“You hear me?” Rodriguez called.
“If I followed your advice I’d be in my bed in Osaka,” he said, trying to make it sound light and witty.
“Yeah, sure.”
Stiffly he walked towards the fissure he had seen earlier. His helmet lamp threw a glare of light before him, but he had to bend over slightly to make the light reach the ground.
There it is, he saw. A narrow, slightly rounded hole in the basalt face. Like the mouth of a pirate’s cave.
Fuchida took a step into the opening and turned from side to side, playing his helmet lamp on the walls of the cave.
It was a lava tube, he was certain of it. Like a tunnel made by some giant extraterrestrial worm, it curved downward. How far down? he wondered.
Stifling a voice in his head that whispered of fear and danger, Fuchida started into the cold, dark lava tube.
“Jamie,” Stacy Dezhurova’s voice called out sharply, “we have an emergency message from Rodriguez.”
Sitting at the electron microscope in the geology lab, Jamie looked up from the display screen when Dezhurova’s voice rang through the dome. He left the core sample in the microscope without turning it off and sprinted across the dome to the comm centre.
Dezhurova looked grim as she silently handed Jamie a headset. The other scientists in the dome crowded into the comm centre behind him.
Rodriguez’s voice was calm but tight with tension. “. . . down there more than two hours now and then radio contact cut off,” the astronaut was saying.
Sitting again on the wheeled chair next to Dezhurova as he adjusted the pin microphone, Jamie said, “This is Waterman. What’s happening, Tòmas?”
“Mitsuo went down into the caldera as scheduled. He found a lava tube about fifty-sixty metres down and went into it. Then his radio transmission was cut off.”
“How long –”
“It’s more than half an hour now. I’ve tried yanking on his tether but I’m getting no response.”
“What do you think?”
“Either he’s unconscious or his radio’s failed. I mean, I really pulled on the tether. Nothing.”
The astronaut did not mention the third possibility: that Fuchida was dead. But the thought blazed in Jamie’s mind.
“You say your radio contact with him cut off while he was still in the lava tube?”
“Yeah, right. That was more’n half an hour ago.”
A thousand possibilities spun through Jamie’s mind. The tether’s too tough to break, he knew. Those Buckyballs can take tons of tension.
“It’s going to be dark soon,” Rodriguez said.
“You’re going to have to go down after him,” Jamie said.
“I know.”
“Just go down far enough to see what’s happened to him. Find out what’s happened and call back here.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“I don’t like it, but that’s what you’re going to have to do.”
“I don’t like it much, either,” said Rodriguez.
Through a haze of pain, Mitsuo Fuchida saw the irony of the situation. He had made a great discovery but he would probably not live to tell anyone about it.
When he entered the lava tube he felt an unaccustomed sense of dread, like a character in an old horror movie, stepping slowly, fearfully down the narrow corridor of a haunted house, lit only by the flicker of a candle. Except this corridor was a tube melted out of the solid rock by an ancient stream of red-hot lava, and Fuchida’s light came from the lamp on his hard suit helmet.
Nonsense! he snapped silently. You are safe in your hard suit, and the tether connects you to Rodriguez, up at the surface. But he called to the astronaut and chatted inanely with him, just to reassure himself that he was not truly cut off from the rest of the universe down in this dark, narrow passageway.
The VR cameras fixed to his helmet were recording everything he saw, but Fuchida thought that only a geologist would be interested in this cramped, claustrophobic tunnel.
The tube slanted downwards, its walls fairly smooth, almost glassy in places. The black rock gleamed in the light of his lamp. The tunnel grew narrower in spots, then widened again, although nowhere was it wide enough for him to spread his arms fully.
Perspiration was beading Fuchida’s lip and brow, trickling coldly down his ribs. Stop this foolishness, he admonished himself. You’ve been in tighter caves than this.
He thought of Elizabeth, waiting for him back in Japan, accepting the subtle snubs of deep-seated racism because she loved him and wanted to be with him when he returned. I’ll get back to you, he vowed, even if this tunnel leads down to hell itself.
