The Veil
Page 6
He waits for a reply that does not come, his grin widening.
“Does your self-image embarrass you? It’s been said that there is something odd about it, but they wouldn’t tell me what. Is it not very pretty? Not as pretty as Commander Toor?”
He cocks his head to the other side, the grin undiminished, his face painted with sarcasm.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
The camera’s telltale blinks out.
“Lucy? Oh, come on. I was just teasing.” Robert catches himself, the grin vanishing in an instant, the remorse evident.
“Luce—”
* * *
Robert pulls himself along the main corridor to arrive at a particular recess, within which there is a large access hatch. Someone—most likely Bebbington—has drawn a sign on it, the lettering in a child-like manner. Lucy’s Room.
Opening the hatch lights up its interior, Robert hauling himself in. Lucy sits in her cradle silently, her induction layer dull with a lack of surface projections. To one side of the vault a seat harness has been rigged up, with signs of regular usage—Robert likes to spend time here, something Lucy does not mind in the least. Except for today.
Robert eschews the harness to float close the obsidian slab, steadying himself with a firm grip on the space frame cradle, his gaze drifting over the glass-like surface.
“That was mean of me, Lucy, and I am truly sorry. It is just the way I am sometimes.” Heaving a sigh seems to release some inner restraint. “Sharanjit was a good friend and my stupidity robbed her of everything that was important to her. And, yes, I do miss her.”
A three-dimensional projection of a long-stemmed white daisy appears before Lucy’s slab.
Robert ponders the flower.
“Lucius gave you that flower, didn’t he.”
“When he got sick,” Lucy says, a desperate shyness to her voice. “When I was sad. He said it was to remember him by, and our time together, and to help me be brave. I do miss him so.”
The flower fades away.
“You remind me of him,” she says.
Robert is taken aback to the extent that he finds himself choking back some emotion.
“I miss him too.”
“You knew Lucius?”
“He got me through the worst of it. When I was recovering from the Messiah virus.”
“Lucius never told me that.”
“It was before you were born. When he was diagnosed Alka and I got him assigned to the MBI project—when they found you, JoJo and Eleanor. He used to talk about you all the time. It was the happiest I ever saw him.”
“The thing I did for him…when he got sick—”
“Let’s not, Lucy. Not now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Friends again?”
“Friends again.”
Lucy projects a puzzle. It’s a new one—a mess of oddly shaped interlocking wooden pieces to be arranged in such a manner as to form a geometric shape. Robert changes his demeanor to suit.
“Let’s have some music. Remind me again of what we have in the library.”
“We have everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“So much choice. I don’t know…how about our favorite tune?”
“Your favorite.”
“Come on, Luce.”
“Really? Again? Must we?”
But she has already queued it up, the ship-wide juke box now streaming out the opening of Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.
Robert pushes himself away to deftly catch hold of the hatchway and swing out into the recess. Another shove, grab and flip and he is floating free in the corridor, curling up to grip his ankles, the action sending his body into a spin. He bounces off the far side of the corridor, limbs flailing as he laughs out loud. He could not be happier.
And the music plays on.
DESCENT
The crescent of Mars dominates the panoramic view from the flight deck, every display within lit up with a slew of telemetry data as the Afrika makes its final approach. Even though Mars is before them, the conservation of angular momentum has the Afrika’s orientation in reverse, and firing the main drive now will inject them into orbit. Robert has strapped himself into the commander’s seat for the maneuver, wearing a full flight-suit, helmet on, visor open revealing a halfhearted attempt to keep his beard stubble under control.
“Sure you can park this thing?”
“I am confident,” Lucy declares, Robert grinning at the haughtiness in her tone. “Plasma injection sequence commencing. Three, two, one. Ignition—full thrust.”
From within the spacecraft there is no direct sight of the Star Light drive bursting into life, but they are close enough to Mars for corona effects to manifest in the ultra-thin wisps of outer atmosphere, flicking through space at the very edge of the panoramic view.
Although they had already shed most of their velocity during the breaking maneuvers over the past few days, this last burn is at full gravity, ejecting a large proportion of their remaining hydrogen reaction mass as plasma through the three fusion engines. Their journey has been costly and Lucy must be accurate to less than a second to make sure they have enough for a return to Earth.
“Maximal,” she announces.
Robert remains relaxed throughout. Even the loud groans from the Afrika’s superstructure are not at all disconcerting, the vessel’s various protestations unsurprising to a seasoned engineer.
Silence. Zero gee.
“Mars orbit insertion achieved.” Lucy is pleased with herself.
* * *
Their transit around the night side of the planet gives them their first proper look at their target—Olympus Mons and the Emerald City. Close-up the dome comprises four curvilinear surfaces seamlessly cutting into each other, broadly aligning with the underlying caldera craters.
There are no discernable structural elements, the surfaces appearing to emerge from the inner base of the caldera.
Lucy zooms the live feed from main telescope in on the northern flanks of the volcano, outside the caldera ridge.
“There is an external structure in the northern quadrant,” she says.
