S Morden - No Way

Frank started to sweat. The top of the volcano was all but flat, and the drop into the caldera sharp and fatal. Upslope and downslope didn’t mean much. His tablet was losing its connection more than it was finding it again, much like his suit, even out of the valley. But it was all they had. He opened it up and held it so that dust would blow against its back, not its screen.

Bear left. A hundred yards, was all.

He held it out in front of Isla’s faceplate. “We’re almost there,” he said. Then repeated it because he’d dropped out again.

“Copy that.” She turned the controls and slowly, through the shifting brown haze, another set of lights began to resolve.

The lights dimmed, then grew again. They were signaling.

“We see you,” said Fan.

The outpost was just a pale ghost, barely visible, and even with the suit lights on, it was difficult to navigate the steps. They cycled the airlock two at a time, trying to save power. Frank stayed outside with Lucy. He caught her staring out into the void, thinking she’d failed, knowing she’d endangered her crew in trying to succeed, realizing that she’d let emotions get in the way of practical decisions.

He nudged her arm and pointed to the airlock, and she seemed to just look through him for a moment. He’d been there too, and it wasn’t a good place to be. Then she recovered, shaking herself like a wet dog would. She swiveled round and walked into the empty airlock. Frank followed her, closed the door, and waited for the pumps to kick in.

[Transcript of briefing given by NASA press secretary, Houston TX 3/5/2049 21:00CT]

It is with profound regret that I have to announce that Dr. James “Jim” Zamudio, geologist and crew member of the Ares IV mission to Mars Base One, is missing. The window of time in which Jim could have been found alive has now closed. We mourn with the surviving crew at this most profound and unwelcome loss.

[transcript ends]

Lucy finally gave the order to abandon the outpost just before sunset. The wind, as insubstantial as it was, was throwing material against the taut skin of the hab and making it thrum like a bass. The sound resonated in their guts, to the point where some of the astronauts started complaining of nausea.

Fan examined those affected, but there was nothing he could do to stop the noise. That it was also stupidly hot inside didn’t help either. That was very much against Frank’s expectations, as he thought they’d be freezing their asses off as nightfall approached. Yun explained that the dust transferred energy in the form of heat when it hit the hab walls: the more dust, the more heat.

Those weren’t the only two factors persuading Lucy down. Even though they’d parked the buggies on the sheltered side, they’d still taken the brunt of six hours in a storm. If grit was going to get into the wheel hubs, or the controls, or abrade cables and weaken joints, today was going to be the day.

There was the lack of air, water, sanitation, and food too. The situation was impossible. She hung on for as long as she could, then pulled them out.

The floor of the hab was red with dust from where it had fallen off their suits. They knocked more off climbing back into them: it would all need cleaning out before it could function as a scientific station again.

Lucy instructed them all to swap out their life supports for fresh ones for the descent. Just in case they had to walk some of the way. It was sensible, but it also underlined the state they’d let themselves get into. They shouldn’t have been there. If it hadn’t been for Jim, they wouldn’t have been.

“Lance? You know the way better than the rest of us. Take us back.”

Last in, first out. Frank hugged his old life support pack and walked into the airlock. Someone came in behind him, and Frank nudged the cycle button with his elbow. The pump chugged. Slowly. The batteries were low, but everyone behind him knew how to vent the locks manually.

It was like walking out into a… back when he was a kid, someone had had an old-style TV, that worked on broadcast, not digital. The cable had come out of the box, and the screen had filled with static, a moving, hissing storm of black and white. That, only in black and red. Just the other side of his faceplate.

He put his pack down before even leaving the confines of the airlock and dialed up his lights to maximum, then edged out onto the platform. He could see the edges of things. They came and went.

“This is bad,” he said. “Stay together.”

He turned round and pushed his helmet against that of the astronaut behind him. Isla. She looked absolutely fucking terrified. Maybe he did too. He nodded to her and repeated his warning. She nodded back.

He faced front and worked his way down the steps, remembering to turn right at the bottom, and around to the lee side of the hab. Visibility was marginally better: he could actually see the shapes of the front of the buggies. He went around the other side, and stood in the shelter of the wheel.

“I’ll climb up. Pass me the packs when I’m there.”

He dropped his again and went hand over hand back into the red static. It was evil stuff. He wiped his faceplate, turning his back to the storm, and took the proffered life support packs, ratcheting them down with straps.

A third was handed up, and he was traveling with Fan again. He fixed the last pack in place, and swept the driver’s seat as clear as he could of debris before sitting in it.

The control screen was all but invisible. He wiped the dust to one side, and pushed at the on switch.

A heart-stopping moment when nothing happened, then: lights. The old girl really didn’t like the weather, and neither did he.

The last pair of suits went by, on their way to the second buggy. He checked the watts left in the fuel cell, ran the calculations in his head, and decided it was going to be enough. Just. But if it was as bad at the bottom of the mountain as it was at the top, then they weren’t going to be recharging them any time soon.

The chassis rocked and settled as he gained passengers, and there was a moment when they were all ready, just sitting in the humming, spitting darkness, waiting for someone to say something.

“Lucy?”

“Copy that. Roll out.”

Frank turned the front lights to the max, and eased away. The full—it was wrong to call it force—effect of the storm enveloped him. The lights, normally bright enough to turn night into day, seemed to get no further than just in front of him, and precious little reached the ground. Did he know the way to the Santa Clara? Everything familiar had been obliterated. He could get them close. That would have to do.

So: round in front of the hab, turn north-west. Travel for fifteen hundred yards, and hope.

He set the counter, brought up the virtual compass, and crawled forward. The counter ticked over, the numbers becoming indistinct. He dragged his fingers across his faceplate. And again. He ran across the rims of craters he couldn’t see and would normally avoid. The suspension in the wheels responded sluggishly, adding vibrations to the slow lurching of the frame.

Fifteen hundred and two. He stopped, staring out into the ever-shifting wall of red. He couldn’t focus on it. He couldn’t focus through it.

“Hold up,” he said. “I need to find the entrance.” He unbuckled himself and pulled himself upright. “One of you needs to drive.”

Isla spoke. “I’ll do it.”

Frank climbed down, and, with one hand on the side, walked to the back.

“OK. Release the winch. Run it free.”

He pulled on the cable, then fed it behind first the back wheel, then the front wheel, so that it went directly under the buggy, to the front. He looped it around the frame. Then he fixed the heavy hitch to his waist belt and started walking.