The tether seemed to snag from time to time. He had to stop and tug on it to loosen it again. Or perhaps Rodriguez was fiddling with the tension on the line, he thought.
Deeper into the tunnel he went, stepping cautiously, now and then running his gloved hands over the strangely smooth walls.
Fuchida lost track of time as he chipped at the tunnel walls here and there, filling the sample bags that dangled from his harness belt. The tether made it uncomfortable to push forward, attached to his harness at the chest. It had to pass over his shoulder or around his waist: clumsy, at best.
Then he noticed that the circle of light cast by his helmet lamp showed an indentation off towards the left, a mini-alcove that seemed lighter in colour than the rest of the glossy black tunnel walls. Fuchida edged closer to it, leaning slightly into the niche to examine it.
A bubble of lava did this, he thought. The niche was barely big enough for a man to enter. A man not encumbered with a hardsuit and bulky backpack, that is. Fuchida stood at the entrance to the narrow niche, peering inside, wondering.
And then he noticed a streak of red, the colour of iron rust. Rust? Why here and not elsewhere?
He pushed in closer, squeezing into the narrow opening to inspect the rust spot. Yes, definitely the colour of iron rust.
He took a scraper from the tool kit at his waist, nearly fumbling it in his awkwardly gloved fingers. If I drop it I won’t be able to bend down to pick it up, not in this narrow cleft, he realized.
The red stain crumbled at the touch of the scraper. Strange! thought Fuchida. Not like the basalt at all. Could it be . . . wet? No! Liquid water cannot exist at this low air pressure. But what is the pressure inside the rock? Perhaps . . .
The red stuff crumbled easily into the sample bag he held beneath it with trembling fingers. It must be iron oxide that is being eroded by water, somehow. Water and iron. Siderophiles! Bacteria that metabolize iron and water!
Fuchida was as certain of it as he was of his own existence. His heart was racing. A colony of iron-loving bacteria living inside the caldera of Olympus Mons! Who knew what else might be found deeper down?
It was only when he sealed up the sample bag and placed it in the plastic box dangling from his belt that he heard the strange rumbling sound. Through the thickness of his helmet it sounded muted, far-off, but still any sound at all this deep in the tunnel was startling.
Fuchida started to back away from the crumbling, rust-red cleft. The rumbling sound seemed to grow louder, like the growl of some prowling beast. It was nonsense, of course, but he thought the tunnel walls were shaking slightly, trembling. It’s you who are trembling, foolish man! he admonished himself.
Something in the back of his mind said, Fear is healthy. It is nothing to be ashamed of, if you –
The rusted area of rock dissolved into a burst of exploding steam that lifted Fuchida off his feet and slammed him painfully against the far wall of the lava tube.
Fuchida nearly blacked out as his head banged against the back of his helmet. He sagged to the floor of the tunnel, his visor completely fogged, his skull thundering with pain.
With a teeth-gritting effort of iron will he kept himself from slipping into unconsciousness. Despite the pounding in his head, he forced himself to stay awake, alert. Do not faint! he commanded himself. Do not allow yourself to take the
cowardly way. You must remain awake if you hope to remain alive. He felt perspiration beading his forehead, dripping into his eyes, forcing him to blink and squint.
Then a wave of anger swept over him. How stupid you are! he railed at himself. A hydrothermal vent. Water. Liquid water, here on Mars. You should have known. You should have guessed. The heat flow, the rusted iron. There must be siderophiles here, bacteria that metabolize iron and water. They weakened the wall and you scraped enough of it away for the pressure to blow through the wall.
Yes, he agreed with himself. Now that you’ve made the discovery, you must live to report it to the rest of the world.
His visor was still badly fogged. Fuchida groped for the control stud at his wrist that would turn up his suit fans and clear the visor. He thought he found the right keypad and pushed it. Nothing changed. In fact, now that he listened for it, he could not hear the soft buzz of his suit fans at all. Except for his own laboured breathing, there was nothing but silence.
Wait. Be calm. Think.
Call Rodriguez. Tell him what’s happened.
