"Here you go, Captain," she said as she handed it to Stanton. "This was my personal stash of antibiotics."
Stanton took the injector and shook his head. "Were you planning on killing all of us?"
"Planning?" Gold replied. "No. Prepared to? Yes."
Stanton wasn’t as shocked as he thought he should be. But then he remembered his surroundings, and his task. He jabbed the injector of antibiotics directly into Mtumbe's neck and emptied the capsule. Mtumbe convulsed at the injection, but then laid back, unresponsive.
Stanton picked up the antibiotics pill bottle and opened it. He sniffed inside.
"These don't smell right," he said. "Not like other antibiotics I've taken. Gold, are you sure these are the right pills?"
"It was the only bottle in there marked as antibiotics, and it looked like the same bottle he'd been taking them from," she answered. "I'm not a chemist so I can't say whether they expired or something."
Stanton shook his head. "Well, they sure stopped working. Maybe the bacteria became resistant faster than the antibiotics could kill it."
"If so," said Lin, "then maybe Gold's antibiotic can kill off what's left before—"
But she couldn't finish the sentence. There was nothing left to do but wait and hope and pray.
Then Petrov walked in.
He had become quite the disturbing character since they'd arrived and Stanton knew no one wanted to deal with his foolishness while one of their own lay at death's door. Petrov seemed to sense it as well and said nothing. Instead, he stepped past Gold and Rusakova and over to the captain. Without saying anything he reached into Stanton's suit pouch and extracted the figurine. Stanton watched but didn't try to stop him or say anything. Next, Petrov took the matching figurine from the shelf over Mtumbe's bed. Then, still without saying a word, he left.
Rusakova backed out of the room next. Lin knelt down and started stroking Mtumbe's hair. Gold put a hand on Stanton's shoulder.
"Come on, John," she said. "Mei-Zhu will watch over him. Let's leave him to rest."
Stanton lowered his head but after a moment acquiesced to the suggestion. He squeezed Mtumbe's hand and whispered, "Get better, Daniel. That's an order."
Then he nodded a thank you to Lin and let Gold lead him out of the room and back to her cabin. He plopped down on the bed and put his head in his hands. He wasn't crying but he was tired.
Gold hesitated, then sat down next to him and put her arm over his shoulder.
"He was a good man, Gold," Stanton rasped.
"He still is, John," Gold replied. "Don't give up hope just yet."
Outside, the sun started its early descent into the Martian dusk.
Chapter 57
Dinner was quiet again. Lin stayed with Mtumbe while Stanton and Rusakova ate in the commissary. Gold was tasked with watching Petrov who had retreated to his cabin with the figurines. When Stanton had finished his meal, he went to relieve Gold so she could get something to eat. Rusakova had made it clear she couldn't deal with Petrov any more. Stanton suspected she didn't like being tied to him by their shared nationality.
In any event, Stanton crossed the hall and entered Petrov's cabin-turned-cell.
"I can take over now," he said to Gold, "if you want to get something to eat."
Gold stood up from the small stool by the door. "Thanks. He's been pretty docile. In fact, he hasn't said a word."
"I don't think he's said a word since we got back inside the station," Stanton remarked.
They both looked at Petrov. He was sitting on his bed, his legs pulled up under him cross legged, and was staring at the figurines he held, one in each hand.
"What's he doing?" Stanton whispered.
"I have no idea," Gold replied. "And I'm pretty sure I don't care either."
She slapped Stanton on the back. "Good luck with Rasputin." Then she headed to the commissary for dinner.
Stanton sat on the chair and watched Petrov for a few moments. He suddenly wished he'd brought something to read. Petrov just stared at the figurines, his head rolling ever so slightly to one side and back as he switched his focus from one statuette to the other. He appeared to have finally severed all ties with reality.
So Stanton nearly jumped off the stool when Petrov spoke.
"Objects have powers, you know, Captain," he said without looking up.
Stanton didn’t reply. He figured Petrov would elaborate. He was right.
