George Martin - Old Mars

Moving that way, I soon saw Dad, lying out on the ice. When I trudged to where he lay, I saw the snow around him had blossomed red and frozen, like a strawberry ice drink. I got down on my knees and tried to help him. He put out a hand.

“Don’t touch me,” he said. “It hurts too much.”

“Oh, Dad,” I said.

“There’s nothing for it,” he said. “Not a thing. I’m bleeding out.”

“I know how to sew you up,” I said. “You taught me.”

He shook his head. “Won’t do any good. I’m all torn up inside. I can feel how stuff has moved around, and I’m not getting any stronger here. Prop me up.”

There was a seat cushion, and I got that. I took it back to Dad, gently lifted him up, and rested his head on it.

He said, “When the sun gets to the middle there, I won’t be with you.”

“Don’t say that,” I said.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said. “I’m telling you how things are, and I’m about to tell you how things have to be, before I’m too weak to do it. I’m going to die, and you should leave me here and take the medicine, if it survived, if you can find it, and you got to take one of the sleds and go across the ice, into the mountains, and make your way over to Far Side.”

“That’s miles and miles,” I said.

“It is, but you can do it. I have faith. Those people have to have the cure.”

“What about you?” I said.

“I told you how that’s going to turn out. I love you. I did my best. You have to do the same.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“He didn’t have anything to do with it. Alive or dead, he never shows up. You got to do it on your own, and the thing that’s got to carry you is knowing that you’re a King. Think of it like an adventure, like those cheap romance novels I used to read to you.”

He meant adventure novels. They were old stories, like Ivanhoe , and he said they were called romances, but they were primarily stories of high adventure. Right then, I didn’t feel too terribly adventurous. I wanted to lie down beside him and die right along with him. When I was dead, I didn’t care what happened to us. Frozen in ice, or eaten by snow runners, or those buzzards with red-tipped wings. It was all the same to me.

“You got to see yourself as a hero,” Dad said. “You got to see yourself as a savior. I know that sounds prideful, but you got to see yourself that way. You got to find that bag, and you got to put it and you on a sled and start out. The supplies may have survived too. You’ll need them. There are plenty of things out there on the Martian ice, so you got to stay alert. You’ll be able to make it. Go quick as you can. But watch for the ice, and what’s under the ice, and what flies above it, and what lives on it.”

I nodded.

Dad grinned then. “I’m not making it sound easy.”

“No,” I said. “You’re not.”

“Well, it isn’t easy. But you’re a King. You can do it.”

And I swear right then, no sooner had he said those words, he closed his eyes and was as long gone as the day before.

The smart thing to do was to leave him, but I couldn’t. Not to be eaten by Martian birds, and whatever else might come along. I strapped him onto one of the sleds that I found in the wreckage. There were two. The other had been crunched up and was nearly in a ball. The one I used had some bends and gaps in the metal, but it was serviceable. I searched around for the medicine and supplies. They were easy to find. I put them on the sled.

The supplies had food and water and lighting, first aid, flares, blankets, tubes of this and that, and even a pair of snowshoes, all tightened up in a little bundle; but with a touch of a finger they would spread out and form to any foot.

I went then and got Dad and dragged him over to the sled. Being so confused, I didn’t have enough sense to take the sled to him. I pulled one of the five weather blankets from the supply packet and wrapped him in it. It fastened up easy on the sides, and over his feet and head. I managed him into the sled, up near the front. I put the supplies and the medicine in there with him.

I took my place in the seat and pulled the clear lid over me and sat there and thought a moment. Looking out in front of me, seeing Dad’s body shaped in the blanket, I started to cry. That went on for a while. I won’t lie to you. It was a tough moment, and right then, once again, I thought maybe the Kings did quit; at least this one might.

Finally, I got myself together and turned the switch and hit the throttle. The sled jumped forward and I steered. As I went, I popped one of the compass pills. I didn’t feel anything at first, but then there was a subtle twist in my brain, like a hot worm trying to find a place to rest, and I knew. I knew how to go. The pills were like that. One could get you set in the direction you needed. They were made from a Martian worm, which is why I said I felt like a worm was in my head. It was that kind of sensation. Something in the worm’s DNA allowed it to travel from one end of Mars to another; consuming one, you got the same ability. You knew what the worm knew, and all it knew was direction. You didn’t have to wait as long for it to kick in. It was nearly an instant sensation.

The sled hummed and the rig beneath it split the snow and slid across the ice. It had some lift about it too. I needed it, the machine could float up to ten or twelve feet, and I could float on water, and it was airtight enough to act for a short time like a minisubmarine. It sure beat snowshoes.

All this world, and all the worlds there are, and all the stars, and all that is our universe, are connected. That’s what Dad used to tell me. I, however, felt anything but connected. I felt like a particle to which nothing could be fastened.

I sled-bumped a few spots where the snow had drifted across the ice, then there were no drifts, just this long expanse of blue and white like a sheet stretched tight, and far away a thin line of mountains on the horizon that seemed to recede, not come closer.

After some time, I stopped and popped the lid on the sled and got out. Inside the sled, it was comfortable because there was a heater and I had wrapped my legs in one of the thermal blankets, the same sort Dad’s body was wrapped in. Outside, the air cut like a frozen knife. I found a spot to relieve myself that looked like all the other spots available. I dropped my pants and squatted to pee. It was cold on my butt. Anyway, I did my business, and while I was doing it, I saw it coming.

At first, I thought it was an illusion, mirage. But no, it was real. A black fin had broken the ice, and it had broken it violently enough that I heard it crack, though I figure I was a quarter mile from that fin. I didn’t know what it was from experience, but I had read about it and recognized it that way.

It was an ice shark, big as killer whales on Earth, but sleeker, with a black fin and tentacles that exploded from its head like confetti strands but were considerably more dangerous. It could travel on the surface or underneath, and could even crawl on land for a long time. Its fin was harder than any known metal and could crack the ice without effort. The ice shark had a tremendous sense of smell, a bit of radar, not as highly developed as the bat, but effective enough. It could squeeze into tight places, like oatmeal sliding through a colander. It had most likely smelled my urine and had come for lunch.

I yanked up my pants and made a quick-step trip back to the sled, slid into place, and closed the lid and gave it the juice. Too much juice. It jumped, came back down with a smack. For a horrid moment, I thought maybe I had done myself in, destroyed my transportation and shelter, but then, away it went.

I pulled the view screen over and took a look through the backview cameras. It was still coming, and it looked closer, and I knew those cameras were not entirely accurate; the shark was considerably closer than it appeared.