Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium

by Abyss Of Elysium (Lit)

  "Very well then, Tyler," Quinton replied, returning the salute.

  "I'm not your prisoner, Marine," Peter informed him sharply, his voice giving way to a backlog of tightly packaged rage.

  "If Dr. Lipton says you’re my prisoner, then you are my prisoner," the officer replied flatly, tossing his helmet over his closely shaven head with an obvious and well practiced flip of his wrists.

  Peter did not reply but leveled a long, murderous stare squarely at him. The Marine officer returned it with blue, piercing eyes. Lieutenant Quinton looked as if he were an old hand at brawls who realized the man in front of him was not going to back down without a confrontation. Peter knew that the Lieutenant had only arrived two sols ago as a replacement and it appeared that he was not sure if the crowd on the other side would come through the airlock to join any fray that might ensue. To Peter’s supreme satisfaction, the Lieutenant looked away first.

  Corporal Tyler appeared to have correctly sized up the situation as momentarily stable, caught the imperceptible nod from his superior and stepped back into the airlock.

  "Whenever you're ready," Quinton said to Peter with impudence, looking at his watch, rounding the MAT to the driver's door.

  Peter watched him with intense resentment, made him wait, then slowly donned his helmet. He turned and faced his friends and gave them a thumbs-up before he slid into the MAT. The Marine then made his point by depressurizing the airlock before Peter's door was fully closed, nearly jerking it out of his hand.

  Quickly, Peter decided it was better form to give his friends a final salute rather than flash Quinton an extended middle digit, but it was a close call. The officer spun the MAT's wheels and headed down US 1 toward the Robert Crippen Spaceport in silence.

  Peter popped the hatch on the MAT even before it slid to a stop at the base of the launch pad. The oddly shaped lander extended above them some sixty meters over the fused Martian soil, its composite carbon gantry arced around the ship. Peter was the last passenger to arrive. The others were already strapped into their seats.

  Peter looked to Quinton and said, "Don't bother. I know the way." Then he slammed the hatch hard. He looked up to the bank of cameras and waved a salute to them. The image was undoubtedly the number one show at BC1.

  The white room was a tiny anteroom sealed to the open hatch of the lander. It was pressurized to lander pressures, so Peter had to first enter an airlock followed by an air shower to remove any traces of Martian dust.

  As he entered the white room, Peter removed his helmet to greet the two white room technicians, known as the “close out crew”, and adjust his inner collar ring. They were not colonists, though one of them, Mark Teiner, had indicated an interest in staying permanently on Mars some weeks ago. They both greeted him with congenial smiles and hand shakes.

  "Sorry to hear about your troubles, Dr. Traynor," Mark said sincerely.

  "Thanks, Mark, I appreciate that."

  "Don't have to take a leak, I suppose?" Mark inquired in a virtual whisper, turning his back to the other tech, now preparing the hatch for closure.

  Peter looked at him with some surprise.

  "No," Peter replied, in a mocking whisper, “I took care of that earlier."

  "It's really no problem; really...," Mark said again, nodding his head almost imperceptibly toward the bathroom known as "the can".

  "The can's locked and out of commission, boys," the other tech replied.

  "Well, I guess that settles it then," Peter replied with finality, shaking his head and wondering about all this concern over his toilet habits. He lowered his helmet on his head and pressurized his suit. Just before he entered the lander's low hatch, he looked back to Mark, whose face was masked with total frustration as he stood staring at Peter.

  "Never seen a real global persona non grata before, I guess," Peter mused to himself. And with that thought, Peter realized he was the first human ever to be involuntarily expatriated from a planet. That idea did not necessarily improve his outlook.

  he earth shuttles came in cycles; one was continually in route, following a standard Hohmann trajectory. Each was piloted by a three member team. This shuttle, the U.S. Space Vehicle Robert H. Goddard, had just arrived at BC1 3 sols before and had ferried eight people down: three new colonists, three admin types and two United States Marines.