"They're called goshons in Russian. All other cultures have them too. Totems, tikis, voodoo dolls. They can hold spirits, both good and evil."
"Is that what you think happened to Mtumbe?" Stanton asked, trying unsuccessfully to mask his irritation at the suggestion. "You think he was attacked by an evil spirit from a wiki tiki doll?"
Petrov smiled but kept staring at his figurines. He held one of them up slightly. "When did this get into Commander Mtumbe's room?"
Stanton didn't really want to go down this road, but he went ahead and answered, "Yesterday."
"And how had he been doing before that?"
"He was starting to feel better."
"How has he fared since then?"
Stanton nodded. "He's gotten worse."
Petrov smiled again, not a smile at the misfortune of his crewmate, but rather a grimace of sickening understanding.
"Where did it come from?" he asked.
"Mtumbe found it hidden in Lin's room."
"Which means who found it originally?"
"Someone from the first crew."
"And where are they all now?"
Stanton grimaced. "They're dead."
Petrov shrugged.
Stanton needed one more question answered. "Then why are you still okay, Aleksandr? You have both goshons, right there in your hands."
Petrov nodded. Then he looked up for the first time to face his guest. "That is the very question I am pondering, Captain. I do not know the answer except to say that there are those who are immune to certain effects. Perhaps the spirits have no power over me, or perhaps they are choosing not to affect me."
"Or perhaps they just haven't started attacking you yet," Stanton suggested darkly.
Petrov smiled and nodded some more. Then he looked down again at his figurines. "That is the most likely explanation, I agree. And the one I am most hoping is true."
Petrov never ceased to surprise Stanton. He cocked his head at the Russian. "Now why would that be, Aleksandr?"
"Because the spirits of the goshon can only attack one person at a time," Petrov replied calmly. "If they begin to attack me it will mean they have ceased to attack Daniel. I can only hope it will not be because he has died."
"I hope that too," Stanton replied. "But I'd like to get us out of this without anyone else dying."
Petrov returned his gaze to the figurines in his grasp. "I have been shown shadows of my fate, Captain," he said as simply as telling the color of the sky. "I shall not be returning to Earth."
Chapter 58
"Do not talk like that, Aleksandr." It was Rusakova. She had walked up behind Stanton in time to hear Petrov's last comment. "We will all be going home soon. Even Daniel."
Petrov smiled, but didn't look at her. "Oh, Oksana," he said. "I did not know you cared."
"I do not, Aleksandr," Oksana replied. "Not after all of the things you have done and said. But the captain is doing his best and does not need a self pitying, fake psychic stealing valuable time and energy from him."
Petrov frowned. "I am not self pitying," he protested. "And I am not a fake. I do not wish to be sensing the things I am sensing. I did not wish this for myself, Oksana."
"I am not so sure, Aleksandr. You have become very important, more important than you deserve. I wonder if this is not all some act just to be interesting."
"All right you two," Stanton interrupted. "I don't need another fight on board this station. What brings you to Petrov's cabin, Lieutenant?"
"Ah, yes," said Rusakova. "Gold said she needs to speak with you. She asked me to w
atch Aleksandr for you so that you and she might talk."
Stanton mentally rolled his eyes. As if he didn't have enough to worry about.
"She said it was important."
"I'm sure she did." Stanton stood up from the stool. "You two play nice, okay?"
"Yes, Captain," said Petrov. "We will."
"I will try," was all Rusakova could promise.
Stanton stepped across the hall to the commissary where Gold was waiting for him.
"You beckoned, milady?" Stanton said as he sat down opposite her at the small table.
Gold acknowledged the joke with the faintest of smiles. "We need to talk," she said matter-of-factly.
"About what exactly?" There was so much that had happened since they'd arrived.
"What did you see in that passageway?" asked Gold. "Was it just the figurine?"