Robert observes from the navigator’s console on the flight deck as their orbital transit reveals a large, rectangular area cut into the slope. The oblique view shows the northern end to be raised, with smooth sloping walls dropping away to the natural surface, probably just some thirty meters below, creating a solid pier-like structure. It is approximately five hundred meters square, the southern end seemly an entrance into the caldera, tunneling through the ridge at its thinnest point.
“A landing platform. Well, that makes life easier,” Robert muses.
“There are no markings,” Lucy observes. “And it appears to have been constructed from local material.”
“What does the approach path look like?”
“To allow for lateral correction the Mombasa will have to skirt the northwestern ridge.”
Robert pulls back from the display to lean back into the seat, falling silent. Lucy gives him a moment or two.
“We have plenty of time to consider our options,” she says. “We can afford to wait a little longer.”
“We ain’t come this far.”
“The next suitable descent window is in two hours and forty-three minutes.”
* * *
At over twenty-two kilometers the Olympus Mons caldera is above the thicker strata of atmosphere, making slowing the Mombasa that much more difficult. So the initial drop needs to be on the other side of the planet, providing up to eight thousand kilometers of descent path through which the lander can reduce its speed by means of drag.
Even in the thin upper atmosphere of Mars that drag would be brutal, but the Mombasa could take it—not only was it designed for a Titan landing, but also doubled up as lifeboat capable of Earth re-entry during the Afrika’s fit-out and flight tests.
The wing and hull elements were formed from a
crystalline diamond-ceramic composite grown as single monolithic structures, with voids and holes for the crew compartment, flight systems, hatches, engines, landing gear and control surfaces, the whole approach being like that of a turtle-shell into which vulnerable components could retract. A transparent forward surface facilitates the flight deck, while access is by means of a ramp-hatch fitted into a large opening at the back.
The shell’s composite outer and inner surface is completely solid, but a mass of pores within—like bone—make it not only incredibly light as a structure, but also the lander’s fuel tank, the fuel being pumped in under enormous pressure.
But despite its incredible sophistication, the Mombasa was not designed for the task now at hand. Mars had not been a scheduled stop for the original Afrika mission; the planet had been done to death already, with countless probes, two manned missions and decades of research.
So now the challenge was the lack of a thick atmosphere once the initial descent was complete. For Titan and Earth the two landers relied on lift from the wings, but there would be none at the top of Olympus Mons. The Mombasa would have to rely on its vertical thrusters alone, with its payload weight composed mostly of fuel. Even then there was barely enough for a two-way trip.
* * *
Despite over a hundred hours in the simulator, there wasn’t much for Robert to do. Lucy had programmed the autopilot for the entire descent and would be overseeing from the Afrika via a wide band comlink; if necessary she could take over and pilot the Mombasa herself.
All that Robert needed to do was to wait as the Afrika approached the drop window, confirming the occasional status and telemetry metric from the flight console, while strapped into the pilot’s seat.
Once down Robert would have to leave the Mombasa and make it on foot to the dome entrance, and for that he needed a pressure suit. The Afrika was equipped with the latest in body-form environment suits—far less bulky than a full space suit, affording an almost natural range of movement. Unfortunately they were orange, something less than perfect for the surface of Mars, eliciting a full half hour of heated debate with Lucy, with Robert’s insistence that his remain orange, prevailing. Quite how it could be rendered any other color was quite beyond Robert, and despite the certainty in his own mind that Lucy would have a good half dozen robust solutions to hand, he was in no mood to enquire as to their nature, such was the manner of the man.
“Launch bay depressurization complete,” Lucy announces. “Two minutes to launch. Opening inner and outer doors.”
A deep clunking sound comes from beneath as the garage launch bay opens onto space; the launch orientation has the Afrika facing backward, with the garage facing away from the planet below.
“Releasing to launch position,” she continues.
With securing latches released, a spring-loaded mechanism shoves the Mombasa along a launch gantry now extended beyond the ship’s hull, the garage sliding up from the forward view as the lander slides out. At the end of the gantry a second set of latches grab the Mombasa, holding it in readiness.
“One minute,” Lucy says.
“I have a question, Lucy.”
“A question? Should I abort?”
“No. Keep the clock running. I have been meaning to ask you this for the longest while, but this seems to me to be the most appropriate moment.”
“What is your question?”
“Did you mind that I spent so much time in extended sleep?”
“I did not mind.”
“Weren’t you lonely?”
It’s a long pause.
“A little. But I had things to keep me busy. I have a question.”
“Oh?”
“I promised Chief Justice Garr that I would do my level best to bring you here safe and sound. Have I…done a good job?”
“Yes, you have, Lucy.”
“Then I am happy and shall not be sad. But I will miss you.”
“Luce—”
“Are you afraid?” Lucy asks.
“Yes, Lucy. I am afraid.”
“Then you must be brave, Robert. Three, two, one—release.”
An almost inaudible click as the Mombasa detaches, its main engine lighting immediately.
“Retro one.”