  Meanwhile, back on earth, the next ship was being readied to leave outbound on its long trek out to Mars. That ship, the U.S. Space Vehicle Singleton, was a new design interplanetary shuttle that could carry double the supplies and passengers.

  The vehicle that ferried passengers from the huge orbiter to the Martian surface and back into orbit was piloted by two astronauts and could carry a maximum of eight other passengers to and from space. One astronaut always remained in orbit with the mothership.

  The passenger runs were made first, to and from the surface. Following the passenger runs, the personnel module was removed from the lander, attached to the orbiter and replaced with a massive cargo canister which was then landed by remote control at the U.S. Robert Crippen launch complex. These replenishment runs were vital to the survival of the colony. If one failed, with proper rationing, the colony could survive until the next supply ship arrived, but it would not be easy. Thankfully, not one had ever failed.

  Once the cargo canister was unloaded, the lander was launched by remote control back to the orbiter. After docking in orbit, the ship departed for its cyclic visit to earth to pick up more supplies and exchange passengers before its next run to Mars. Two such ships were in constant motion between planets, each fulfilling its cyclic missions.

  s Peter entered the lander’s rear hatch, he stood on what would be the rear bulkhead of the ship when it was in the horizontal position, and, of course, the other passengers who were inclined with their backs to him, feet and legs above them. As he entered the tight fitting passenger module of the lander, he twisted his gaze upward to force an end to the simple vertigo of the compartment's vertical mounting. Peter walked on the rear bulkhead to the ladder he would climb to reach his rearmost seat, being careful not to step on the imbedded locker doors. These lockers held the personal possessions of the crew and passengers. As he climbed into his seat, Peter could hear one of the technicians latching the locker that held his own bag.

  He lay carefully back against his seat and tugged the straps firmly around himself. His ears popped momentarily as the hatch was closed and sealed. Peter then plugged his suit into the ship’s air and communications. The voices of the pilot, commander and launch control rang through his helmet.

  "Affirm, launch control," the pilot relayed. "The last passenger is in and hatch is sealed. Launch minus eleven minutes and counting. We have 28 minutes remaining in today's window."

  The launch window referred to the amount of time available to the crew to launch into the proper orbit to rendezvous with the orbiting mother ship. Each sol there was only a single window of half an hour to launch for a rendezvous that could be safely accommodated with their fuel load.

  Peter sighed and regretted not having said a few parting words to Ashley; thirty seconds was all he needed. Now it would be at least 270 or more sols until he could procure a secure voice link to tell her the personal things he so desperately wanted to say. As he lay with his back to Mars, in the long minutes that followed, with his tender recollections of the evening just past, Peter cursed his brooding mood and what it had cost him. With a growing depression, he listened dispassionately to the dialogue around him that hastened the finality of this separation from everything he held dear.

  "Minus six minutes and counting. All consoles report you are go for a nominal launch," the control center reported to the crew, followed closely by, "We have a hold at five minutes and 57 seconds. You have lost cabin pressure.... wait one... wait…wait…yes, your hatch is open, lander."

  "Yep, the hatch is open. What the hell? I thought the close out crew was clear of the white room!" the pilot said, her voice betraying some anger, knowing
they should be clear by now according to the procedures.

  "Roger. The Personnel Accountability Console reports they’re all accounted for and proceeding on their way back as we speak, post haste," control replied. "Suggest you see if you can fix it yourself and we’ll hold the close out techs at the perimeter of the blast danger area. The hold should not affect the window."

  Peter strained his helmet around to look at the hatch, just two meters below him. To his astonishment, he saw the interior handle turning. In a second, even as the pilot was still unstrapping herself to check the situation, the hatch opened, and the helmeted face of Ashley appeared.

  "Ashley!" Peter cried with absolute amazement.

  "What are you doing here?" the pilot asked, standing on the edge of her seat some four meters above Peter, seeing Ashley at the same instant.

  "Just along for the ride, folks. Please keep your seats," she replied.

  "Ashley!" Peter repeated again.

  "You already said that, babe," she replied, calmly unlatching the number one locker at her feet and tossing it out the open hatch.

