Devereaux, mask still in place, face pale, took deep breaths.
“Are you all right?” Poole asked him.
“I think my collarbone is broken,” he said through the mask.
“Don’t try to move.” Poole’s collarbone was likely broken too. Two years under the Moon’s low gravity had weakened her bones despite the exercises she’d done to prevent that. And Devereaux, no longer a young man, had been up there a year. Quark and the cadets had the advantage of their Escala natures to keep their bones strong, while the other passengers hadn’t been on the Moon nearly as long.
“Did you see that?” Lendra asked.
“What?” Poole said. She looked around, trying to spot what Lendra had seen.
“Rendela. She flew right into those missiles.” Lendra’s voice carried awe and disbelief. “Their LTV could have gotten through. She could have avoided them. Instead she cut right in front of us, blew herself up.”
Lendra, Poole realized, was right. Rendela, from her forward position, could have eluded the missiles.
Up front, Zora stared out the window, perhaps mourning the loss of Rendela or replaying the scene in her mind but more likely using her implant to communicate with someone, while Curtik removed his helmet and turned to face the cabin. His face no longer carried that insouciant grin Poole had grown to loathe. Instead he wore a shocked and grim expression. Poole doubted she’d ever be able to fully forgive him, but at this moment she pitied him.
Now Jeremiah walked forward, pulling himself along with his arms to minimize the weight on his still-healing legs. He reached the front of the LTV and reached out for Curtik, pulling the boy into a hug that Curtik returned. “It’s going to be okay,” Jeremiah said as he stretched out his right arm and pulled Zora into the embrace as well. The three of them huddled for what seemed a long time.
Then Jeremiah and Curtik patted each other on the back and pulled away, though Jeremiah continued to rest his hand on Zora’s shoulder.
Faintly in the distance, sirens sounded, a reassuring cadence announcing the imminent arrival of assistance. Poole felt her heart breaking all over again. She was home. But without Jack Marschenko. Sorrow and self-pity overflowed from within; tears streamed down her cheeks. Great wracking sobs forced her torso up and down, creating twinges of sharp pain centered in her collarbone. She cried not just for those she knew and loved but for all the dead on the Moon and here on Earth. Millions sacrificed for Elias Leach’s insane plan to unite the world. Millions sacrificed because of her actions.
Well, no more. She was done following orders. God or the fates or karma had punished her for her wrongdoing by taking away the people she loved. And heaven knew she deserved that punishment because even though she’d told herself she was doing the right thing, she’d known deep down she wasn’t.
So, God, Poole thought, whether you’re up there or not, I’m going to change my life around. I’m going to be more like Devereaux and Quark and Jeremiah Jones. I’m going to be principled and selfless. I’m going to work for the common good instead of just for myself. I won’t ask for anything else for me. You run your universe. I’ll run my life in a way that will make me proud of me, no matter what anyone else thinks.
To her surprise, she found she’d actually expected an answer and she immediately realized that it was because of implants and interfaces. Why couldn’t God communicate with her that way?
The sirens grew louder, as did the roar of jet-copters.
Quark got to his feet and made his way to the door, where emergency med techs began pounding on it and calling out. He told them to stand back, twisted the latches and put his shoulder against the door. It didn’t move. Backing up, he raised his foot and kicked the door, hammering it again and again until it suddenly sprang clear and the med techs were able to rush inside.
The air of Earth flooded the cabin—hot, dry and unprocessed—fresh air that Poole hadn’t breathed in two years. She blinked away the tears as she waited for the med techs to assist her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The air felt cold and thin, as if he were climbing a mountain. The simple effort of chewing an energy bar forced Colonel Truman to take deep breaths. He tightened the blanket around his shoulders as he finished the food, then glanced down at the plas-tarp that housed the unconscious Russians. It had been sealed on two sides, one of the precious heaters blowing hot air toward the couple to keep them warm, but that left only one heater for the rest of the room. And the Verlorens huddled before that one.
