Oxygen Series Box Set: A Science Fiction Suspense Box Set

by John Olson

  “Josh!” Cathe pushed him away. “This is serious. Nate could send you to jail. With the astronauts back on the ERV, he certainly won’t let you back in the FCR. Not if he believes you sent that command script. We’ve got to clear your name.”

  Josh threw his hands in the air. “What can I do? I’m stuck here in Farmer Brown’s cellar shoveling manure.”

  “What about the list of people in the FCR and their support people in the MER? Wasn’t there someone on the list who could have framed you?” Cathe ducked under his open arms and stepped around a bank of LEDs into the corridor.

  “I don’t know.” Josh followed her to the shop. “None of them seem very likely. I need more data. Did you get their computer records for me? What about their whereabouts when the Russians are saying the commands were sent?”

  “I tried, but Jake Hunter wouldn’t talk to me. Now that he’s the big investigation coordinator, he doesn’t even give his name to people who aren’t wearing bad suits.”

  “He probably knows you’re biased.”

  “Right, I know you didn’t do it. Some bias.”

  “Send him to talk to me. I’ll get the information out of him.”

  “How?” Cathe turned to look him in the eye. “I know I’m more biased than you, but I would hope that you’re just a tiny bit biased.”

  “Let’s just say I know a few things about his trip to Star City that his wife would be real interested to hear about.”

  Cathe’s eyes gleamed. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you.”

  “Who says you aren’t?” Josh caught her and pulled her in close for a kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tuesday, April 21, 1:30 p.m., Mars Local Time

  Bob

  BOB SET HIS HELMET ON his head. “Comm check, Bob.”

  Valkerie adjusted the radio controls on the front of her suit. “Loud and clear. Comm check, Valkerie.”

  “Loud and clear on both of you,” Lex said from upstairs at the CommConsole. “Okay, guys, I’m keeping my eyes glued on the weather data. If the winds go back up above a hundred klicks an hour, I’m calling you back.”

  “Give us a warning when it gets above eighty,” Bob said. “But that doesn’t mean we’re coming back.”

  “It’s now or never.” Valkerie clomped into the airlock. “Let’s go.”

  “Be careful, guys.”

  Bob followed Valkerie into the airlock and closed the door. After depressurization, they stepped out into the swirling dusty mist. Visibility was good—maybe a quarter mile. He could just make out the outline of the Ares 10 off to the northwest.

  He breathed a huge sigh of relief. The storm really had died down. As much as he trusted the weather instruments, he’d been worried that, after eating most of their remaining rations, they’d get outside and find that the storm was still too strong for them to take off. Well, they were committed now....

  Valkerie turned right and headed toward the Mars Ascent Vehicle. Bob followed, checking the exterior of the Hab for damage. Not that it mattered. But he’d heard strange noises all night. Like something was bumping into the Hab. Probably just the storm.

  “Wasn’t that stew great?” He hurried to catch up with Valkerie. “Felt kinda like the Last Supper. You know. What with us preparing for our ascension into orbit.”

  “The Last Supper was right before the Crucifixion,” Valkerie deadpanned.

  “Which is what I’m going to do to you two if you don’t hurry up and check out that MAV,” Lex’s voice burst through comm.

  Bob reached out and took Valkerie by the hand. Today had been a real turning point. It was time to go home. Everything felt so right—as if Moses had parted the red storm especially for them, and they were going to fly out on still air. How could he ever have doubted—

  Valkerie gasped and yanked on Bob’s arm, pointing straight ahead.

  Bob could just make out the MAV. He stopped and stared at it. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He tilted his head to one side and then to the other. The MAV seemed to be tilted a few degrees from vertical. “Lex, it looks like there’s a problem with the MAV.” Bob took off at a quick, hopping run, pulling Valkerie behind him.

  “Wind speed is about seventy‑five,” Lex said, “and rising.”

  Bob bounded toward the MAV. Two hundred yards to go. One hundred. When they reached it, Bob went around the right side. Valkerie circled to the left. Her ragged breathing hissed against the pounding in his ears.

  Halfway around he spotted the problem. One of the support struts was bent. About waist high, a dozen fresh nicks shone in the thin afternoon light.