  "What the hell is going on here? Now, what do you think you’re doing?" the Commander roared as he, too, looked back at Ashley just as she tossed the number two locker out the open hatch.

  "I'm lightening your load, Commander," she replied, slapping her gloved hands together. "You’re fueled for a specific mass and since I'm coming along, well, I've just equalized your loading." She then turned the handle and sealed the hatch.

  "Lander, control; please advise," launch control asked briskly. They, as well as the entire base, were watching through the cabin’s mounted camera as Ashley sealed the hatch and began to strap herself in beside Peter. Throughout the halls of the colony, cheers rang out.

  "Stowaway. Tossed out two lockers. Looks like we're going to miss the window." The Commander swore violently and unlatched his helmet.

  Ashley squeezed Peter's hand as she lay back on her seat and looked over at Peter with a radiant smile. "I didn't get to say how much I loved you before you left," she said innocently, flashing her best girlish smile. Peter gasped, still propped up on his arm, looking down on her with wide-eyed astonishment.

  The voice of Lipton came calmly through the communications net. "This launch attempt is not canceled. We'll miss the window if we have to remove her from the danger area. Bring the close out crew on back and continue with the count."

  Ashley looked to Peter and winked. He then realized that his shrewd wife had this entire affair calculated to the minute, carefully timed to the individual action. And Lipton was apparently following her plan, whatever it was.

  "We are in violation of our launch procedure, Mr. Director," the Commander warned. “I cannot launch..."

  "You WILL launch if I direct you to launch," Lipton shot back tersely.

  "We are in violation of multiple launch criteria here, Mr. Director," the pilot returned sharply.

  "Pick up the count in 30 seconds on my mark," the launch director replied methodically, procedurally taking his orders from Lipton.

  "Mr. Director, our extra passenger just tossed out lockers one and two," the pilot apprised control. These were widely known as the Director's personal lockers, containing Lipton's confidential mail and mementos. Ashley suppressed a guffaw. The rest of the colony did not bother, laughing loudly.

  Lipton was livid.

  "I hid in the can," Ashley mouthed to Peter. Then he realized that Mark had attempted to warn him.

  "Pick up the count in ten seconds," Lipton said tightly. "You will launch this vehicle. We cannot risk the lives of every one in this facility due to the irresponsible actions of a few," Lipton said, already apparently beginning to formulate his plan to have Ashley and Peter jailed on their return to earth.

  The Pilot took her seat and began strapping herself in for liftoff, shaking her head at the Commander who was spitting out unrepeatable half sentences detailing impossible human positions.

  "Mark, minus five minutes, 57 seconds and counting," the launch director reported in a monotone.

  "Minus five minutes; five minutes to launch."

  The ship’s four auxiliary power units (APU's) sprang into life, sending a high pitched whine and vibration throughout the ship. Peter's blood raced. He had hoped never to leave Mars again in his life, but as the moment of flight drew near, he gasped at the anticipation of liftoff.

  Ashley squeezed his hand. He loved this woman, and, as far as he could tell, she had unquestionably given up her career, and perhaps her freedom, for him. The love he felt for her caused his face to flush with passion, oddly misplaced but blending with this moment of sheer, lip-biting apprehension.

  "Minus three minutes and counting. All APU's up and running at 105 percent full power. All aero surfaces are powered and verified...," the pilot read off her checklist aloud.

  "Standby, flight console...," warned a computerized voice from launch control. "Hold count at minus two minutes, thirty seconds."

  "Crap! What now?" Lipton swore aloud.

  "Loss of flight critical downlink," the communications officer reported.

  "20 minutes remaining in launch window. Just over four minutes APU fuel remaining," the flight dynamics officer reported.

  "We're sitting on a hot candle up here, guys," the pilot alerted control of the obvious.

  "Give me a status, now, and hurry up," Lipton said tightly in his lip-mounted microphone.

  "We have lost flight data downlink from CERTS-1 and CERTS-2," the communications officer reported.

