by John Olson
“Hold on a second,” said one of the life-support engineers, a kid named Howard. “I’m going to run four life-support simulations, each with only one of the four Ares 10 crew members, and with energy production at ...” He looked at Nate.
“Twenty-four percent of nominal.”
Howard fired up a program on his laptop, punched in some numbers, and waited. “Okay, sir, any one of the four could survive till the rendezvous.”
“We know that,” Nate said. “Any one of them could survive all the way to Mars.”
“Fine, I’ll run the same simulation with all pairs of crew members.”
He fiddled with the program for a few minutes. By now the other engineers had gathered round to watch. “Gotcha!” Howard said. “Any two of them could make it to the rendezvous on May sixteenth.”
Nate sat up. That was progress. “What about three crew members?”
“I’ll try that.” Howard ran the program again. When the results flashed on the screen, he slumped in his seat. “Sorry. No combination of three can survive that long.”
An audible hiss ran around the table. Nate could hardly breathe. The idea was ghoulish. No. He wasn’t going to order the deaths of two crew members, hoping to save the other two.
“There’s a chance,” Josh said. “Nate, if we can save two of them, we have to try!”
“You’re telling me I have to order two of my team to commit suicide,” Nate said. “Plus, I have to burn all the fuel in the ERV, just so maybe it will get within radar range so maybe we can dock those vehicles, and maybe cannibalize a solar panel so maybe they can limp in to Mars? Josh, do you see how many maybes we’re fighting? And that ERV costs a couple of billion dollars. If we throw that away on a fool’s chance—”
Josh stood up and flung the door open. “Well, excuuuuuse me. I hadn’t realized there was a dollar value on human life.” He stomped out.
“Josh!” Nate started to stand.
Cathe Willison put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Harrington,” she purred in that sultry voice of hers. “Sometimes the calculus of suffering gives you an answer you don’t like. That’s too bad, but numbers don’t lie. You can save two of them—”
Nate yanked his arm away. Calculus of suffering? She was a cold one. This solution was not acceptable. He was not going to order two crew members to kill themselves. He had to save them all. To do that, he needed every engineer he could scrape up. He couldn’t afford to spend any of them on half a solution, especially one with so little chance of working.
The conference room phone rang. Nate grabbed it. “Harrington.”
“Mr. Harrington, you’ll be very sorry if you hang up prematurely. This is Jane Seyler with NBS News. We’re about to run a story on a certain mishap yesterday, unless you give us good and sufficient reason why we shouldn’t.” A brief pause. “Are you there, Mr. Harrington?”
It seemed like a good time for a heart attack, but somehow Nate’s ticker held together. “Who told you about this?”
“Mr. Harrington, I’ve been a journalist for twenty-three years and have never divulged a source.”
“Was it Josh Bennett?”
“Our story, as it stands right now, is that Ares 10 has had an Apollo 13-type accident. Is that correct, Mr. Harrington?”
Nate breathed deeply. “Ms. Seyler, I happen to be under a gag order at the moment regarding Ares 10.”
“That would be an Executive Order, signed by the president herself, correct?”
“I’ll neither confirm nor deny anything.”
“Mr. Harrington, if I run this story, what are the potential risks to the crew of Ares 10?”
“I’m not allowed to talk to you about any of this.”
“Fine. Don’t talk. I’ll run the story and you can obey your orders.”
Nate swore at her.
“Was that on the record, Mr. Harrington?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I understand some of your engineers have developed a lifeboat-type concept not unlike that which saved Apollo 13.”
“It’s totally different,” Nate said. Oh, great—he’d just confirmed everything. “Ms. Seyler, I hope you realize that I’m going to prosecute Josh Bennett to the fullest extent of the law.”
“That wouldn’t be wise, Mr. Harrington.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Are you, or are you not, going to make an attempt to save your crew? On the record.”
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“Look at your watch, Mr. Harrington. It’s five minutes before 6:00 P.M., Eastern Time. Do I, or do I not, run my story?”
