"Hello, Father. Come and meet a few of the people that will help us get that arena up and running."
This led to a round of introductions during which Corvan found himself shajdng one of Jopp's ice-cold hands.
"Good to see you, Corvan. Kim. Staying out of trouble, I presume?''
The reop forced a smile. "So far . . . but we haven't been here for long."
The right-hand corner of Jopp's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile or an involuntary muscle contraction.
"Let's keep it that way."
Corvan searched for a suitable reply, was unable to come up with one, and gave a sigh of relief when Jopp was called away to meet someone else.
The gathering dissolved a few minutes later when both groups went their separate ways.
The rest of the tour consisted of a visit to the fusion reactor that supplied the dome with almost unlimited power, the recycling plant where enormous scrubbers cleaned the air, the hydroponics section where genetically-engineered light-gravity vegetables grew to six or eight times normal size, and the chow hall where the colonists ate them.
It was a large open area, featuring lots of stainless steel and large plastic tables. These came in a variety of primary colors, and were intended to give the space a friendly feel, but looked cheap instead.
Though largely illegal on Earth, tobacco was permitted here, and the air was thick with smoke. Kim checked to make sure that her husband's attention was elsewhere, took a deep breath, and made plans to get some cigarettes of her own.
Corvan noticed that while the food looked reasonably good, the colonists who ate it sat in small clumps and watched each other warily. Simmons seemed like a reasonable sort of guy, so Corvan asked about it.
"Tell me something, Father. Is it just my imagination? Or do these people look unhappy?"
Simmons looked at the lens protruding from Corvan's eye socket. "You're a reporter aren't you? The kind with a bod mod."
Corvan nodded. "Yes, I am. But you can speak off-record if you wish."
Father Simmons sighed. "Thank you. That would be best. I am tolerated only so long as I stay out of the way. Yes, there are problems all right, the kind that crop up when people work long hours and have no way to relax. Gambling, prostitution, and drug use are all on the rise. They give rise to graft, gangs, and battles for turf."
He nodded toward the tables. "People divided themselves along racial-religious lines at first, but that arrangement has slowly given way to groupings by function, with all of the electronic techs banding together and so forth."
"Similar to unions."
"Yes, except that traditional unions have very little impact on what a worker does outside of the work place. Here there is nothing but work, so functional groupings take on tribal characteristics."
"You sound like an anthropologist."
Father Simmons smiled. "That's because I am one."
Corvan laughed. "You mentioned drug use. How is that possible? Where does the stuff come from?"
Father Simmons shook his head sadly. "Right here, I'm afraid. We have fifteen research labs, tons of chemicals, and hundreds of scientists. The result is a black market economy where drugs, especially synthesized drugs, are freely available. That's why they allow tobacco. The moment they try to withdraw it other forms of drug abuse soar."
"Can't they supervise the labs? Arrest the dealers? Treat the users?"
Simmons looked around. The rest of the group was drifting toward the doors. "They try. You may have seen the chain gang on the way in. But the problem is overwhelming. Who do you arrest when you are already behind schedule? When you need every worker you have? When thirty or forty percent of the population is using? That's why Peco-Evans was so happy to see the ship arrive. The project is in trouble and she knows it. The suits hope that the influx of people and supplies will put the lid back on. But I'm not so sure."
Corvan wanted to ask more questions but the priest shook his head. "Not right now. Later perhaps, when you've been here for a while and had a chance to settle in."
It was a short walk from the chow hall to the warren of passageways that comprised the admin section. With the exception of three medical technicians and a couple of scientists, most of the group had skills that were vaguely administrative and would be quartered where their work was. A rather interesting arrangement that was calculated to minimize travel time and maximize efficiency. Why have a space to work in and a space to live in, when one space would do?
Of course there was a down side as well, since the arrangement served to isolate the administrators from the work force and accentuate differences rather than similarities. Still another cause for the growing unrest.
And so it was that just off passageway 32 they found a hatch labeled "Communications."
