When the lander skipped off the atmosphere, it approached and jumped off at a slight angle, magnified by the ship's velocity so that its inclination was now significantly different than the orbiting vehicle. No rendezvous was possible at the competing angles. Both Cartwright and Michner knew the rules of spaceflight very well. And, although they had not yet been told, they suspected the worst.
The temperature in the lander was still building from the short period of atmospheric contact. The heat exchanger units were working overtime to stem the heat, but never in the designers worst case scenarios had they ever calculated for such extremes. Sweat was pouring off Cartwright, Michner and the other passengers, raising even further the tension in the lander. Hicks finally unbuttoned his harness and floated to the front.
"I demand to know what the hell is going on here!" he screamed in Michner's ear. Instantly she backhanded him, putting all her strength into the swing of her balled up fist. She did not even turn around to see his body fly off in a flat spin and strike the rear bulkhead.
Cartwright held out his right hand. "Thanks, Siggy, I needed that," he said without looking away from his monitor. She slapped the open palm of his gloved hand and continued working.
"Got that solution yet, Bob?" Cartwright asked finally, his voice cracking with fatigue and the heat.
"Negative," Kerry answered, feverishly working several practically impossible scenarios.
"Let us know," he replied as patiently as he could.
Kerry slapped his palms against the sides of the Goddard repeatedly, nearly moaning with absolute frustration, "No, God, no, not after all they've been through; not this!"
The flight dynamics officer had already given up and shook his head slowly. There was no way a rendezvous could be effected according to his calculations.
"Ian, how much fuel have you got?" Kerry asked, his voice as straight as he could make it sound.
"Not enough to fill up a piss ant's tea kettle. We're dry. Maybe a little maneuvering juice, that's all."
"How about OMS?"
"Dry."
“RCS?”
“Dry.”
There was a protracted period of silence. They all felt it, every human on Mars and the eleven in orbit around her. The final chapter had been written for ten souls.
"Okay,” Cartwright finally said, “how much time till we reenter?"
"Three sols, give or take seven hours," Kerry said, so softly not everyone heard him clearly.
"We won't last three sols," Siggy said to Cartwright, then realized the obvious contradiction. That their life support would run out long before they reentered had nothing whatsoever to do with their chances in reentry. They were out of range and out of fuel and would soon be out of air. They were beyond hope.
"Do we have any chance at all, any that you are aware of, Kerry?" Cartwright asked courageously. It was better that they all knew the full truth up front.
"I'm going to figure it out, Ian. Just give me a little more time," Kerry responded.
"Control, I want an assessment, now!" Cartwright ordered.
The flight director looked at Lipton who did not dare look away from his monitor. He glanced at the flight dynamics officer who shook his head slowly.
"Lander, Control. We honestly haven’t been able to work out an option yet, but we’re still trying. Hang tight." He spoke of an unwritten NASA legacy: Failure is not an option… even when failure is inevitable.
Cartwright looked at Siggy. "This is the big one... no way out. The question we have to ask ourselves at this point is how do we want it; fast or slow?" He was playing out the part of space commander to the bitter end. No emotions, no slack.
"What if they come up with something?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes. Michner was weeping, but had more control over her emotions than did Cartwright who had blocked his out completely.
"You know the realities as well as I do. The computers would have had a solution long before now if there was one."
"Ian, I just don't have enough guts to...," she whispered, not able to continue with the thought.
He did not say anything, just stared back at her. She knew clearly what he was thinking. He turned away from her and relaxed. He had accepted the inevitable. It would not come as easily for the others.
15
he colonists observing the launch process in the dining hall were paralyzed. They wanted desperately to do something, anything, to help the ten humans stranded in a useless orbit. But they were absolutely powerless. The only other vehicle capable of effecting a rescue was the RSE lander at Shturmovoi.
The colonists had crowded around the table where Peter, Ashley, Francis, Gorteau and Brinker sat.
"Has anyone been able to contact Little Kremlin?" Peter questioned.
No one answered.
"Are they even capable of effecting a rescue?" Peter asked, somewhat aggravated at the lack of response. "Who's our expert on the RSE launch system?"
"I am," said a voice from far back in the gathering. It came from a relatively thin, demure individual; an administrative type who had hardly spoken a word to anyone in the months he had been at BC1. Very few of the colonists even knew his name.
The crowd around the table moved aside and let him approach the table. He was a short, thin man who wore large, round glasses that, coupled with the part down the middle of his chestnut hair, made his moonish eyes look large and innocent. He was, perhaps, in his early thirties, but because of his overall demeanor, he appeared to be in his mid-twenties.
"I'm sorry, sir, but many of us may not know your name," Peter said, embarrassed that he had to count himself among those. He had seen the quiet individual around many times, but as the man kept entirely to himself, Peter had never been introduced.
"I am Julian Covenant of Cambridge University," he said in a polished, British accent.
"And how did you come to be an expert in the RSE launch system?" Peter asked directly, not wasting time on formalities, which reflected his deteriorating mood.
"I am a student of the Soviet and RSE space effort. I came to be here for that specific purpose, as a matter of fact."