“What’s it to you? You’re a journalist. You have to run a story if you think it’s correct.”
“Are you going to launch that lifeboat, Mr. Harrington?”
“How many people in your organization know about this?”
“Only me. Are you going to launch it?”
“Just tell me one thing. If I say yes, why should you hold that story?”
“Because Alexis Ohta”—Jane Seyler breathed deeply—“Lex Ohta ... is my niece.”
Which was just crazy enough to be true. Lex’s paper work didn’t list a father, but Nate knew she was half Caucasian. She had been raised by a single mom, a nice Japanese girl from Santa Barbara who made a mistake with some frat boy from back East.
“Mr. Harrington? Two minutes.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Launch that lifeboat.”
Nate stared at the seconds ticking away on his watch. He was gonna strangle Josh for this. There was no chance this could work. None.
“Showtime, Mr. Harrington. I need an answer right now.”
There was no way to win this. If he said yes, he’d have to launch a fool’s errand. If he said no, there’d be a fire storm in the press. In three days Nate would be off the mission, and some other poor schmuck would be forced to launch the lifeboat, with that much less chance of success. “Okay, you win,” Nate said. “We’ll fly the lifeboat.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Nate slammed the phone down. He already regretted the decision. But it was too late for that. He was in this up to his armpits.
Nate looked around the table at his team. Some looked mystified. Some seemed to be puzzling it out. Cathe Willison looked satisfied. “We can save two of them, Mr. Harrington. You’ve only got a few days to choose which two.”
Nate stood up. “Team, I want you to go back to square one. Analyze every chemical on that ship. Cannibalize every ounce of oxygen you can find. I want a team looking for alternate catalysts for that Sabatier scrubber. We’re gonna launch Operation Lifeboat. If there’s any way to do it, we’re going to save that crew. The whole crew.”
The team erupted in chatter. Nate stood up and strode out.
“Sir, what’s the point of raising false hopes?” Cathe pattered after him. “You can’t save them all, but you could save—”
“The point is that I said we’re gonna try it,” Nate growled. “Now get busy optimizing that solution. I want you to shave it down to the wire till you have a solution where they dock with zero fuel left in the ERV. And when you’ve got it perfect, make it better.”
“When do I stop, sir?”
“When they’re dead. Now get out of my face.” Nate stopped and looked for Josh. “Bennett!” he bellowed. “Get yourself over to the Capcom console. We’re gonna talk to the crew about Operation Lifeboat.”
Josh appeared from somebody’s cube, looking thoroughly confused. “What’s going on? I thought—”
“You know perfectly well what’s going on. We’re gonna try it and see what happens.” And when this is all over, I throw you to the wolves for breaking that gag order.
Josh turned and trotted for the Capcom station. Nate chugged along behind him. It wasn’t going to work. The numbers said it couldn’t work. But he had no choice.
No choice at all but to try.
* * *
Saturday, April
5, Year Three, 9:00 P.M.
Valkerie
Valkerie went through the motions of calibrating the pH meter. She thrust the electrode into a sample from the bioreactor. Its fragile glass tip clinked against the wall of the glass vial—probably broken, but what did it matter? She flung her duty schedule across the room. What did any of it matter? It was all pointless. Busy work from Houston with one and only one purpose—to keep them from dwelling on the fact that they were all going to die.
Valkerie pushed her way through the dark lab and made for the upper deck. Kennedy was still locked in his room—sulking. He hadn’t said a word since Bob ran Houston’s lifeboat plan through the simulation program.
Valkerie pulled herself into the command area and hung limp in the air. Bob was still working on the computer, but she could tell by the sluggishness of his movements that he hadn’t found anything new. He’d run the lifeboat simulation a hundred times and the results were always the same. Even if they could beat the one-in-a-million odds of docking a bullet with a bullet, they’d all be dead before the Earth Return Vehicle got anywhere close—unless they could hold their breath for six weeks.
Houston was lying to them. What hurt the most was that Josh had been the one to give them the news. The one man they thought they could trust was in on the lie.