Simmons touched the access panel and the door slid open. "And here it is. Home sweet home."
Corvan stepped inside. Kim followed. The space was no larger than an average-sized living room. A counter ran the length of the opposite wall. Cables and power outlets marked the locations where their equipment would eventually go. A tall narrow door opened on a tiny bathroom. Panels with labels like "bed," "storage," and "entertainment" took up the other wall.
The duffle bags they had sent down the day before lay in the middle of the floor. Both had been sliced open and their contents rifled. Clothes and personal items were scattered all about. Kim swore and began to pick things up.
Father Simmons stuck his head in, saw the duffle bags, and shook his head sadly. "A sign of the times, I'm afraid. I suggest that you reset the door codes right away."
Corvan shrugged. "They didn't get much. We packed the things we care about with the com gear."
The priest nodded. "Good. Try and be there when it arrives. A lot of things seem to disappear between the landing pads and here. Are either one of you Catholic by any chance?"
Corvan shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not."
Simmons smiled. "Well, it never hurts to ask. Don't let that stop you, though—I hold ecumenical services once a day, and everyone's welcome."
Corvan started to say something negative but Kim intervened. "Thank you, Father. We'll see you there."
The priest waved, the rest of the group shuffled off, and they were suddenly alone. Corvan touched the access panel. The door slid shut. He turned to his wife.
"We'll see you there?"
Kim made a face. "Maybe, maybe not. There's no reason to hurt his feelings."
Corvan laughed, tried to put his arms around her, and found it didn't work. Space suits are not made for hugging. But it didn't take long to step out of them, shower, and lower the bed. What followed fell slightly short of zero-G sex, but was wonderful nonetheless, and seemed like a good way to welcome themselves home.
Both of them fell asleep after that, but Corvan was the first one to awake and explore their new quarters. He touched the panel marked "Entertainment," waited for it to slide out of the way, and watched the screen come to life. Color sparkled, scattered, and coalesced into words.
"Welcome to the Mars Prime entertainment and communications system.''
The words vanished to be replaced by a menu. There were all sorts of possibilities, including movies, video games, and visually enhanced reading material. Okay for a while, but boring after a couple of months. One of the listings flashed on and off.
Corvan touched "Personal Communications" and watched the menu transform itself. More choices appeared. He could send and receive voice, text, and a variety of visuals. "Message waiting," blinked on and off. He touched it. Words flooded the screen.
"LEAVE US ALONE. LEAVE US ALONE. LEAVE US ALONE. YOU WERE LUCKY. YOU WERE LUCKY. YOU WERE LUCKY. WE WILL KILL YOU NEXT TIME. WE WILL KILL YOU NEXT TIME. WE WILL KILL YOU NEXT TIME."
Chapter Ten
Barbu Sharma floated up through the pain. It came in layers, like sediment in a core sample, and could be categorized just as easily.
First came the pain associated with withdrawal, a
bdominal cramps mostly, but nausea and occasional tremors too.
Then came the sharper more insistent pain, most of which came from his right shoulder but from other places as well. Contusions most likely, damage suffered during the dimly remembered accident hours before, when his crawler had run off the edge of a ravine.
Hours? How many hours? Hours meant oxygen, and oxygen meant life.
Fear pumped adrenaline into Sharma's bloodstream and lifted him through the last layer of pain. His eyes popped open. He saw no control panel, no interior lights, nothing but darkness. Panic tried to take control. He forced it back. Think damn it . . . Think through the pain . . . Think about the facts. He was alive wasn't he? Damned right he was. That meant the suit was working.
Sharma looked up, and there they were, all along the upper edge of his visor. Indicator lights, yellow most of them, verging on red, but lights nonetheless. Candles in the darkness, symbols of hope, givers of life.
Now it came back to him. The faulty door seal, the steady loss of cabin pressure, and the decision to don his helmet. After dropping some red zombies, after washing them down with non-reg hootch, after a long day.