The burn quickly slows the Mombasa, the Afrika now seeming to pull ahead, with the lander dropping below it, beginning its long-arc descent in reverse. A minute later and the main engine cuts out, a controlled kick from its parking thrusters gently flipping the Mombasa head over heels to the forward re-entry inclination.
The following period of calm doesn’t last long.
“Entering upper atmosphere,” Lucy says over the comlink.
All too soon the lander is engulfed in a turbulent ball of plasma, so beginning the roughest part of the journey, which for Robert seems to last an eternity.
Fifteen minutes or so of a violent re-entry gets the Mombasa down to a manageable hypersonic speed, allowing the vertical thrusters to set it on a final approach, reducing the forward velocity to a sedate nine hundred kilometers per hour, the nose dropping to reveal the Olympus Mons caldera.
But not as it should be.
Filling it like some vast luminescent sea is the multifaceted curvilinear surface of God knows what. Robert is reminded of soap bubbles. Giant green soap bubbles.
The volcano is so vast that at this range its full extent cannot be discerned, for all the world appearing to be the surface of Mars itself. But the Mombasa is still at an altitude of thirty-five kilometers, and forty kilometers out, the roar of the Merlin aero rocket engines now a constant—maybe ten minutes of descent fuel remaining.
“You are now on an approach vector over the northwest ridge,” Lucy says. “Two minutes to final approach.”
Robert can make out the landing platform, emerging from behind the caldera ridge. The Mombasa is at its closest point to the dome, with the ridge mountains—over two kilometers high—almost directly underneath. The rocket engines increase their roar as the autopilot makes its final approach, reducing their speed to three hundred kilometers per hour.
A brief, but violent shake from the Mombasa. Turbulence? No chance—
The lander lurches to port then back.
“Lucy, are you reading this? Got some—”
“One moment. One moment.”
Robert feels his weight drop. Just like an air pocket—
“Lucy—”
“Attention!” It’s the autopilot. Another violent lurch heralds a flight systems alarm.
“Attention! Autopilot disengaging—”
“I have control,” announces Lucy, having silenced the autopilot and its noisy alarms.
“Lucy, what’s happening? Why has the autopilot disengaged?”
The Mombasa bounces around some more.
“The flight conditions are outside of its operational parameters—Robert! Take the controls!!”
Robert grabs the flight stick and thrusters, immediately sensing the control systems feedback. The Mombasa is fighting against something.
Another alarm—rate of descent. Christ, we’re dropping like a stone.
Alarm silenced, thrusters up by fifty percent. Robert feels the gees pushing him into his seat. It’s not enough—
“Lucy! I’m losing vertical thrust!”
Nothing. He checks the comlink—gone!
He’s below the caldera ridge, now a mountain to starboard, a blur just a few hundred meters away.
More thrust—everything the Merlins have, the Mombasa shuddering under the strain.
“Come on! Come on, damn you!”
The landing platform. Two hundred and fifty thousand square meters of perfect flatness straight ahead.
Landing gear down…Shit! No! We’re coming in too fast—
The Mombasa hits it hard, some two hundred meters in, nose slightly up, the landing gear bursting into a myriad of fragments, the uneven failure spinning the lander around, the diamond composite wingtip scoring a neat line in the surface.
From the forward view he sees the edge of the platform recede away and up as the Mombasa shoots over to drop down to the natural surface, ass first.
In Martian gravity the trajectory is quite graceful, but the final landing not.
* * *
The air intakes for the Merlin aero rocket engines are top side, their cowlings shut—no air on Mars. Between them is an emergency hatch. It blows off, with almost no sound, what atmosphere there is being too thin for any drama.
Robert hauls himself out on to the hull, before sliding down the wing and out of sight. Moments later he emerges forward of the flight deck. The hull is intact, but the rest of it is a wreck.
“Lucy? Do you read me?”
Nothing. But then, he didn’t expect anything. The Emerald City has him now—from here on out he is on his own. His suit is already flashing alerts at him, the inside of his visor is awash with information. He clears most of it away and assesses his immediate surroundings. Nothing special—there is no view to speak of. The landing platform wall is maybe fifty meters away. It’s too smooth to climb, but cut into its side are what look to be a set of steps running a steep diagonal to topside. He heads in their direction, unsteady in the light gravity, too focused on staying upright to fully take onboard his particular set of circumstances. He is the fourteenth human to set foot on the surface of Mars.
Robert finds the fact that the steps are human sized to be somewhat creepy, though he knows there is no reason for him to expect otherwise. He looks up their length—a rise of some thirty meters at an inclination of forty-five degrees. Steep and no guard rail, but each step mercifully a full two meters wide.
Still, it quickly becomes apparent to him just how dangerous the ascent is. Even though he has acclimatized to the carousel’s low gravity onboard the Afrika, his muscles are still pushing too hard. Messiah? Maybe. The result is that he can’t help bounding up the steps, each foot fall an unsteady assertion that threatens to topple him off the side.
His breathing labored, Robert reaches the platform’s surface, now a debris field with extraneous bits of the Mombasa strewn all about. Anything that was poking outside the hull on impact would have been at risk. He can make out what would have been the entire landing gear and at least one cowling.