Mars Crossing

by Geoffrey A. Landis

  “Shit, Karl. What am I going to do?”

  “You’re gonna do nothing. You’re going to shut up and sit tight. If the cops come here, tell ’em you know nothing, got it? You’ve been home all day. I’m going to talk to the police.”

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “Shut up and trust me.”

  It was two days before he saw his brother again.

  Karl had gone directly to the station, asked to see a detective, and told them he did it. The detective called an attorney and two more cops as witnesses, told Karl his rights, and asked him if he wanted to say that over again. Karl did.

  The police were overloaded with crimes to solve, and had no compulsion to put any extra time into investigating one that had already been solved. The loose ends didn’t matter; with a confession from Karl, the case was closed, and the police had no reason to go after Johnny.

  It was Karl’s third offense, and he got twenty-five years, no parole. The convenience store owner had gotten shot in the lung. He was in intensive care, but would probably pull through.

  “I’m doing this for you, asshole,” Karl told him. “I’m inside, but I got contacts. If you stray off the straight and narrow, I’m sending somebody after you to break your teeth. You dump those rotten friends of yours and fly straight. I want you to keep your nose so clean that when you pick it, it squeaks. You gonna be the teacher’s pet. I’m taking the fall for you to give you a chance, you asshole, and you better use it right or I’m going to be pissed. Don’t think I can’t pound your ass just because I’m inside. I got friends.”

  Johnny nodded. He was crying. It was the last time in his life that he would ever cry.

  “I got some money saved up,” Karl said. “Guess I can’t use it now. It’s enough to put you in a boarding school upstate. We gotta get you out of this shithole we call a ’hood. Get you a scholarship, maybe one of those ROTC things, whatever it takes, just get yourself into a college, and never come back here, you got that? Never come back.”

  18

  MEETING

  It’s chickenshit,” Trevor Whitman said. “Chickenshit! How the hell can the tanks be empty?”

  They sat or stood around the tiny fold-out tray that served the Quijote as a conference table. “Does it matter?” Ryan said. He was sitting on the arm of the pilot’s station, leaning back with his eyes closed. He hadn’t been sleeping, and his face showed it.

  “They were full when we took off, they were full when we came in for a landing. How the hell could you have screwed them up so that they’re empty?”

  “I explained that,” Ryan Martin said. “I’m not going to explain it again.”

  “Why is irrelevant,” Commander Radkowski said curtly. “What I’m looking for right now is suggestions as to what we do about it.”

  “Perhaps Mars is cursed,” Estrela said. “The first expedition, the American expedition—they all died. Everybody who comes here dies. Now we’re going to die.”

  “What does the mission contingency plan say?” Tana asked. “Is this covered?”

  “The contingency plan,” Radkowski said, “says that we restart the propellant manufacturing plant on Dulcinea and make new propellant.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Tana asked. “We replace the corroded seals, we weld the broken lines, and we run. Yeah, maybe, we miss the original launch window, but we’re okay. Right?”

  “The problem,” Ryan said, still with his eyes shut, “is that we can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What a propellant manufacturing plant does is to convert the reactor heat into rocket fuel,” Ryan said. “You need energy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The energy came from a little Brayton-cycle nuker that was landed with the Dulcinea. The nuke uses a turbine to convert the reactor heat into electrical energy. That means moving parts. The degradation mechanism is for dust to get into the hearings.”

  “The bearings are shot?” Tana said.

  “Bearings corrode, then they freeze up. The engine seizes, welds the parts together.”

  “So then you’re saying that we have to replace—”

  Ryan raised a finger. “No coolant flow, thermal overpressure bursts the pipes. When the coolant’s gone, the reactant core overheats. The fuel rods expand and break out of their sleeves. End result, the reactor is a useless chunk of hot metal. Repair it? We can’t even get near it.”

  “Chernobyl?” Trevor asked. “You’re saying we’re sitting next to a meltdown?”

