By the time he informed Grimur, the rattle had become a grinding. They both stood beside the ventilator, staring.
“How long has it been doing this?” asked Grimur.
“Not long,” said Orvar, evasively. Yes, in hindsight, he should have told Grimur earlier. “How are the readings?”
“Always amber now,” Grimur said. “You’re cleaning the filters diligently?”
Orvar nodded.
“Then we have a problem,” said Grimur.
They stopped the machine and opened the access panel. On their knees, they stared through the narrow opening and up at the engine, Grimur shining his penlight at it. The whole thing was coated with dust, thick with it. Dust stuck to the engine like mold.
“Wipe it off as best you can,” said Grimur. “They’ll be here in less than a month.”
“It’s not going to do much good,” said Orvar. He gently appropriated the penlight and shined it through the holes in the housing. Inside, the armature was thick with dust.
“You can vacuum it,” said Grimur.
“With what?”
“They’ll have something with the drilling equipment,” the man said. “I think something was on the manifest. If not a vacuum then some kind of a blower.”
And indeed, they did have a vacuum, Lee admitted a few minutes later. A small handheld thing they kept on the sample table.
“Only there’s a problem,” Lee added.
“Problem?”
“It stopped working,”
Together they unscrewed it, only to find the whole casing packed with the powdery, polleny dust. The motor was burned out, the circuitry shot.
“How did it get so bad?” Orvar asked.
Lee shrugged. “There’s a lot of dust,” he said. “It destroys everything.”
When Orvar returned to close the panel, Gordon was on his back staring up into the machine.
“What are you doing?” Orvar asked.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Gordon.
“Nothing’s wrong,” claimed Orvar. “I’m just cleaning it. Move over.” He fell to his knees and wiped at the machinery as well as he could with a rag.
“That’s not going to help any,” said Gordon.
Orvar ignored him.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Gordon again, but Orvar chose not to answer.
He closed the cover and stood, brushing the dust off his pant legs, his arms. He opened the baffles, shook the filters out, slid them back in place. Gordon just watched.
“Nothing to worry about,” Orvar claimed again.
But when he started the machine up, it made a grinding noise.
Orvar, not knowing what else to do, shrugged and left. Gordon stayed near the machine, listening.
Later, when it began to smoke, Gordon was still there. By the time Orvar had been called and managed to open the access panel, the motor was dead.
Grimur, when Orvar finally went to him, looked even more haggard than usual. He already knew something was wrong: behind him, the entire control panel was winking red.
“Any chance of fixing it?” Grimur asked.
“I don’t know,” said Orvar. “Jansen and Lewis both have mechanical experience, but neither seems to be getting anywhere.”
Grimur sighed. “I’ve sent a message. Or tried to. Communications have been intermittent at best.”
“What do we do?” asked Orvar.
“We wait until the full crew arrives. They either repair the ventilation system or carry us out of here.”
“We can’t wait that long,” Orvar said. “There’s not enough air. We’ll suffocate.”
“No,” said Grimur. He brandished a crumpled stack of paper and handed it to Orvar. Orvar took it, looked through it. Measurements, computations of volume, followed by pages of equations. At the end, on the final page, was a single circled number, 24, drawn awkwardly—the 2 a quick single stroke, the 4 traced over several times.
“That’s the number of days,” said Grimur. “That’s how long we’ll last without ventilation, assuming I’ve properly calculated the cubic footage of the structure and figured the current oxygen mixture correctly, and assuming the oxygen spreads evenly and that everybody’s oxygen consumption is a quarter liter per minute. No exercise, no strenuous activity, and we should be fine.”
“When are they coming for us?”
“Twenty-one days, nine hours, fifty-two minutes,” Grimur said. “We should be fine,” he repeated. “We’ll have air to spare.”
“All right,” said Orvar.
“Still, we should fix the ventilator if we can,” said Grimur. “Just in case.”
“We’ll keep trying,” said Orvar. He handed the bundle back. “Why paper?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Why do the calculations on paper? Why not the computer?”
“I started them on the computer,” Grimur said. “But then the computer started to act strangely. Eventually it died. Too much dust,” he said.
“All right,” said Orvar. “Let’s stay positive. We have enough air. That’s a good thing. What are you going to tell the others?”
“Nothing,” said Grimur.
“Nothing?”
“No point in upsetting them.”
“You have to tell them something,” said Orvar.
“Why?”
“Even if there’s enough oxygen, they’ll feel worse as it diminishes. They’ll experience hypoxia. So will we. Headaches, fatigue, shortness of breath, nausea. We’ll stop thinking clearly. If it gets bad enough, we’ll hallucinate—we’ll fade in and out of consciousness. If they don’t understand what’s happening, it’ll be all the worse.”
“How do you know so much about it?” asked Grimur.
“I’ve been through it before,” said Orvar. He didn’t volunteer more. “You need to tell them, Grimur,” he said again.
Grimur just shook his head. “No,” he said.