Li Chen and her husband Li Huan had done everything they could for Gregor and Maria, but their bodies were shutting down. Truman had finally dabbed a small dosage of neo-dopamine onto each of their tongues, hoping that might at least keep them in a state of quasi-hibernation, lowering pulse, blood pressure and respiration. He wondered if he ought to concede that they weren’t going to make it and take their heater away.
Mottz nudged Truman. “We gotta put the Verlorens in the tarp and seal it up. Those kids ain’t gonna survive much longer out here.”
Truman nodded as he studied the girls. Kaylee and Kyler sat in their parents’ laps, blankets wrapped around them, the heater directly in front of them, and yet their little bodies still shivered. They’d been so brave, rarely crying or whining these past three days.
“And we could use another shot of neo-dopamine,” Mottz added.
“Yeah,” Mishra said. “Let’s get another hit.”
“When was the last dosage?” Truman asked.
“Fourteen hours ago,” Joffer said.
“Okay,” Truman said as he reached for the glass bulb. He noticed Mottz’s hands clenching and unclenching, while Joffer bounced on the balls of his feet.
Mottz said, “Hell, we’re going to be rescued soon anyway.” He glanced over at the kids. “Sorry about the language.”
“That’s right,” Truman said. He wanted the girls to believe that this would be over soon. “The Brazilians and probably the Germans will be the first ones here.”
Truman unscrewed the top of the glass bulb, looked at the tiny amount of neo-dopamine remaining, and offered it to Mottz, who dipped a fingertip into the bulb and licked it clean. The other adults followed, each dipping a finger into the gel and sucking on it for a moment. After Roanne and Brian took their share, only a small residue coated the inside of the glass bulb. Truman swabbed it with his little finger and licked it clean. Again he felt a rush of happiness—a pleasure far out of tune with their situation. He knew it wouldn’t last, but he savored the moment. For a while, no one spoke.
“Okay,” Truman finally said, “time to put the Verlorens in the tarp.” He smiled at Kyler and Kaylee. “It’ll be just like a big tent. You’ll be snug as a bug in a rug—safe and sound—cozy and toasty. Okey dokey?”
Kyler nodded, though her lower lip quivered. Kaylee kept her head pressed tightly into her mother’s chest as she sucked her thumb. Brian Verloren ruffled Kyler’s hair and struggled to his feet. Truman helped him up.
“It’ll be fun,” Brian said. “Honey? You ready?”
Roanne looked at Brian, her eyebrows raised, her nostrils flaring. “Let’s use the toilet one last time, collect some energy bars and get inside.”
Mishra said, “There is one problem with sealing the tarp now, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“Once we seal the tarp and get the oxygen generator ejecting oxygen into that space, we’ll have to wear our spacesuits, and they only provide enough air for ten or maybe twelve hours.”
“That’s assuming we stay very still,” Li Huan said. “If we have to work—sealing up the tarp, moving around—we might only get seven or eight hours.”
“There’s another possibility,” Joffer said. “We might be able to get the door open. There might be breathable air on the other side. We could then move out into the tunnel and wait for a rescue there. The downside, of course, i
s that we might waste a lot of energy and oxygen in the process, leaving ourselves even less time before we run out of air.”
They all looked at Truman, waiting for his decision. Strangely, he felt calm—half-buzzed by the neo-dopamine.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s suit up and get the Verlorens sealed inside the tarp. Mishra, Li Huan and Li Chen—you lie down and wait while Mottz, Joffer and I try to get the door open. That way you’ll be preserving your oxygen as long as possible. If we can’t get the door open, you’ll at least have the maximum amount of time provided by the suits.”
“What about you three?” Mishra said. “If you don’t get the door open, or if there’s no oxygen behind it . . .”
“We’ll be fine,” Truman said as he looked at Kyler and Kaylee. “We’ll all be fine. You girls go use the toilet and climb into the tarp with your parents. We’ll give you a light and the heater. It’ll be just like camping. Have you ever gone camping?”
Kyler said, “I camped in a tent with my dad once, but Kaylee was too little.”
“Well,” Truman said, “this will be Kaylee’s chance to camp with you and your folks.”