“Tòmas, I’ve had a little accident.”
No response.
“Rodriguez! Can you hear me?”
Silence.
Slowly, carefully, he flexed both his arms, then his legs. His body ached, but there didn’t seem to be any broken bones. Still the air fans remained silent, and beads of sweat dripped into his eyes.
Blinking, squinting, he saw that the visor was beginning to clear up on its own. The hydrothermal vent must have been a weak one, he thought thankfully. He could hear no more rumbling; the tunnel did not seem to be shaking now.
Almost reluctantly, he wormed his arm up to eye level and held the wrist keyboard close to his visor. The keyboard was blank. Electrical malfunction! Frantically he tapped at the keyboard: nothing. Heater, heat exchanger, air fans, radio – all gone.
I’m a dead man.
Cold panic hit him like a blow to the heart. That’s why you no longer hear the air circulation fans! The suit battery must have been damaged when I slammed against the wall.
Fuchida could hear his pulse thundering in his ears. Calm down! he commanded himself. That’s not so bad. The suit has enough air in it for an hour or so. And it’s insulated very thoroughly; you won’t freeze – not for several hours, at least. You can get by without the air circulation fans. For a while.
It was when he tried to stand up that the real fear hit him. His right ankle flared with agony. Broken or badly sprained, Fuchida realized. I can’t stand on it. I can’t get out of here.
Then the irony really struck him. I might be the first man to die of heat prostration on Mars.
The problem is, Rodriguez said to himself, that we only have one climbing harness and Mitsuo’s wearing it.
I’ve got to go down there without a tether, without any of the climbing tools that he’s carrying with him.
Shit!
The alternative, he knew, was to leave the biologist and return to the safety of the plane. Rodriguez shook his head inside his helmet. Can’t leave him. It’s already getting dark and he’d never survive overnight.
On the other hand, there’s a damned good chance that we’ll both die down there.
Double shit.
For long, useless moments he stared down into the dark depths of the caldera, in complete shadow now as the sun crept closer to the distant horizon.
Never show fear, Rodriguez repeated to himself. Not even to yourself. He nodded inside his helmet. Yeah, easy to say. Now get the snakes in my guts to believe it.
Still, he started down, walking slowly, deliberately, gripping the tether hand-over-hand as he descended.
It became totally dark within a few steps of leaving the caldera’s rim. The only light was the patch of glow cast by his helmet lamp, and the dark rock all around him seemed to swallow that up greedily. He planted his booted feet carefully, deliberately, knowing that carbon dioxide from the air was already starting to freeze out on the bitterly cold rock.
Rodriguez cast a glance up at the dimming sky, like a prisoner taking his last desperate look at freedom before entering his dungeon.
At least I can follow the tether, he thought. He moved with ponderous deliberation, worried about slipping on patches of ice. If I get disabled we’re both toast, he told himself. Take it easy. Don’t rush it. Don’t make any mistakes.
Slowly, slowly he descended. By the time the tether led him to the mouth of the lava tube, he could no longer see the scant slice of sky above; it was completely black. If there were stars winking at him up there he could not see them through the tinted visor of his helmet.
He peered into the tunnel. It was like staring into a well of blackness.
“Hey, Mitsuo!” he called. “Can you hear me?”
No response. He’s either dead or unconscious. Rodriguez thought. He’s lying deep down that tunnel someplace and I’ve got to go find him. Or what’s left of him.
He took a deep breath. No fear, he reminded himself.
Down the dark tunnel he plodded, ignoring the fluttering of his innards, paying no attention to the voice in his head that told him he’d gone far enough, the guy’s dead, no sense getting yourself killed down here too so get the hell out, now.
Can’t leave him, Rodriguez shouted silently at the voice. Dead or alive, I can’t leave him down here.
Your funeral, the voice countered.
Yeah, sure. I get back to the base OK without him. What’re they gonna think of me? How’m I –
He saw the slumped form of the biologist, a lump of hard suit and equipment sitting against one wall of the tunnel.
“Hey, Mitsuo!” he called.
The inert form did not move.