  “Not so extreme.” Ryan raised both hands, palm up. “We’re not getting sprayed with radioactive smoke, if that’s what you’re asking. But the bottom line is, propellant manufacture is majorly dorked. It’s out of commission. For good.”

  “So, you’re saying that the contingency plan is fucked.”

  “Nobody really thought we’d still need the nuke.” Ryan shrugged. “I guess nobody really thought at all.”

  Everybody was silent.

  “So what do we do?” Trevor said. “Are we stuck here? How long will it take for the rescue expedition to get here?”

  John Radkowski shook his head. “There won’t be a rescue expedition,” he said.

  “But there has to be one,” Trevor said. “When Earth finds out, they’ll—”

  “We’ve already reported the situation to Earth,” Radkowski said. “We’re on our own. You know the political situation back in America. Hell, the only reason the expedition was approved at all was that the politicians thought it might take attention away from the worldwide economic depression. Two pairs of ships for the original Mars expedition. Two. That’s all that they ever built. What are they going to rescue us with? Quijote was the last ship we had. You were at the preflight briefing, you know that.”

  “The Brazilians?”

  Estrela shook her head. “We are a poor country, you know, not like you rich North Americans. We could only build one ship. We couldn’t even afford to send a ship to bury our own astronauts. We have nothing.”

  “So what do we do?” Trevor said.

  Radkowski nodded his head. “That’s the question, isn’t it. That’s the question.”

  Nobody had anything more to say.

  After a while, Radkowski said, “Okay, I can see we’re not getting anything done here. Hack to your duties, everybody. Ryan, Tana, think it over and come up with some options.”

  “You’re saying that we’re dead, aren’t you?” Trevor said. “We’re dead. We just haven’t fallen over yet.”

  Nobody replied.

  19

  THE SACRAMENT OF CONFESSION

  His mother was Catholic, but John Radkowski could barely remember going to church. He had not gone since he had been what, in second grade? Before they’d moved to the projects, anyway. The church had seemed huge to him, and the people inside solemn and stiff. The voice of the priest had echoed across the vast interior like a huge cave.

  It had been years since he had been back to New York. The neighborhood was like an alien landscape, dirtier and more broken down and, yes, even a little frightening. There was nothing for him here now anyway. The only person he had really cared about was his brother, and Karl had died in prison. His mother was still here, still living in the same dingy little apartment in the housing project, but she had refused to see him. A neighbor told him to go away, that she didn’t want to ever talk to him again.

  The church was gray stone, and looked as if it was built to last for millennia—it probably had been. He was slightly ashamed for visiting a Catholic church. Catholicism was for immigrants, Italians, and Mexicans. It’s lower class, he thought. Not something for a college graduate.

  Friday afternoon. The confessional was at the back of the church, and the dim indicator light above the carved wooden door showed that it was in use. Outside, a few older women were waiting quietly, kneeling. When they left the confessional, they went directly to the altar rail. He loitered inconspicuously until he saw nobody else waiting.

/>   Stained glass saints looked down. Their faces were glowing, but their expressions were cold and unforgiving.

  He entered quickly, knelt, and crossed himself. He was surprised to realize that he still knew how to do it. The booth was dark and smelled of velvet and of the perfume of the previous occupant. He felt grateful for the dark, and the anonymity.

  When he heard the dry whisper of the window sliding open, he said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” When there was no response, he remembered the rest, and added, “It has been, ah, twelve years since I have been to confession.”

  “Your voice is unfamiliar,” the priest said. The priest’s voice was ordinary, conversational. “I don’t think I’ve heard you before.” The priest sounded young, perhaps not much older than Radkowski. It wasn’t something that Radkowski had expected. He wondered if the priest was new.

  “No, Father.”

  “That’s okay. Welcome to our church. You are Catholic?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “How have you sinned?”

  “I—” Radkowski had never told anyone his secret, and suddenly he realized that he couldn’t. His tongue was paralyzed. “I can’t say it, Father.”