Stanton's first impulse was to lie and tell her 'Yes,' but he realized they would need to help each other. Besides, although he didn't exactly trust her, he had grown to respect her. Perhaps she might be able to make some sense out of what he'd seen.
"No, it wasn't just the figurine," he confided. "The passage went back quite a ways, into some even smaller recessed areas, barely big enough to fit in at all."
Gold didn't say anything, but her eyes encouraged him to go on.
"But what was most interesting," he said, "aside from maybe the figurine, was a carving in the wall."
Gold raised an interested eyebrow. "A carving? You mean like the tool marks we saw outside?"
Stanton shook his head. "No, it was more than that. It was an image."
"An image?" asked Gold. "Like a picture?"
"Maybe symbol is a better word," said Stanton. He pulled a plate over between them and grabbed a condiment packet. He tore the corner and squeezed out a line on the plate.
"It was an X," he explained as he replicated the image, "with something above it. I thought it looked like a horse, but it wasn't a very good drawing."
"So now you're an art critic?" joked Gold.
"More like a haunted Martian catacomb etching critic," replied Stanton with a grin. "I believe I'm mankind's foremost expert on the subject right now."
"I suppose that's probably true," Gold admitted.
Stanton finished drawing the horse-thing and moved his hands away in a 'ta da' motion.
Gold looked at it with curiosity, then looked again with recognition. She suddenly reached out and spun the plate so the image was right side up for her.
After a moment she said, "Oh, dear." She examined the sketch again. "John, we have to talk."
Stanton was surprised by the urgency underlying her tone.
"Don't tell me you drew it?" he tried joking.
"No, I didn't draw it," Gold said. "And I didn't carve 'Croatoan' in the corridor support post."
Stanton nodded. "I kind of already knew that, but thanks for confirming it."
Gold shook her head and exhaled in clear irritation. "They're related, John."
"Who are?" Stanton was confused.
Gold exhaled again. "The drawing you saw and the 'Croatoan' carving."
"You know, I do want to hear about that," Stanton interrupted, "but since you've finally admitted doing something you insisted you didn't do—or rather admitted to not doing something you insisted you did do—could you just explain to me why you said you did it?"
Gold shook her head. "Well, it was obvious no one from our crew had done it. And it was obvious that it was freaking everybody out. You were ready to comm back to Command about it. It could have jeopardized the entire mission. So I said I did it to calm everybody down and give us a chance to gather more information."
"What did you think would happen to endanger the mission?"
"I was afraid Command would just shut us down and send us home," Gold answered, "especially if—" but she stopped herself.
"Especially if what?" Stanton pressed.
Gold grimaced and looked down. "Especially if they heard fear in your voice."
That stung Stanton.
You don't get to be first, Ferguson had told him once, because they know you're not fearless. You don't have to be fearless to be the second guy, but you'd damn well better be fearless if you're gonna be the first man on Mars.
"I— I don't think they would have heard any fear," Stanton stammered back.
"Maybe not," Gold replied. "But they would have heard concern and might have misinterpreted it."
Stanton didn't say anything.
"That's what makes you such a good captain, John," said Gold. "You care about your crew. Even the late addition, government mole, ice princess."
Stanton looked up and smiled at her self deprecating description.
"You care, John," she repeated. "That's what makes you the perfect man for this rescue mission."
Stanton looked Gold in the eye. He was about to say 'Thanks, Cassie,' when Lin walked in.
"I thought I heard your voice, Captain," she said. "I thought you might want to know how Daniel—I mean, Commander Mtumbe—is doing."
"I do, Lieutenant," Stanton smiled. "How is he?"
Lin shrugged. "Well, he's not up and dancing just yet, but he seems more comfortable."
"Well, that's something," said Stanton.
"Hopefully it means he's getting better," said Lin, "and not that he's almost, that is, I mean—"
Lin bit back the words.
"I know what you mean," said Stanton. "We'll just have to wait and hope."
"I hope you burn in hell!" Rusakova screamed from Petrov's room.