  “Looks like somebody banged on it with a sledgehammer.” Valkerie pressed up beside him.

  Bob ran his gloved hand across the scarred surface. It didn’t make sense. It just wasn’t possible. “Um ... Lex, we’re looking at something funny here. Like one of the support struts was hit repeatedly with a sledgehammer.”

  “The wind definitely didn’t do this.” Valkerie sounded mystified.

  “Anything lying around that could have done it?” Lex asked. “A loose cable? A panel banging in the wind?”

  “We’re talking really heavy,” Valkerie said. “Nothing that could have been picked up by the wind.”

  Bob searched the ground around the strut. “Nothing here except rocks. I don’t see any chipping on them.”

  “And it was hit more than once,” Valkerie said. “There’s more than one dent.”

  “Agreed.” Bob counted the nicks. “Looks like at least ten to fifteen distinct marks.” He stepped back and looked up at the MAV. “As far as I can see, there’s no real damage to the structure.”

  “Eighty klicks,” Lex said. “You guys need to think about—”

  “Okay, we’ll begin the check.” Valkerie flipped open the checklist on her sleeve. “I’ll take power and electrical and seals and pumps. You take fuel tanks and gauges.”

  Bob took one last look at the strut and walked around the base of the MAV, visually inspecting the tanks. If anything, the sandblasting had just served to polish them up a bit. So far so good. The bent strut was uncanny, but it wouldn’t prevent them from taking off. He walked around to the side and wiped off the fuel gauges.

  1.8 tonnes of methane.

  That couldn’t be right. The tanks had been filled with seven metric tonnes of methane before the crew ever got to Mars. They’d barely used two of that to fuel the rover. They should have a lot more than the gauge showed.

  He checked the LOX tank. “16.1 tonnes of oxygen.”

  “What?” Valkerie came around to stand next to him. “You sound worried. Isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?”

  “Yeah, but look at the methane.”

  Valkerie wiped at the smudged gauge with her glove. “1.8? This can’t be right. Is the meter in dekatonnes?”

  “No way. I’ve been monitoring it all along. Last month we had almost five.”

  “How much do we need to take off?”

  Bob took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “About 4.1.”

  “What’s going on?” Lex demanded over comm. “Are you saying there isn’t enough methane?”

  “Not nearly enough.” Bob checked the gauge again and then the hoses leading to the tanks of the MAV. The valve attaching the methane hose to the MAV was bent at a funny angle. The connection seemed to have been torn partway off. “Great! Just great!” Bob spat. “The valve’s been damaged. The methane’s been boiling away. We’re short more than two tonnes.”

  “Can we take off?” Valkerie turned to Bob, fixing him with a wide‑eyed gaze.

  “We can take off all right,” Bob said. “But we’re gonna come right back down.”

  * * *

  Tuesday, April 21, 1:00 p.m., CST

  Nate

  Nate walked toward his office, his body on autopilot, his brain metal‑fatigued. Lex had just called in with the fabulous news that the fuel in the MAV was enough to get them about ten miles off the ground. Ten mi
les up. Ten miles down. Splat. And two days’ supply of food left.

  Nate yanked out a packet of antacids and shook out a handful. Every engineer in the FCR and the MER had been called in to brainstorm. He had a meeting with Perez in ten minutes, and he did not have a clue what he was going to tell him. Sorry, sir, but it looks like failure is the only option.

  He reached his office.

  His secretary, Carol, pointed across the room. “Miss Willison’s been waiting to see you for twenty minutes.”

  “What are you doing here, Cathe? Get your carcass over to the FCR and start working the problem.” He glared at her as he strode into his inner office and grabbed his briefcase—the bureaucrat’s sword. Too bad he couldn’t just fall on it and be done with it. He spun around and smacked into Cathe.

  “Mr. Harrington, I really need—”

  “I don’t have time. Get over to the FCR.” Nate pushed past her and out the door to the elevator. He punched the button three times, then swore at it.

  Cathe grabbed his arm. “Mr. Harrington, please!”