“Are we going to die?” Kyler said. She pointed to the pile of corpses against the wall, covered by blankets. “Like them?”
“No,” Truman said. “Absolutely not. Mottz and Joffer and I are going to find a way out.”
“Don’t leave us out,” Mishra said. He gestured toward the Chinese engineers. “You need our expertise. Don’t try to stop us from helping.”
Li Huan and Li Chen both nodded.
“All for one and one for all,” Truman said as he reached for a spacesuit. “It won’t be much longer now.” He caught Kyler’s eye. “I kind of wish there was enough room in the tarp for me to camp with you. I think there might even be marshmallows.”
* * *
While Mishra, Li Chen and Li Huan monitored the tarp, resealing the edges as they developed leaks, Mottz and Joffer pounded on the door with heavy rocks. Truman wielded a crowbar, but the door must have been warped just enough to wedge it tightly into the frame. Perhaps if it had opened outward they could have applied enough force to spring it free. But they had no luck.
After an hour, Mishra, Li Chen and Li Huan concocted a winch system that they attached to the door handle. Hoping to maximize the oxygen remaining in his suit, Truman tried to slow his breathing as he helped Joffer reseal a leak in the tarp that wouldn’t stay welded tight. Finally Mottz lifted a massive rock and set it atop that spot, which diminished the amount of room available inside the tarp, but ensured a better seal. Hopefully none of the Verlorens were claustrophobic.
Despite the QuikHeal patches, Truman’s leg felt weak and rather numb. He supposed the bandages could only do so much. For a moment he wondered if his leg would be so damaged he’d have to retire. He laughed. Yeah, that’s my biggest worry—whether they’ll force me to retire.
Mishra tapped Truman on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs up, indicating that they were ready to try the winch. God, it would be nice if the comm units in the suits were still functioning. Mottz and Joffer grabbed crowbars while Li Chen took hold of the door handle, turning it so that the latch wouldn’t stick in the jamb.
Truman joined Li Huan and Mishra on the cable they had attached to a pulley. Together they pulled as Mottz and Joffer assisted with their crowbars. For a moment the door appeared to move; then the handle flew off and hit Truman’s helmet hard, leaving a small star-shaped crack in the faceplate. Truman, Mishra and Li Huan fell in a heap. Truman managed to get back to his feet but he heard a hissing that was louder than the normal sound of oxygen flowing through the regulator. The crack must go all the way through the faceplate. He put his hand to the crack in a futile attempt to stem the flow of air.
Joffer dove past him, searching for something in the toolbox. He came up with a roll of duct tape and a utility knife. He and Mottz used the knife to separate out a layer of tape, their gloved fingers being useless for the task. Mottz brushed Truman’s hand aside as Joffer taped the helmet.
Duct tape! Again Truman laughed.
He wondered if he was becoming hysterical or if the neo-dopamine was making him giddy. He stood patiently while Mottz and Joffer applied layer after layer of tape to the crack. Soon Truman could see almost nothing. But at least the hissing had returned to the normal sound of the regulator.
Mottz pointed to the tarp and raised his hands in a question, obviously wondering if they ought to move Truman inside it. But the seal on the tarp was fragile enough. There was no telling how long it would last even if it wasn’t tampered with. And there wasn’t room for him anyway, so Truman shook his head.
Mottz tapped Truman’s helmet and gave him a thumb’s up, his eyebrows raised in a question. Truman closed his eyes and listened for a moment. Was there still an ever-so-slight hiss emanating from the crack? He couldn’t be certain. He shrugged. Mottz and Joffer went to work with the tape again, sealing off even the tiny area that had allowed Truman to see. He knew they had to because the crack could worsen in any direction, but he didn’t like being blinded.
Now he could only wait.
He allowed Mottz and Joffer to lay him down beside the tarp, out of the way. Mottz gently squeezed his shoulder. Then they were gone. How much air had he lost? Did he have hours or only minutes? It was fitting, he supposed, that he should be the first to die. He was their leader, though he’d done little in the way of leading.