Yeah, he'd been ripping along, singing a pop tune at the top of his lungs, when the crawler had gone off the edge of the ravine and nose-dived into the canyon below. He thought it had, anyway, but wasn't exactly sure.
A series of dry heaves racked his body. What he wouldn't give for one, just one red zombie, to clear his head and feel human again.
Sharma's mouth was dry and tasted like shit. He searched for the water tube, found it, and took a sip. The liquid felt good as it trickled down his throat.
Now for the hard part. He had to do something. Find a way to save his ass.
The crawler was nose down and tilted toward the right. He groped for the door release, found it, and pulled. It fell away. The safety harness held him in place. What the hell? What was down there anyway? Solid ground? Or a bottomless pit? What if the crawler was hanging off a ledge? Teetering on the edge of an abyss?
Sharma ignored the already blinking power indicator and triggered his helmet light. The beam was feeble but revealed gravel six feet below. Thank God, or the group of gods, that watched over him. His mother had tried to teach him which ones did what, lecturing while she cooked dinner or did the washing, but he'd been a poor student. Of things like that anyway . . . No, he mustn't allow his thoughts to wander, mustn't waste energy on opportunities missed and people long dead.
Sharma hit the harness release, fell out of the crawler, and landed on his already injured shoulder. The hard suit absorbed most of the impact but not all. The pain made him scream. His radios were off, but no one would have heard him anyway, since Mars Prime was more than a hundred miles away and well out of range.
The crawler was another matter. Its radio was clearly out of action, a victim of whatever had killed the power plant, but the emergency locater beacon should be okay. It was battery powered and built to survive damned near anything. And that meant he had a chance. Assuming that a com sat picked up the signal, assuming that the search and rescue assholes were on the way, and assuming that he could last long enough for them to arrive. Fat damned chance. The truth was that he'd wind up dead. Seriously dead. Dead, dead.
No! He couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't think like that.
Sharma pushed himself to one knee, took a deep breath, and stood. He felt his head spin, felt his body sway, and felt the ground come up to meet him. Shit.
It felt good to lie on his back and look up at the river of stars. They were extremely bright, like ice crystals on black velvet, so close that he could reach out and scoop them up. No, he had to concentrate, had to focus on the task at hand.
Sharma rolled over and began to crawl. His destination wasn't exactly clear, but had something to do with dragging himself out of the ravine so that the searchers could find him.
It was cold inside the suit, so damned cold, but he didn't dare turn up the heat. No, he had to save power, save power, save power. Shit, he was losing it again . . . fading fast. . . buying the farm . . . checking out . . . stop!
Sharma stopped, rolled onto one side, and activated his helmet light. He moved his head back and forth. The yellow beam played over a steep embankment, glinted off something, then lost itself in darkness. He brought it back, found the spark of reflected light, and stopped.
What was that anyway? Ice? Quartz? Metal? No, it couldn't be metal, not in the wastelands of Mars. Could it? Not unless it was part of an old wreck, a crawler like his, destroyed when it fell into the ravine and left as unsalvageable. But that was stupid. The odds against something like that were millions to one.
His thoughts were suddenly gone, consumed by nausea and the dry heaves that came with it. It took some time for the convulsions to die away.
Something started to beep. Sharma looked up toward the indicator lights, saw that his oxygen was in the red, and knew he had fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes in which to contemplate a largely wasted life, pray to his mother's gods, or fight for survival.
He crawled toward the glint of reflected light, drawn to it like a moth to flame, determined to possess whatever it was. Knowledge perhaps, or a talisman, something to take with him.
"One foot, two foot, three foot four, drag your butt across the floor."
Sharma giggled then forced himself to stop. He was losing it, oh yes, lose, lose, losing it. Oxy deprivation? Maybe ...
Now! There it was, only inches away, metal by god! Bright, shiny metal. Sharma scrabbled at the embankment, pulling himself up, reaching for the metal. Gravel, rock, and sand avalanched down around his boots, sliding away from the metal as if reluctant to touch it, fanning out to become part of the ancient river bottom.