A drum roll of key taps broke through Valkerie’s thoughts. She rolled in the air to check on Bob. No change in his expression. Just frustration. They were all frustrated.
Valkerie pressed her hands to her eyes. Why couldn’t NASA just tell the truth? It was better to know the truth—no matter how painful that truth was. She pictured Josh’s animated face—so full of energy and purpose. What would she have done if she were in his place? What if he were the one forced to endure the agony of waiting for a slow and sure death? Was a false hope better than no hope at all?
Valkerie pushed the questions from her mind, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction they were leading her.
Even if a false hope was better than no hope at all, that didn’t mean all hope was necessarily false. Life was more than a series of chemical reactions. There had to be meaning. She’d experienced it on a daily basis.
But what about six weeks of slow suffocation? Where was the point in that?
Valkerie drifted around and watched Bob typing at the console. A tap here. A flurry of taps there. At least he was real. Too real usually. He ran a hand through his tousled sandy hair, floating lightly in zero-gravity. He looked even better with longer hair. It softened him, somehow. Made him more approachable. What would he do if she slipped up behind him and gave him a hug? She smiled at the thought. No, he wasn’t that approachable. He’d probably throw her across the room.
“I don’t believe it!” Bob spun around.
Valkerie looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring.
“I think I know what they’re planning.” Shock and disbelief registered in his voice.
“What?”
“I just ran a simulation. If only two of us ... were still alive ...”
The implication pressed its boot into Valkerie’s gut. “You think they want us to ...” Valkerie’s mind recoiled at the thought. “The simulation—it showed two of us could make it?”
Bob nodded. “With days to spare.”
Valkerie hung in the air. The silence of the ship pressed in on her like a sepulcher. “No ...” She shook her head. “There has to be another way.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do.” Bob moved closer. Valkerie watched as a battle of emotions played across his face. “I ...” He lifted his hand and then snapped it back down. “I’ve run a thousand simulations. It’s the only way.”
Valkerie’s vision grew hazy. She turned away. Bob’s presence pressed in on her from behind. She could hear his breath, hoarse and strained, could feel his warmth.
“Bob? Whatever you do ... please, don’t tell Kennedy.” Valkerie glanced behind her. Bob was chewing on his lip thoughtfully.
“He may already know ...”
“I seriously doubt that. Promise me. Please. I don’t know what he would do if he knew.”
Bob nodded. “Okay, I won’t tell him. Now that I think of it, I shouldn’t have told you. As long as the saboteur thinks we’re doomed, there’s no reason for him to try anything else.”
“Would you get off the saboteur thing?” Valkerie reached for a ceiling strap and pulled herself over the bunk on which Lex lay. She started checking Lex’s vitals. Good. Her lungs seemed to be clearing. They would be able to take out the high-frequency ventilator tube soon. “Don’t you see that suspicions and negative thinking only make our situation worse?”
Bob moved toward Lex’s bunk. “Excuse me, but I haven’t been trained in the fine art of ignoring reality just because I happen to prefer the way a fantasy makes me feel.”
Valkerie ignored the jab and checked Lex’s pulse. Still shallow and weak. What was Bob’s problem? Didn’t he realize that they were going to die? Why was he so bent on bringing everyone else down?
“Look, Bob, I really don’t feel like arguing, okay? I’m having a very bad week.”
“Fine.” Bob looked down at the floor and swallowed hard. “I suppose we should all be trying to make the most of our time, but if you ask me, Lex is the lucky one. At least she doesn’t have to—”
“Bob!” Valkerie launched herself toward the command station. “What have you been using for our metabolism rates?”
“What?”
“Our oxygen consumption. What have you been using in your calculations?”
“About a pound per day—basal consumption assuming sleep and minimal movement.”
“Lex is in a coma. That probably reduces her consumption by a third—maybe even a half!”
Bob entered some numbers and launched a simulation. “Nope, not even close.”
“You said two people could make it with days to spare. What if three of us were in comas?”