When he held his breath he could still hear the flow of air, but he couldn’t tell if that was just the regulator or something worse. So instead he focused on slowing his breathing and heartrate. The inside of his suit felt almost like a sensory deprivation chamber—buried alive in nothingness, with only a slight hiss for sound. He wiggled his toes, his fingers. What were Mottz and Joffer planning now? Maybe they’d given up and were conserving their air as well.
The neo-dopamine was wearing off. His leg and back hurt. At the same time he felt a heavy drowsiness coming over him. Was that due to oxygen deprivation? Was this what it was like to suffocate? No. He’d begin to struggle when that happened. Probably.
For some reason his mind drifted to Elias Leach, the son of a bitch who’d created this whole mess. Leach was extremely intelligent and by all accounts well intentioned, and yet he’d proven to be the biggest mass murderer in history.
Devereaux, on the other hand, never forced his will on anyone. Everything about him bespoke a selfless love of others and an ingenuity so far beyond the bounds of genius that Truman could understand his conviction that humans had the potential to become better than they were, for Devereaux had become better than human.
Was he a better man for having known Walt Devereaux? He didn’t feel like a better man, although he’d tried to be good. Did it matter anymore, entombed on the Moon? Whatever potential he had, whatever possibilities might have awaited him, were gone now.
Humans were such amazing creatures, so paradoxical. Able to reach the intellectual heights of people like Aristotle, Einstein and Walt Devereaux, yet ever subject to the capricious whims of demanding emotion—the kind of anger and despair that energized terrorists the world over. Perhaps life on Earth would always be that way. Perhaps we would never be able to evolve beyond that paradox.
A beep startled him.
The oxygen tank’s warning system. That meant he had less than ten minutes of air remaining. Damn! The suit must still be leaking.
He had to get inside the tarp now.
He reached over and fumbled for it, finally locating the welded seam. He could easily rip it open and force his way inside. Mottz, Joffer and the others might be able to re-seal it. He grabbed the two sides of the seam and prepared to pull it apart.
Then he thought of Devereaux again. And as much as he wanted to live, he realized he couldn’t risk sacrificing the others. Even though getting inside the tarp might buy him a few mor
e minutes, it might also kill everyone inside.
Devereaux would say that the greatest power we have is over the self—the ability to transcend our baser desires for the sake of a greater good. We don’t have to be greedy or scared or angry if we choose not to be. We can control our impulses and our suffering by ceasing to want more than we have, by celebrating the singular present, without thought to the past or future or even the external. We get to decide how we live. And the greatest expression of our humanity is compassion—not total selflessness, for the existence of self is necessary to the definition of the world around us. We cannot have compassion for others without understanding that they are like us, that we are all the same and yet also different—unique and identical—ultimate paradoxes, striving for the unattainable while accepting our imperfect limitations, refusing to attack ourselves for failing to live up to the standards the best of us set, but always keeping in mind that we can do better by simply making the effort: one thought, one gesture, one prayer at a time.
Truman imagined Mottz and Joffer sitting beside the door, the big Elite Ops trooper’s arm over the cadet’s shoulder as they waited for the rescue. Goodbye, friends. He imagined Mishra lying beside Li Huan and Li Chen, conserving their oxygen as they fought to remain brave. I wish you courage. And he saw the Verlorens inside the tarp he had nearly ruined, Kyler and Kaylee playing a game of Name that Animal with their parents as they’d done a dozen times the past few days, Brian and Roanne keeping them calm and distracted. I wish for you a long and happy future.
He realized that he was still holding the tarp by the seam and let it go. The air was getting worse inside the suit. He felt a tremor beneath him. Or was that his body reacting to the loss of oxygen? He began to feel heavy—drowsy. And he recalled that one of the features of the suit was that it would disperse an aerosol when the oxygen content reached a critical level. It was designed to offer a painless death in the event of suffocation. That must be what he was experiencing. Would it cause hallucinations or just put him into a deep sleep?
The Susquehanna Virus Box Set Page 82