  "What do you mean the Earth sats are lost? How can they be lost?" Lipton demanded, speaking of the two deep space satellites that fed the colony all communications services from the earth, including certified flight data relay functions. Although 18 minutes delayed, the transmission was timed carefully to enable a coordinated data stream that was essential for a safe launch

  "We've lost the downlinks, sir," the communications officer reported again. "I have no indication as to why."

  "Launch director, switch over to the local flight units and pick up the count," Lipton ordered. He knew the ship and BC1 computers could handle the job as uncertified data, although it was not normally affected in that mode.

  "Sorry, Dr. Lipton. I’m in a priority constraint condition. I’ll have to have paper before I can resume the count," the launch director replied calmly, coining an antiquated phrase from the early space program. He knew his limitations and could act no further until Lipton signed a legal waiver of the constraint condition.

  "Bob, fill it out and hurry up," Lipton demanded harshly of his deputy administrator, Robert Hernandez.

  Hernandez's fingers virtually flew over his keyboard, generating the short document with Lipton electronically signing it even as Hernandez checked the boxes. Quickly they sent it electronically to the launch director’s consol.

  But as the bureaucracy plodded along in launch control, the pilot and commander of the lander were engaged in a rather colorful deliberation of their own.

  Finally, the launch director satisfied that all was in order, continued, "Stand by to pick up the count on my mark. On my mark the count will resume at minus..."

  "Whoops... wait a minute folks... hold it right here...," the Commander said. "Flight crew has decided to put the brakes on this mother, right here, right now."

  "You can't do that," Lipton said on the network. "I have the authority to authorize proceeding with this launch and have already waived the constraint violation."

  "Yeah, right," the Commander shot back dryly. "And I have the authority to back off any mission I see as potentially unsafe. Now why don't we just unload our little stowaway, repack our lockers, count all our marbles and try again tomorrow. Who knows, maybe we'll all wake up tomorrow and the local circus will have packed up its tents and gone home." Then he signaled the pilot with a thumb down to switch off the APU's.

  "Pick up the count now!" Lipton screamed at the launch director.

  "APU's powered off," the fli
ght dynamics officer reported.

  "Sonofabitch!" Lipton swore, slamming his headphones down on his console and stalking out of the room to the raucous cheers of the dozen or so colonists manning consoles in launch control.

  5

  eter lifted his helmet off and looked quickly to Ashley. "What's going on?" he demanded breathlessly.

  "Can't talk here...," she replied, removing her helmet, bracing for the commander who had just reached her seat on the way down.

  "Okay, lady, let's have it. I want to hear this particular story real, real bad," Commander Cartwright began, braced against the bulkhead, hovering over and leaning on her seat.

  "Sorry, pal. You're going to have to speak to my attorney on this one," she replied evenly.

  "Well, let’s hope you've got a good one, sister, 'cause you’re going to need the best. You know, Siggy and I were just talking about you. As far as either one of us can determine, you're the first interplanetary space hijacker in history. That ought to net you at least four lifetimes in federal prison."

  "Cool your jets, Commander. Or I just might have to stuff you in one of your lockers," Peter shot at Cartwright. Ashley looked with outright wonder at her usually mild tempered spouse.

  "Yeah!" she added with a chuckle.

  "Laugh now, my little space twins, but if I'm not mistaken, I just may have you both in leg irons on our way out of here."

  "The close out crew is on their way back, Ian," the pilot reported, climbing down the seat rows, landing beside Commander Ian Cartwright.

  "Plan B," Ashley returned. "Contingency."

  "I need a beer... real bad," Ian said, looking at his pilot, Sigourney Michner, otherwise known as Siggy.

  "Yeah," Siggy chuckled. "On this planet, you'll find it right next to the clown's tent." Then she looked at Ashley and Peter, still strapped to their seats and shook her head with a rigid, turned-down smile.

  "You know," Commander Cartwright said, "I've flown at least 14 times, and not once, not one time, have I ever, ever encountered a pack of lunatics like this." Then he ducked out the hatch, followed by the pilot.