  He turned to look, shocked at the emotion in her voice. Big, fat tears stood out in those stainless‑steel blue eyes of hers.

  Then she was gabbling at him. Josh was innocent ... couldn’t have done it ... Jake Hunter wouldn’t talk to her ... Josh had to talk to Jake so he could clear his name. Blah, blah, blah ...

  The elevator chinged.

  Nate yanked his arm free and stepped inside.

  Cathe stuck her foot in the door, her eyes crackling with intensity. “Please, Mr. Harrington. Call Jake. Promise me you’ll call Jake.”

  If there was anything that got to Nate, it was a hysterical female. He pulled out his cell phone. “Yeah, sure. I’ll call him right now.”

  Cathe lit up with a five‑hundred‑kilowatt smile. She stepped back and pulled her foot away from the door. “Thank you! Thank you!” The chrome door slid shut, erasing her face.

  Nate stared at the phone in his hand until his gut told him the elevator had found his floor. He stepped outside and selected a number.

  One ring. “Hello, this is Jake Hunter.”

  “Yeah, Jake—Harrington here. I need you to do something and it’s urgent.”

  “Everything’s urgent. Name it.”

  “It’s about Josh. I just talked to Cathe Willison.”

  “She’s been bugging me about him all week. You know she and Josh are an item, don’t you?”

  “No kidding.” Nate looked at his watch. He was late.

  “So want me to talk to him?”

  “Talk to the security guys watching him. I don’t know how she’s been communicating with him, but it’s got to stop. Under no circumstances are they to let Cathe Willison in to visit Josh.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Nate hung up, stuffed the phone in his pocket, and turned toward Perez’s office.

  He wasn’t a genius about women, but he was pretty clear on one thing. A robo‑chick like Cathe Willison didn’t go all of a sudden blubbery on you unless she wanted something. Either that or she had something to hide.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tuesday, April 21, 3:00 p.m., Mars Local Time

  Valkerie

  VALKERIE TRUDGED NEXT TO BOB, turning every couple of steps to look back at the MuleBot he pulled behind him. It had taken forever to fix the broken methane valve and she was exhausted. Her stomach locked up suddenly in another agonizing cramp. What would Bob think if she asked to ride back on the MuleBot? Probably that she was a wimp. He had done most of the work back at the MAV. If anyone deserved to ride back, he did. Valkerie kept walking.

  “How are you doing?” Bob sounded dead.

  “Fine.” Valkerie’s stomach stabbed her with another sharp pain. “Shouldn’t have eaten so much for lunch, though.”

  Silence.

  Valkerie reached out and took Bob’s hand.

  “You know we still have some hydrogen in the fuel cells,” Bob suggested. “We could try to make more methane.”

  “It took the factory months to make the methane we have,” Valkerie said. “Even if we had enough ...”

  “Which we don’t.”

  “And we only have ...” Valkerie couldn’t say it. This morning, a big meal had seemed like such a great idea.

  “I know.”

  Valkerie walked the rest of the way in silence, her thoughts lost in the red cloud that swirled around her. The final struggle to get up the steps. The hiss of the airlock. No need to wet‑scrub the suits. Why bother? She stepped into the suit room and collapsed onto the bench, but the red storm kept swirling in her mind.

  Clack. Clack. Valkerie’s helmet lifted off her head.

  “Are you okay?” Lex stared down at her with worry‑lined eyes.

  “Fine.” Valkerie pulled off her gloves and dropped them on the floor.

  Lex helped her out of her suit and collapsed on the bench with tired, vacant eyes. “Bob, what’s the minimum amount of fuel we need to get into orbit?”

  Bob leaned over and let the upper half of his suit fall onto the floor with a thunk. He pulled a phone from his locker and eased himself onto the floor. “I’d say fifteen tonnes of methane/LOX. Maybe a little less. That would get us off the planet, but we couldn’t take any payload. And we couldn’t quite reach our rendezvous orbit. The ERV would have to do a burn to catch down to us.”

  “So how much methane are we lacking?”

  Bob checked an app on his phone. “You get the highest specific impulse by burning it at a mass ratio of 3.5 kilograms oxygen to one kilogram methane. Which means we need 3.4 tonnes methane total. We’re short about 1,600 kilograms.”