  “Ah. More than just not going to Mass, I take it?” The priest chuckled, as if sharing a joke, but at Radkowski’s silence, he added in a more serious voice, “Well, then, can you be a little more specific? One of the ten commandments?”

  “A mortal sin, Father.”

  “Can you tell me about it? Don’t be afraid, nothing you say will shock me. I am here to listen, not to judge you.”

  Radkowski shook his head without saying anything.

  “It would be best if you told me, my son. Do you need advice? Do you need to talk to the police?” After a moment of silence, the priest asked softly, “What did you come here for?”

  “I don’t know, Father.”

  “Are you seeking absolution?”

  “Yes.”

  After a moment, the priest said, “I cannot absolve you if you do not confess.”

  “I’m sorry, Father.” He paused, and when there was no reply, he said, “Am I damned?”

  “That is not for me to judge, my son. But you must remember this, that there is one above us who loves you unconditionally, no matter how far you have fallen or what your sins are. If you cannot tell me how you have sinned, at least tell me, can you make reparations to the one you wronged?”

  “It is too late for that, Father.”

  “Ah.” A soft sigh. “It is God who will be your judge, not I. I will pray for you, and I have faith in His mercy. Go forth and do your best to sin no more. That is as much as any mortal human can ever ask.”

  The next day, ROTC cadet John Radkowski was commissioned into the Air Force as a second lieutenant. Six months later, he was sent to Africa.

  20

  PLANS

  I need to talk with you,” Ryan said.

  Estrela was lying face down in her bunk. “Go away,” she said.

  “This is serious. I need to talk with you before I go to the Captain.”

  Without looking, she grabbed a sheaf of papers—technical manuals for the mass spectrometer—from the reading ledge and clasped them over her head. “I’m not listening.”

  “Look, I think there might be a way back. For some of us. But I have to talk to you.”

  Estrela rolled over, scattering the papers, and looked at him. “I’m listening.”

  In the darkness, it seemed to Ryan that her eyes were glistening. He wondered if she had been crying. Estrela? No, not her. She was cool and beautiful and played with hearts like children played with marbles. She would no more cry than a statue.

  “Here’s the way I see it,” Ryan said. “We need a return ship. Dulcinea is dorked big time. Forget her. There was the Ulysses, but she’s gone. But there is a third return ship on Mars, and it’s still there.”

  “Jesus do Sul,” Estrela said.

  “I’m serious here.”

  “Jesus do Sul,” she repeated. “Our return ship. Santa Luzia, you’re right—it’s still there.” She sat up suddenly. “Martin, it’s at the north pole. That’s half the planet away. How could we possibly get to it?”

  “I don’t know. If it’s still there, we’ll think of something. What I need to know is, is it still good? After seven years on the surface, will it still fly? Can we use it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  21

  DRIVING LESSONS

  Ryan spent two days examining maps and orbital photographs, trying and failing to plot a workable way to get them north. It would not be an easy journey. They had over six thousand kilometers to travel—four thousand miles—over territory that had never been viewed from the surface. The territory was rough, and it was unlikely that they could maintain a very high speed. His plan was that he and Estrela would set out first, at the dawn of their seventh day on Mars. They would drive north and east on the two dirt-rovers, checking the terrain and plotting courses around any major obstacles. The others would follow in the rockhopper.

  The dirt-rovers were technically called single-person extravehicular mobility units, or SPEMUs. In the crew’s campaign to eliminate acronyms, the nickname “dirt-rover” had stuck, since they had oversized balloon tires designed for travel on a variety of hypothetical types of Martian soil.

  They were two-wheeled vehicles, looking like a comic-book exaggeration of a steroid-enhanced motorcycle. They featured enormous tires with knobby protruding treads like polyps growing on a bagel, and a light aluminum-lithium alloy frame that allowed the Mars-suited rider to recline against the spherical tanks that held oxygen and consumables. Each was as brightly colored as a molded plastic toy, with colors carefully chosen to make them stand out against the landscape: Day-Glo shades of turquoise and green that fluoresced almost painfully bright in the ultraviolet-rich Martian sunlight.