“If you won’t tell them,” said Orvar, “I will. They have to know.”
“All right,” said Grimur. “Tell them. But I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
He entered the shaft, told the men to turn off the rock drill.
“Orders from on high?” asked Gordon eagerly. “We’re giving up?”
“Not exactly on high,” he said. “But the drill is off for good.”
Together they all went to the testing area. He stopped the tests there too. Leaning against the table, he told them what was happening.
“I knew it,” said Yaeger, or perhaps Lee, brushing his arms more frantically now. “I knew the dust would be the death of us.”
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said Wilkinson, smiling wryly.
“Shut up,” said Lewis. He turned to Orvar. “What are we supposed to do?”
“We’ll keep trying to fix the ventilation system,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get somewhere. We’ll take apart the drill and scavenge it.”
Lewis shook his head. “Nothing doing,” he said. “The company makes them vandalproof. We’d need some serious equipment to open it up.”
“Well, do what you can,” said Orvar.
“When do we run out of air?”
“We don’t,” said Orvar. “They’re scheduled to arrive long before that. We won’t have much oxygen, but we’ll have enough to survive.”
“You’ve been told to say that,” said Gordon. “Grimur doesn’t want us to know we’re all going to die.”
“No,” said Orvar. “I’ve seen the equations. We’re going to be okay.”
“Then why bother trying to restart the ventilation system?” asked Jansen. “There’s something you’re not telling us.”
“I’m telling you everything I know,” said Orvar.
“Then why bother with the ventilation system?”
“Just in case,” said Lee, or perhaps Yaeger. They did, in fact, Orvar noticed, look somewhat alike. “Just in case the pickup is late. Just in case we end up using more air than they’ve calculated
we should. There’s no conspiracy, Gordon,” he said. “Orvar’s our friend.”
III.
He left the others to talk among themselves, giving them time to get their heads around it. It was only then, once he had fulfilled what he saw as his responsibility, that he had a moment to reflect on what was happening.
He lay there on his bunk, staring up at the unfinished ceiling, the flimsy metal panels, the sealant binding their edges, the snarl of electrical wire and exposed ductwork. Had Grimur taken into account that the ceiling was exposed, that that might give them just slightly more oxygen? If so, had he taken into account that a good part of that space was occupied with wires and other infrastructure? For that matter, how had Grimur accounted for the boxes and other items scattered down the hall, each of them a place where oxygen could not be? What about the men’s bodies, the space they occupied?
It made him nervous. So many variables. Despite the pages and pages of equations, what if Grimur had gotten something wrong? Even a small error at the wrong place in the equation could mean they wouldn’t have enough oxygen.
And what about the shaft? That was space Grimur probably hadn’t considered. It was fairly long now, probably several thousand cubic feet of air. If Grimur hadn’t taken that into account, then they had a great deal more oxygen than he believed. Perhaps even enough that they would be saved well before the hallucinations started.
No, on second thought, he shouldn’t ask if Grimur had considered the shaft. It would only make things worse if it turned out he had. Better not to know. Better to hope.
The last time this had happened to him he had, by the end of it, been mad enough that he thought he might never come back from it. Just three of them, alone on a free-floating craft, waiting for help to come—it had been all he could do to stop himself from opening the hatch and letting the little air that remained rush out. Not because he had wanted to kill himself or the other two, but because with the way his mind had begun to work, the way it had gnarled itself, the void beyond the hatch had seemed like salvation. How would his mind respond this time? Would he survive it?
Neither of the other two men had survived. He couldn’t remember their names—or rather he could, but wished he couldn’t. One had gotten his throat cut, though Orvar was never quite sure whether the man had done it to himself or if their other shipmate had done it. Orvar was certain, or fairly certain, that he hadn’t slit the man’s throat himself. But after they’d rescued Orvar, they’d refused to answer any of his questions about what had happened. Probably understandable, considering the state he was in. But surely they could have answered them later, once he was himself again.
The other man had gotten it into his head that he’d have a better chance of surviving if he was the only one breathing a particular stretch of air. He’d forced his way into the hold and then disabled the lock. But the hold was quite a bit smaller than the rest of the ship, which meant the majority of the oxygen was out with Orvar rather than in with the other man. This was probably the only thing that had saved Orvar. Again, he was sure, or almost sure, that he hadn’t forced the other man into the hold and disabled the lock. Though he had to admit it was difficult to remember.
The thing he remembered best was this: the man’s hand pressed against the reinforced glass of the door panel once he stopped trying to get out. The hand just resting there, seemingly ordinary, and then shriveling, just a little. First the tips of the fingers, then, gradually, the rest of the hand, turning blue, until Orvar himself was raving and couldn’t pay attention to anything, let alone that.
He was talking to Grimur, trying to be helpful. Properly administered synthetic morphine, he was suggesting. Grimur shook his head.
“No, just listen,” said Orvar. “We sedate them, make them breathe shallowly. They’d use less oxygen. We’re all sedated except for one of us, who keeps the others under.”