Stanton, Gold, and Lin looked at each other then jumped up and ran across the hallway to Petrov's room.
Petrov was standing up and was shaking the figurines over his head. "We must not anger them further, Oksana!" he was pleading. "Our fates are in their hands."
"Damn them!" Rusakova yelled at him, oblivious to the others who had arrived. "And damn you, Aleksandr Ivanovich Petrov!"
"They are angry now, Oksana! I hope you are happy. I hope you are prepared for what will happen next!"
"What will happen next, Aleksandr?! What will your imaginary spirits do to us next, eh?"
And this time when the lights went out, they couldn't blame a sandstorm.
Chapter 59
"Roll call!" shouted Stanton.
"Lin!" responded the lieutenant.
But that was the only response. Footsteps could be heard running toward the rest of the station. Stanton hoped it was Gold or Rusakova running to switch on the emergency power. But he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach this time.
Before he could think of anything else, he felt a hand over his mouth and lips pressed against his ear. Gold's hair and the smell of her skin folded against him as she placed her other hand under his arm and pulled him back toward the commissary.
"Trust me," she whispered.
He did. He allowed himself to be pulled out of the hallway.
"That's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about," Gold whispered into his ear again, the softness of hair almost too distracting. "Someone stole my gun, remember?"
Stanton nodded, even though no one could see. He did remember. And it had to be one of the four people out there in the dark. If it was Mtumbe, he was no threat in his current condition. If it was Lin, Stanton trusted her enough not to worry too much—although he couldn’t think of why would she do something so out of character. If it was Rusakova, that would be bad. Her patience had worn thin and her emotions were right at the surface. The only thing that could have been worse was if Petrov had stolen it.
"Don't worry," whispered Gold. "I have another one."
Stanton heard her rack the slide, loading a cartridge into the chamber. It wasn't a sound Stanton had heard a lot, but it wasn't something he was completely unfamiliar with. It was a distinctive noise, and not a quiet one, especially in the silence of a pitch black space station. So he was absolutely certain the next noise he heard was the slide of a second gun being racked out in the ha
llway. Directly outside the commissary. Where Petrov's room was.
The next sound was accompanied by the muzzle flash as the gun from the hallway was fired into the commissary, directly at him and Gold.
There was no time to react, so by the time he wondered if he'd be hit, he knew he hadn't. He then wondered, first, whether Gold had been hit, and second, if she hadn't, whether the bullet had breeched the station wall.
The second question was answered by the fact that no blast wall was descending to seal off the commissary. The first question was answered when Gold fired back.
Chapter 60
The muzzle flash lit up Gold's determined, yet surprisingly calm countenance. The sound of the blasts echoed off the metal commissary walls. Stanton always forgot how loud the discharge of a firearm was. The next sounds were what he had been so relieved not to hear with the first shot: a scream of pain and a whoosh of air.
"Hold your fire!" shouted Lin as she ran down the hallway from the control room with a floodlight. It lit a well of approximately one meter diameter almost like daylight. She stopped in the center of the corridor, right between the commissary and Petrov's room, and right between the two shooters: Gold and Rusakova.
Rusakova sat on Petrov's bed, the gun extended in her still shaking hands. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, abject terror on her face.
Petrov sat behind her, the figurines still grasped in his tightly coiled hands, his eyes skyward, and a dark, gushing gunshot wound in his neck.
Directly behind him, in the wall, was a bullet hole, which had fragmented the brittle station wall into a half-meter wide gash. It whistled as their air supply raced out into the thinner Martian atmosphere.
"The ghosts were coming for us," said Rusakova without blinking. "Aleksandr said they were coming for us."
Just then the power snapped back on. Although that ordinarily would have been a reason for relief, Stanton jumped up and shouted, "No!"
But it was too late. The alarm went off and the blast wall smashed down, sealing off Rusakova inside Petrov's small room. By the time they figured out how to raise the wall again, or got outside to patch the hole, she would be asphyxiated.
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