  No one had ever ridden one on Mars.

  Ryan found it both easier and harder than his rides in the simulator on Earth had led him to expect. The traction on Mars was worse than he’d expected. The oversized tires bit into the surface, but tended to spin uselessly in the soil, digging down rather than giving traction. After some experimenting, he found that if he was very gentle on the throttle, careful not to accelerate faster than the wheels could bite, he could slowly build up speed. Stopping and turning was a similarly gentle process he made a note to make sure to leave plenty of stopping room in front of obstacles.

  Ryan was meticulous and cautious in learning how the dirt-rover handled on Mars, checking each maneuver point by point. He found that it was far easier to keep the dirt-rover upright than it had been in the simulator. He could heel the dirt-rover way over, and in the lighter gravity, he would have several seconds before it would tall over.

  After gaining a cautious familiarity with how the dirt-rover handled on Mars, he looked up and caught a glimpse of Estrela, practicing on the second dirt-rover.

  “What the hell are you doing!?”

  “Hey, Ryan! This is a blast!”

  “Stop!”

  Estrela stood up in the seat, leaned back, and popped the front wheel up off the dirt. The bike pivoted on its rear tire in a neat turn. Ryan noticed with dismay that, for all the apparent danger of the maneuver, she managed to do a turn in about a tenth of the radius of one of his carefully calculated, gently banked curves. The front tire came back down, and she leaned forward and throttled up, firing a roostertail of dirt behind her. She sped up to him. Just before he thought he would have to dive out of danger, she yawed the bike around ninety degrees and skidded to a stop, plowing up a hill of soil in front of her. Like the turn, he noted, it was a far faster way to stop than any he had managed.

  Where had she learned to drive a dirt-rover like that? It certainly wasn’t in the manual.

  “Loosen up,” she said. “You handle that bike like it’s made out of glass. My grandmother drives faster than that. Come on, I’ll give you some l
essons.”

  While they were practicing on the dirt-rovers, Radkowski and Tana were unloading the rockhopper from its stowage bin on Dulcinea.

  The dirt-rovers had been designed to give extra mobility to astronauts on the surface of Mars, but had not been intended for long distances. They had no redundancy in the drive system, and the mission regulations forbid the crew from taking a SPEMU any farther from the habitat than the astronaut could walk back in case of a failure.

  The rockhopper, the pressurized Mars buggy, was far larger and could carry more equipment. The official name was pressurized vehicle for extended extravehicular traverse—a PVEET—but nobody could even agree on how to pronounce that one, and people giggled every time the acronym was used. Unlike the SPEMU, the PVEET was designed with articulated wheels that could actually step over any rocks that might be in its path, so “rockhopper” became its name. It featured a pressurized cabin, so that the astronauts could remove their suits, although the manual noted that the cabin pressurization was not a redundant system, and they should always wear a pressure suit when the vehicle was in motion. It was built for a crew of two.

  The rockhopper was an odd-looking vehicle. The crew pressure vessel was a decahedron of green-anodized aluminum-lithium alloy, with pentagonal viewports of transparent silicon carbide that gave the crew windows that looked ahead, ahead and down, and downward to the left and right. Mounted in front of the crew cabin was a jointed robotic arm that could be used to pick up samples, tip rocks out of the way, or even lift up one of the dirt-rovers and carry it over an obstacle. Behind the crew cabin was the drivetrain and the power plant, thermal radiator wings, pressure tanks for consumables, and a small omnidirectional antenna that could transmit either to the orbital relay satellite or back to the habitat module. Every spot of bare metal was either blanketed by layers of flimsy gold multilayer insulation, or else anodized in the distinctly un-Martian color of lime green.