happening.
She was giving birth.
◆◆◆
The second Anna got word that the birth was happening, she pulled on her suit and headed away from their home. Seven months. Seven months since the day the Billionaire and Roger had returned without the captain. Seven months of hard work to get their little colony self-sustaining. To build more and better shelters. To get them underground. To connect air, to repair water extractors, deal with diseases, cancers, short tempers, pregnancies, and deaths. Three more had died since the captain had passed, all of them accidents, all of them necessary. They would not have made it this far without the protein those deaths had provided. How quickly their little society had embraced cannibalism. She still shuddered at the word, but that was what it was. They ate their dead. The ritual from that first moment when they each took a bite out of the captain had persisted, although in an altered form so as to be more efficient. Now several plates were passed around simultaneously, each of the crew present taking a small piece of meat before passing it along. Then, when everybody had their tangible piece of soul in their hands, they ate it at the same time. Some said a prayer, most were silent. Then they were served, each getting an exactly measured serving of food, the amount slightly altered to accommodate for size, jobs, and other factors.
Efficiency, the word they lived and died by. Nothing wasted.
She approached the digger and saw that Robbie was already waiting for her. They climbed on to the improvised seating on top of it and headed off, travelling along a well-worn path in the sand. On their way out of the encampment they passed the skeleton of the new greenhouse. It would be twice as large as the previous one, and would in theory provide enough nourishment so they would no longer have to eat their dead. She doubted they would quit now, though. A habit formed was hard to break, she knew that all too well. After all, her entire life consisted of not breaking habits. It was that trait which had brought her to this moment, heading off to the field of broken landers where the captain had died. She needed to retrieve Erasmus. She needed to retrieve the camera embedded in the head of the little stone man.
She needed to
prove that the captain had been murdered.
◆◆◆
Roger was stoned out of his skull. This was not the first sampling he had done since his plants had come to fruition, but the previous two times had been mere tastes to take the edge off. He wanted his first batch to be absolutely perfect, so he had waited, and waited, lovingly tending his treasures, letting them grow tall and beautiful, then curing them for almost two months. It had been worth it, this was easily the best weed he had tasted in his entire life. He was laying on his back among his plants, watching the smoke spiraling slowly toward the fans in the ceiling. He let out a soft giggle as he imagined the smoke travelling through the airducts and throughout the base, mellowing everybody out, turning them all into weedheads. He would be their king and master, the wizard with the key to heaven itself. Even the Beast would have to bow before him. Roger Wells, tamer of Beasts and Murderers. His mind had always worked best with a little buzz on, and for the first time since the murder of the captain he let his thoughts wander freely, with no constraints.
The murder of the captain had left the Billionaire as the sole power in their little society. The others might not have noticed it, but a war had been fought. The polar points had been the Billionaire on one side, the captain on the other, and Anna Stokes as an uneasy Switzerland. Her goals and points of view aligned more with the captain than with the Beast, but not on all issues and she was certainly not convinced that they ought to head back like the captain wanted, no matter what she claimed. With the captain still alive, Anna had been free to voice her disagreements, work towards her own goals, and even be in open opposition to the superpowers at hand.
The murder had changed everything, tipping the scales and turning an open but civilized conflict into a shadow war where every step was taken on broken glass, where you weighed your words and kept your silence if what you had to say might inadvertently put you on the wrong side of an invisible border. Of course, the herd of sheep still did not see the war for what it was. The Billionaire thought he had won, but Roger knew that Anna was working offstage. She had approached him more than once, fishing for information and allies. He had always remained silent, but he knew that she knew that he had no love for their dictator. So she had dropped hints, trying to win him over; she knew something had happened on their journey to retrieve the seeds. She had found a master switch in the systems, allowing the filtration of radio signals to individual pads, among other things. She had found something strange buried in the systems when she had tried to review the logs for their landing on the planet. A blind spot that could not be acknowledged, that could not be seen, coinciding perfectly with the failure of Lander One.
Martian Dictator Page 21