"What do you mean, you are here for ‘that specific purpose?’" Peter asked with some surprise. He had heard rumors that there were quasi-military intelligence types among them, but no one had ever been able to put a finger on such far fetched hearsay.
"No. We don't have time for that, Peter," Francis interrupted quickly. "Let's get on with the details on the launch system." Then he looked at Covenant and asked bluntly, "Can they effect a rescue or not?"
"I doubt it. Their launch system is completely dissimilar from ours. A little less than half their fuel is supplied by the replenishment ships. The other half is provided by miniature processing systems at Shturmovoi itself."
"You mean they have enough excess energy to process hydrogen and oxygen from the atmosphere?" someone asked, reflecting nearly everyone's surprise at such an abundance of energy.
"Well, excess is a relative term. Rumors have it that the residents themselves are quite cold most of the time. Let's put it this way; the RSE has priorities which are somewhat different than ours. What they do with their energy is not always related to what we do with ours."
"So you’re saying that they may not have enough fuel in storage to effect a rescue," Peter interjected.
"That’s quite probable. It requires some months to build up a sufficient reserve."
"I want you to find out, Covenant," Peter ordered.
"I'm afraid that’s impossible," he replied with little hesitation.
"Why?" Francis snarled.
"Well, for several reasons, actually, not the least of which is that this station has been unsuccessful in the attempt to reach them, as you know. What leads you to believe they will respond to me if they have ignored all previous requests? And secondly, we have not been given the go ahead for such information exchanges. Any such act would be strictly prohibited by diplomatic protocol."
Peter leap
t to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor, and faced Covenant. "There are ten lives hanging by a thread right over your head. I'm giving you permission. Now go for it. Stand on top of the chow hall and wave your skivvies at them if you have to, I really don't care..."
"Wait," Gorteau said, standing between them. "Covenant, why would you be afraid of contacting Shturmovoi to organize a rescue mission? If you know more about them than we do, don't you think you owe it to all of us to help?"
"Frankly, gentlemen," Covenant replied, "I don’t share your contempt for the regulatory system. Similarly, I cannot violate procedure until I am authorized by Dr. Lipton."
Francis exploded with rage. "What? After all you've seen go down here, you're still waiting for that sonofabitch to lead you around by your silk tie? Don't forget who's responsible for the condition of those people up there in the first place!"
Peter spun around to face Francis. "I'm going to end this, right now!" he said angrily, then stalked out of the room.
Francis let a full second pass, caught Gorteau’s and Brinker's eyes, then they raced out together after him. Ashley rushed to keep up with the group, followed by most of the others assembled in the dining hall. They caught up to him as Peter neared the control center.
"Peter, there must be a better way. For God's sake, think this through first," Gorteau warned.
"Wringing Lipton’s pencil neck requires minimal forethought," Peter shot back. "If I had done this an hour ago, maybe those people would be safe right now." Then he physically kicked open the door to control.
Lipton sat silently at his console. As Peter kicked open the door, the room became silent, and all eyes looked at the assembled group. Peter stalked over to Lipton's console. "Lipton, look at me!" he shouted.
Lipton did not respond.
"Lipton, I'm talking to you... look at me!"
Still no response.
This so angered Peter that he leapt at Lipton before anyone could respond. He grasped Lipton about the collar and lifted him into the air; not difficult in Mars' light gravity.
"You're dog meat, Lipton. I'm not going to see anyone else die around here because of your petty little administrator games. Now you're going to sign your resignation or I'm going to waste you right here..."
"Peter, let him go, now!" Gorteau ordered.
Peter looked at Francis and Gorteau with a uncontrolled rage in his eyes.
"Put him down," Brinker warned slowly.
Peter slammed him to the floor hard. Lipton lay face down, quietly.
"Lipton, get up!" Peter said loudly. "Stand up and face me like a man!"
Lipton lay still and Peter seized the moment.
"Very well. Lay there, but listen. All of you... listen!" Peter said, moving his eyes across the breadth of the control center, meeting each person's eyes as he swept the center. He paused so that everyone there could focus on him.
"I'm in charge here at BC1. I’ve been elected by the majority of people on this base and in this colony. This man has been declared mentally incompetent to run this facility, and now he may be responsible for the deaths of ten people. Until this can be sorted out, I’m assuming command. Are there any questions from anyone?"
No one uttered a word. The silence in the control center was penetrating.
"Very well. Pass the word. I’ve accepted responsibility for whatever may happen from here forward. But I also warn you. We exist by the virtue of each individual's cooperation. Without it, we’ll all die. If there is anyone here that questions my authority to lead this community, then call a vote of confidence, majority rules. Otherwise, a refusal to cooperate will be dealt with most severely."
He looked to Brinker who immediately shifted his eyes away. It was obvious that Brinker was still slowly, and with some difficulty, digesting this latest assault to his sense of good order and discipline. He looked to Francis who winked slyly. Gorteau was fighting to conceal overt approval. Toon looked at the floor, scraping his toe almost absent mindedly. Ashley could not take her eyes off his. Lipton still lay silently on the floor.