The beeping seemed louder now, even more insistent than before, a horrible sound that bored holes in his brain, and signaled things he didn't want to think about.
Sharma leaned forward. His glove touched dirt and something solid beyond that. Another curtain of gravel fell and a hole appeared in the metal. A pinprick at first, through which a tiny ray of light passed and formed a dime-sized dot at the center of his chest. Then it grew, and grew, and grew until the opening was about three feet across, and he was bathed in light. The aperture was round and looked like the bore of his father's twelve-gauge shotgun. The tunnel was smooth and oily, as if a cleaning patch had been passed through it.
Sharma did his best to look inside, to see where the light came from, but it was far too bright and caused his visor to polarize.
Should he enter? Take a chance on the unknown? Or wait for help? Stupid question. Light meant power, and power meant oxygen, or the possibility of it anyway. Sharma bent at the waist, stuck his head into the circular passageway, and wiggled inside.
The walls were slick, so it was difficult at first, but he pulled himself forward until his knees hit the embankment and it was necessary to straighten his legs.
The beeping went on and on. He hated the sound and loved it at the same time. The beeper symbolized life and living. Existence measured out in second-long increments. How many were left anyway? A thousand? A hundred?
Something moved and Sharma felt the resulting vibration through his suit. What the—? He turned, felt his helmet hit the side of the tunnel, but managed to look over his shoulder anyway. Damn! Look at that! The passageway had closed behind him. He didn't know whether to feel scared or grateful.
Sharma turned back, reached toward the light, and felt his glove encounter something solid. Trapped!
Now he felt scared, and no sooner had that emotion registered on his brain than the beeping stopped. His oxygen was completely and irrevocably gone.
Sharma drew shallow little breaths, desperate to extend his quickly dwindling lifespan, trying to take it in.
He was dying, actually dying, and little more than seconds left. How many seconds? Well, the suit might hold two or three minutes worth of air, so three times sixty would be . . .
No! It was
stupid to draw it out. Slowly, deliberately, Sharma reached up to release his neck seal. Anything was better than death by slow asphyxiation. The safety cover flipped upward with ease, the lever moved under his fingers, and air hissed out of his helmet.
Sharma waited for his brains to be sucked out through his eyes and ears. Waited for blood to spurt out through the pores in his skin. Waited for the brief moment of mind-numbing pain before he ceased to exist.
Nothing happened. It took a moment to register. Nothing meant oxygen, and oxygen meant life, and that was good. Excellent! Wonderful! Incredible!
Unless he was trapped inside some sort of metal tube where no one could find him. Sharma reached through the light. The barrier had disappeared. Then he had it. The tube was some sort of air lock, like the ones humans used on their ships. . . .
Oh shit, shit, shit! Sharma pushed himself backwards, away from the light, towards the entrance.
What the hell would use a tubular air lock? Some sort of goddamned snake, that's what, or a slug-like thing, or . . .
No, there he went again, freaking out when he should be thinking. The alien thing was stupid. Wasn't it? Yes, damn it. The most likely possibility was some sort of secret military installation. Maybe they'd developed some sort of tubular thingamajigs that needed their own lock. God only knew what those bastards were up to. Yeah, that made sense. The suits would be pissed at him, but hey, he'd be alive and that was the main thing.
Sharma wiggled forward, stopped while another bout of dry heaves racked his body, and resumed his journey. The light came from a ring-shaped fixture that was mounted flush to the tunnel. Sharma inched his way past it, found himself on an incline, and slid to the bottom.
He rolled over, sat up, and took a look around. So much for the military hypothesis. The interior of the ship, for that's what Sharma had decided that it was, wasn't even vaguely human.
The room was large and sort of womb shaped. The light was bright and came from panels that spiraled around the walls. A lattice-work of what looked like dried seaweed crisscrossed the open space, drooped in places, but was largely intact. There were four kidney-shaped constructs too, dangling from the ceiling like pieces of abstract sculpture.
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