“Why not all four of us?” Bob started adjusting the numbers.
“Somebody has to stay awake to revive the others.”
“Okay—at half consumption for three people, here goes.” Bob tapped the Enter key to start the simulation. “Days to spare!” He jumped up in the air and bumped his head on the ceiling. “Do you think it could work? Can they really put us in comas?”
Valkerie nodded. Her heart was pounding a million beats per minute. “I think so. Maybe. We have a lab and a ton of starting materials.”
The excitement drained from Bob’s face.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re forgetting one thing. One of us wants this mission to fail. How are we going to choose who gets to stay awake?”
“Bob, there is no ...” Valkerie bit her lip. What if the explosion really was caused by a bomb? Didn’t the tiny bits of bright shrapnel in Bob’s suit prove it? What if Kennedy really was a killer? Valkerie shuddered. She could still see him threatening her with the torch. But was Bob any better? He hadn’t exactly been friendly—and he was the one who caused the explosion.
“I guess we’ll just have to figure out who the bomber is. We don’t have much time.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday, April 6, Year Three, 9:00 A.M.
Bob
BOB TOOK ANOTHER SWALLOW OF coffee. The stuff wasn’t working anymore. He’d been awake for almost two days straight. If he were going to keep this up much longer, he’d have to go to something stronger. But Kennedy was holed up in his room, and Bob wasn’t about to leave Valkerie with the run of the ship.
“Ares 10, this is Houston, come in.”
Bob’s head jerked up. Had he been dozing? And was that Nate’s voice? How could that be? Nate wasn’t a Capcom. Bob keyed the mike. “Houston, this is Ares 10, Bob speaking.”
Valkerie abandoned her lab work and floated over to join him. They waited in silence as four minutes ticked off.
“Ares 10, this is your Mission Director, Nate Harrington, with a special message for the fu
ll crew. Dr. Kaganovski, please summon all four crew members, if possible. I do hope Dr. Ohta is now conscious. Over.”
“Check in on Lex,” Bob said to Valkerie. “I’ll go get Kennedy.” He pushed off from the console, floated over to Kennedy’s door, grabbed a ceiling strap, and pounded on the door. “Hampster! Special message from Nate! He wants to talk to all of us together.”
Half a minute later, the door slid sideways and Kennedy came out looking groggy and irritated.
What was with him? He’d been in there for way more than eight hours, but the beauty sleep didn’t look like it was working.
When they got back to the CommConsole, Valkerie was already there. “Lex is still unconscious,” she said.
Bob grabbed the mike and set it floating at the midpoint between the three of them. “Houston, this is Bob. With me are Kennedy and Valkerie. Lex is still unconscious.” He nodded to Kennedy and Valkerie. “Say something to verify you’re here.”
“Bang, bang, we’re dead,” Kennedy said in a toneless voice.
“Actually, three of us are conscious and cognizant,” Valkerie said. “Lex is still in a coma, but her signs are stable. I expect she’ll recover—at least partially.”
“Over,” Bob said.
The three of them waited in awkward silence. Bob tried not to breathe too deeply. Kennedy’s body odor was getting awfully ripe.
“Ares 10, this is Mission Director Nate Harrington. We’ve evaluated the suggestion Bob and Valkerie sent, and we think it has a chance of success.”
“What suggestion?” Kennedy asked. Bob put up a hand to shush him. Nate was still talking.
“Our evaluation says that sodium pentothal together with Raplon will work best for inducing a coma and minimizing your need for oxygen. We believe you can do it safely for up to sixty days, which is more than the forty days to the rendezvous date with the ERV. There remains the question of who will stay conscious during that time. Any one of you could do it, in principle. Valkerie has the lowest oxygen needs, so if you choose her, you’ll have the biggest safety margin. Kennedy is next, then Bob. You could have as many as four days to make your decision, but the error bars on that figure are pretty large. You need to decide as soon as you’re finished synthesizing the drugs. I’m sending synthesis pathways and instructions in an e-mail document. Over.”