"Brinker, escort Dr. Lipton to his quarters and call in Dr. Friedman to look him over," Peter ordered. “Sedate him if necessary.”
Brinker finally looked at him, long and hard. After several seconds of stagnant silence, Brinker replied, "Yes sir!"
"Get up, Lipton. It's bed time," Brinker commanded.
Lipton's head rose off the floor, his nose bleeding, blood dripping off his chin where he had struck the floor. He smiled a toothy, blood stained smile as he stood. "You'll hang. All of you will hang together. And you, Sergeant Brinker, will also hang," he said, moving slowly and pointing toward Brinker's face, spraying him with a fine mist of blood and saliva as he spoke.
Brinker grabbed his hand and pulled Lipton's finger away from his face. "Maybe, Doc. But until I do, I'm not going to take any crap from you. You cost me one of my Marines today, Lipton, and that more than just pisses me off. So don't mess with me or I may just have to drop kick you out the air lock."
"Murderous terrorists...just listen to yourselves. Death, terror, threats. There is no order here... the truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long."
The words came as an abrupt, unexpected slap in the face to Peter. He immediately recognized them from Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. And with this little, exquisitely placed slice of civilization, his raw anger was replaced with doubt. Ashley's own reminder of the last evening came rushing back, “...turning and turning in the widening gyre... things fall apart... mere anarchy is loosed upon the world... the worst are full of passionate intensity."
Lipton saw it in his face; he saw that he had struck home. "Ah! Yes, my boy, Peter, yes...," Lipton said, working his last weapon in deeper and deeper, physically turning on him. "The truth will come to light, and you know it so well..."
"If you don't jam a sock in it, Brinker, I'm going to," Francis warned. "I think we've all had just about enough of his pontifications."
"Don't push me, Lipton," Brinker advised.
Lipton looked at Brinker with the crazed, bloody smile. Then he spit in Brinker's face. Peter caught Brinker's right fist just before the fatal, explosive blow that would have crushed Lipton's throat.
"Brinker, control yourself," Peter warned. "We still operate by the rule of law here, and you’re still a United States Marine. Act like it!"
"The rule of law! How dare you....," Lipton sneered.
"Brinker, gag this man and get him out of here," Peter directed.
In seconds, Brinker had a gag over Lipton's mouth and was rushing him out of the control center, his fist pressed firmly into Lipton's back.
"Tell Covenant to get started on contacting Shturmovoi, now," Peter said to Francis. "If he refuses, throw him in with Lipton. Let him see first hand who he trusts his life to."
ipton refused to see Friedman. The flight crew marooned in orbit became silent as it was obvious their plight was hopeless. Covenant chose to attempt to contact Shturmovoi rather than spend the sol locked up in the same tiny room with Lipton. Peter named Hernandez and three of his administrative group as part of the colony's governing body. There was no resistance on the part of Hernandez; indeed he felt an unspoken relief that someone other than he was in charge and had accepted total responsibility. There were others in the transient crowd who were grumbling, but those individuals kept to themselves for the most part. There were no overt challenges to the new authority at BC1.
Peter's most ardent hope was that the transients and colonists could achieve some sort of common government, if even just for the short period until help arrived from earth, if any were ever forthcoming at all. He held few illusions. Even if communications were suddenly restored, even if a local settlement was reached and BC1 returned to some kind of productive stability, the predicament they had maneuvered themselves into would probably spell sure and complete disaster for his own future and almost certainly that of BC1 as they knew it. After word and extent of the revolt reached home, the idea of
colonizing Mars would almost certainly be abandoned. Regardless of Lipton's state of or lack of competency, the colonists had already pushed the system well beyond the bounds of acceptable controversy.
But the emerging, moment-by-moment situation was far more grave. It appeared that the lander was irrevocably lost, along with ten lives. Of more substance to the living, their winter supplies were stranded in high orbit. A state of rationing would have to begin immediately. Worse still, if there truly had been a world nuclear exchange on earth, rationing would represent only a stop-gap before an inevitable, final disaster. Without further assistance and re-supply from earth, their advanced controlled ecological life support system (known as the ALS or, interchangeably, CELSS) would ultimately run down and they would die. It was only a matter of counting the sols and weeks until the last breath of oxygen, the last drop of water, the last watt of power, was gone.
The sol wore on interminably, an endless succession of whispered meetings, hushed conversations and depressed glances at the Mission Elapsed Time clocks, still ticking away the last hours and minutes of the ten lives from their number circling beyond hope in space. Their fate seemed to be a miniature reflection of those on the planet, stranded in some state of indefinite waiting for the inevitable certainty of death. Those in space could feel their fate closing in on them; they could actually smell and feel the cool shadow of death hover about them. Those on the ground knew only that it was lurking, not so close perhaps, but certainly within range and waiting, always waiting, the final tally of life-giving elements ticked off with each breath, with each passing sol.
Soon the sun settled behind the desert horizon. Those at BC1 who had not already closed themselves into their rooms together began to disappear behind shut doors to be alone or with those closest to them, huddling against the relentless odds stacking against the fledgling colony with cold indifference.
Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium Page 19