Rodriguez hurried to the biologist and tried to peer into the visor of his helmet. It looked badly fogged.
“Mitsuo,” he shouted. “You OK?” It sounded idiotic the moment the words left his lips.
But Fuchida suddenly reached up and gripped his shoulders.
“You’re alive!”
Still no answer. His radio’s out, Rodriguez finally realized. And the air’s too thin to carry my voice.
He touched his helmet against Fuchida’s. “Hey, man, what happened?”
“Battery,” the biologist replied, his voice muffled but understandable. “Battery not working. And my ankle. Can’t walk.”
“Jesus! Can you stand up if I prop you?”
“I don’t know. My air fans are down. I’m afraid to move; I don’t want to generate any extra body heat.”
Shit, said Rodriguez to himself. Am I gonna have to carry him all the way up to the surface?
Sitting there trapped like a stupid schoolboy on his first exploration of a cave, Fuchida wished he had paid more attention to his Buddhist instructors. This would be a good time to meditate, to reach for inner peace and attain a calm alpha state. Or was it beta state?
With his suit fans inoperative, the circulation of air inside the heavily insulated hard suit was almost nonexistent. Heat generated by his body could not be transferred to the heat exchanger in the backpack; the temperature inside the suit was climbing steadily.
Worse, it was more and more difficult to get the carbon dioxide he exhaled out of the suit and into the air recycler. He could choke to death on his own fumes.
The answer was to be as still as possible, not to move, not even to blink. Be calm. Achieve nothingness. Do not stir. Wait. Wait for help.
Rodriguez will come for me, he told himself. Tòmas won’t leave me here to die. He’ll come for me.
Will he come in time? Fuchida tried to shut the possibility of death out of his thoughts, but he knew that it was the ultimate inevitability.
The hell of it is, I’m certain I have a bag full of siderophiles! I’ll be famous. Posthumously.
Then he saw the bobbing light of a helmet lamp approaching. He nearly blubbered with relief. Rodriguez appeared, a lumbering robot-like creature in the bulky hard suit. To Fuchida he looked swe
eter than an angel.
Once Rodriguez realized that he had to touch helmets to be heard, he asked, “How in the hell did you get yourself banged up like this?”
“Hydrothermal vent,” Fuchida replied. “It knocked me clear across the tunnel.”
Rodriguez grunted. “Old Faithful strikes on Mars.”
Fuchida tried to laugh; what came out was a shaky coughing giggle.
“Can you move? Get up?”
“I think so . . .” Slowly, with Rodriguez lifting from beneath his armpits, Fuchida got to his feet. He took a deep breath, then coughed. When he tried to put some weight on his bad ankle he nearly collapsed.
“Take it easy, buddy. Lean on me. We got to get you back to the plane before you choke to death.”
Rodriguez had forgotten about the ice.
He half-dragged Fuchida along the tunnel, the little pools of light made by their helmet lamps the only break in the total, overwhelming darkness around them.
“How you doing, buddy?” he asked the Japanese biologist. “Talk to me.”
Leaning his helmet against the astronaut’s, Fuchida answered, “I feel hot. Broiling.”
“You’re lucky. I’m freezing my ass off. I think my suit heater’s crapping out on me.”
“I . . . I don’t know how long I can last without the air fans,” Fuchida said, his voice trembling slightly. “I feel a little lightheaded.”
“No problem,” Rodriguez replied, with a false heartiness. “It’ll get kinda stuffy inside your suit, but you won’t asphyxiate.”
The first American astronaut to take an EVA spacewalk outside his capsule had almost collapsed from heat prostration, Rodriguez remembered. The damned suits hold all your body heat inside; that’s why they make us wear the watercooled longjohns and put heat exchangers in the suits. But if the fans can’t circulate the air the exchanger’s pretty damned useless.
Rodriguez kept one hand on the tether. In the wan light from his helmet lamp he saw that it led upwards, out of this abyss.
“We’ll be back in the plane in half an hour, maybe less. I can fix your backpack then.”
“Good,” said Fuchida. Then he coughed again.
The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 13 Page 56