Grimur shook his head. “We have enough oxygen to survive,” he insisted.
“But what if your calculations are wrong?”
“They’re not wrong,” said Grimur.
“But what if—”
“It’s all useless speculation anyway,” he said. “We don’t have any morphine, synthetic or otherwise.”
He insisted on examining the medical kit himself—he was the security officer, after all, that gave him the right—but yes, Grimur was right, there was nothing there. Had there never been any morphine in the kit, or had someone filched it, either on this project or on some project before? Didn’t matter really. Not now, anyway.
There were still other things, other ways to ensure their survival. There must be. All he had to do was think of what they were.
Jansen and Lewis by turns worked on the generator motor, cleaning it as they went. Yaeger and Gordon and Durham spent most of their time at the rock drill, trying to break apart the housing in a way that would leave the motor useful and intact. Nobody was getting anywhere.
What am I doing? wondered Orvar. Wandering a little, stumbling a little.
Where are Wilkinson and Lee? he wondered, and a moment later came across them around the turn of a hallway, sitting cross-legged. They were whispering back and forth, taking turns brushing one another’s arms, faces, hands.
“Orvar, Orvar!” hissed Lee. “Come here,” he said.
“What is it?” said Orvar. He approached them cautiously, hands loose and ready, just in case.
“Can we trust you?” asked Wilkinson.
“Sure,” said Orvar.
“No, I mean really,” said Lee. “Can we really trust you?”
Orvar shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can you?”
The pair locked gazes until, finally, Wilkinson nodded slightly. “Yeah, we can,” Lee said. “It’s just this,” he said, irritated, and then gestured again. “Come closer,” he whispered, “closer.”
Orvar stooped, brought his ear close to their bearded faces, their cracked and quivering lips. “What is it?” he asked again.
“Just this,” said Lee. “You know the air?”
“The air?”
“Air’s not the problem,” said Lee.
“What’s the problem then?”
“Dust,” said Wilkinson.
Lee patted Orvar on the shoulder. “Yes,” he said, “dust.”
“It’s everywhere,” said Orvar. “Yes, you already told me.”
“But that’s only part of the problem,” said Lee.
“Only the start of the problem,” said Wilkinson.
“And what’s the rest of it, you ask?” said Lee.
“I don’t—” said Orvar.
“The rest,” said Lee, his fingernails digging into Orvar’s shoulders, “is that the dust is one.”
“One,” said Orvar, keeping his voice level.
Wilkinson nodded. “You know how we keep all our cells inside our bodies, carrying ourselves around like a sack? The dust is what happens if you don’t have a sack. It’s still all one thing, but spread everywhere.”
The conversation left him strangely unsettled. They were paranoid, nervous, maybe delusional. But what, a very small part of him asked, if they were right? What if there was something about the dust? What if it wasn’t just bad luck that the generator had failed? That Grimur’s computer had failed? That the communications system, as Grimur now admitted, had failed? A slow, invisible, systematic destruction of all their equipment. By what? By dust. If humans had managed to incorporate colonies of bacteria into every part of their organism, into their very cells, who was to say the reverse might not also be true—that a certain sort of consciousness did not necessarily need a body to contain it? Hadn’t he believed during his last oxygen shortage that consciousness was not something that resided deep within the body but rather something that hovered on his skin’s surface, like sweat? What happened if something flicked the sweat off? Where did it go?
He shook his head. No, he didn’t believe it. He was just looking for something to distract himself.
IV.
He turned it off, but it was too late. The metal of the sphere groaned around him. One side of the sphere dimpled, and a drop of water formed at the top of the porthole, slowly rolling down. There was a sharp pain in his head and a wetness in his ears and down his neck. When he touched the wetness with his hand, he found that it was blood. Another thump, another dent, then another, until the crumpled sphere was hardly bigger than his body, the pressure still building in his head.
He awoke to find Yaeger kneeling beside him in the darkness, shaking him. He pushed the man back, heart thudding.
“Jesus, Yaeger,” he whispered, “you scared the shit out of me.”
Yaeger lifted his finger to his lips. “They’re dead,” he said. “You have to come.”
“Who’s dead?” he asked.
“Come on,” Yaeger whispered. And then he wandered out.
Hurriedly Orvar pulled his clothing on. Someone was sitting up in one of the other bunks, watching him, but the light coming through the entranceway was not strong enough for Orvar to tell who it was.
He reached for his holster but found it empty, his gun missing. He cursed. A voice asked him something, but he didn’t quite hear what it was. He looked under the pillow, then fell to his knees, looked under the bed. The gun was definitely gone. Nothing to be done now. He made his way quickly through the doorway and out.
Yaeger was halfway down the hall, abeyant. Catching sight of Orvar, he continued forward, picking his way through the boxes.
What the hell? wondered Orvar.
He watched Yaeger turn a corner and followed in his wake. About halfway to the corner, he began to wake up, to think more clearly.
A Collapse of Horses Page 10