  Lex nodded and slumped back against the lockers.

  Valkerie turned and stared at Bob, letting his angular features defocus into a fuzzy haze.

  “What if we hydrolyzed our water supply?” Valkerie suggested. “We could feed the hydrogen back into the fuel production unit and make more fuel.”

  Lex shook her head. “It took months to make the fuel we had. And that was at full power. We don’t have enough food to last another week.”

  Valkerie nodded and went back to staring at Bob.

  “Wait a minute!” Bob jumped up and stabbed the screen of his phone. “Making methane from straight hydrogen and atmospheric CO2 is pretty fast. The problem is that you don’t get enough oxygen that way, so you have to reduce CO2 to O2—and that costs a ton of energy. That’s why our fuel factory took so long to make the fuel.”

  “Give me the punch line,” Lex said.

  “The punch line is that we have all the oxygen we need already. All we need is methane. Valkerie’s right. Hydrolyzing water is very efficient, and we’ve got quite a bit in our tanks. Hang on, let me check.” He typed a flurry of keystrokes into the device. “All right! Good news. We can spare about 2.6 tonnes of water from the Hab and 300 kilograms from the greenhouse outside. We’re home free!”

  Valkerie closed her eyes. “Um, Bob, remind me of one thing. How much methane do you get from a kilogram of water?”

  He turned to her with a big grin. “Two kilograms of fuel for every kilogram of water. It’s like getting something for nothing—the extra kilogram comes from the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.”

  “But ...” Valkerie tried to concentrate. “Part of that fuel is oxygen and part is methane. We don’t need the oxygen—we already have plenty. How much methane do you get?”

  Bob sat down and grabbed his phone. “Four hundred forty‑four grams.”

  Lex leaned forward. “So our water is going to get us how much methane?”

  Bob punched in the numbers, and his eyes lost their sparkle. “We’re short. About five hundred kilograms of water short.” He tossed the phone onto the bench. “We need a Plan B.”

  Valkerie shook her head. “We don’t have a Plan B. This is our only option. We’ve got to go with it. Maybe we can strip down the MAV to lighten the load.”

  “I’ve already taken that into account,” Bob said. “If we can’
t come up with more water somewhere, we’re ...”

  The unspoken word hung in the room like the stench of death.

  * * *

  Wednesday, April 22, 8:00 a.m., Mars Local Time

  Bob

  Bob raised the plastic sheet, forming it into a tube that surrounded him. He heard the sound of duct tape being pulled and cut. Lex taped the seam on the plastic. The storm had kicked up again during the night. Even if they could make enough fuel, they’d still be in for a long, hungry wait. But first he and Valkerie had to bring back the water from the outside greenhouse. Hopefully there was more out there than he remembered.

  “Okay, big guy. You’re ready to go,” Lex spoke into her mike and patted the top of his helmet. “The plastic should take the brunt of the sandblasting. Your other suits are a mess.”

  “Right,” Bob said. Like it mattered. One way or another, they weren’t going to be wearing their EVA suits much longer.

  “Okay.” Valkerie moved toward the airlock.

  Bob shuffled after her, feeling for all the world like a giant toilet‑paper tube.

  Valkerie closed the airlock hatch behind them. “Depressurizing now.”

  A minute later, they were outside in the Martian dust storm, stumbling their way along the perimeter of the Hab. The sand blasted at their plastic shields, scouring them with corrosive, micron‑sized particles. Bob shuffled to the MuleBot and pressed the ignition button. It started right up. AresCorp had designed it to really take a lickin’.

  Valkerie joined him. She hadn’t said much all morning. It was almost like she had given up. Resigned herself to their fate—starving to death on a hostile barren planet. The thought ate into his heart. If she had given up, what hope was left? He’d never in his life known anyone more determined. He opened his mouth to say something. Something encouraging. Something to give her hope. But what could he say? He squeezed her hand and pressed forward. They walked around the Hab. Ghostly pale in the swirling wind, the Ares 10 Hab stood like a gravestone in the hazy morning light. The greenhouse came into view—