S Morden - One Way

Was Marcy going as fast as she dared? Probably. And faster than that, even. It hurt, and he had to hang on. If he fell off, would she come back for him? Would she even notice? It wasn’t like she could turn her head and look behind her. If he called out, what would she do? She’d probably stop, pick him up again, even if it killed both of them.

He did and didn’t want to know how much margin of error they had left. Ignorance was both bliss and terrifying.

Despite only having been this way once, and from the other direction, he was starting to recognize the terrain. The low, ragged hills down the middle of the crater. The rise of the walls a thousand feet up, completely enclosing the low land. The bulk of the volcano, felt rather than seen, on the southern edge. And the steep rise that was looming ahead of them that they’d had to navigate on the way out.

The one that had loose granular sand all the way up to the top.

Marcy throttled back, and let the buggy roll to a halt. She took a moment to check her suit controls, and after closing it back up, shook her arms out.

“You OK back there?”

“Still here.”

“There’s a trick to getting up dunes. I know it’s not a dune, but it’s like a dune, so I’ll treat it the same. The run-off is pretty smooth, and the slope not too steep, but it’s long and tall. If it looks like I’m going to flip it over or I start going sideways—you’re going to have to jump clear. If you’re still on, you’re going to break your neck.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll be bailing out too, so don’t sweat about that.” She flexed her fingers and put her hands back on the steering column.

“I’m on five per cent,” said Frank. “You?”

“Same.”

“That’s enough to get us back. Just.” If the suit read-out was accurate. Anything greater than the margin of error would be fine.

He climbed out of the frame and knelt down on top of it, wedging his feet against the crossbars and bracing himself with his hands. It wasn’t the best position, but at least he could try and leap free if he had to.

The buggy sank a little as Marcy dialed down the stiffness of the tires—the ridged plates flexed apart and presented a wider face to the ground—then they were off again, smooth acceleration all the way to the base of the slope.

The wheels kept turning, clawing their way up. They didn’t seem to slow down at all, at least initially. The slope sharpened halfway up, and the sand deepened. The surface started to cut up and spill away. But Marcy had judged it right. She kept them pointing straight up the slope and let the momentum she’d built up carry them over the hump and to the shallower upper reaches.

And he could hear it, a low bass rumble throbbing around him. It had been all but silent for the whole day, and he thought he was imagining it at first, or feeling it through the metal frame he was clinging to. What he was hearing was the four motors straining and the impact of the wheels against the shifting sand.

When the sound began to die away, they were almost at the top: there was just the lip of the rise to breach, a soft edge. Marcy clenched the steering controls and leaned slightly forward, and they chewed their way through. The buggy rocked forwards, then back again, and slowed.

“Do we have to do that every time?” he asked.

She didn’t answer straight away. “Yes,” she said eventually. “There’ll be easier ways up and down. Need to map them out.”

“That was good going.” Frank patted her shoulder, or the hard carapace covering it at least. He felt her shudder, and he took his hand away quickly. He heard her grunt, and suck at her straw. He drew back, settling himself into position again, and waited for her to restiffen the tires and pull away across the rock-strewn plateau.

She didn’t.

“Marcy?”

“Some.” She coughed. “Things. Wrong.”

“OK, hold on. Alice? Alice, Marcy’s got a problem.”

There was a moment of dead air. “Shut the fuck up, Brack. No one cares whether I’m Shepherd or Alice. Is it with her or the suit?”

“Don’t know yet.” He clambered over the top of the buggy’s frame until he was the other side of the controls, facing Marcy. “She’s very dark.”

He reached out and wiped her faceplate. He could see her eyes, red and moist. “Marcy? Marcy.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Her mouth was open, and she seemed to be panting.

“I’ve got her diagnostics up. Blood oxygen is good. High breathing rate. High heart rate. Raised blood pressure. Hold on, I need to see an ECG.”

“Marcy?” Frank took hold of her helmet and drummed against it. “You in there? I’m talking to Alice right now.”

“Heart rhythm is ectopic.”

“What?”

“She’s skipping beats. What does her suit say about the amount of CO 2? I can find it here, but you’ll be quicker.”

Frank flipped her suit console down, and looked at the upside-down screen. He started to press the buttons to scroll through the menus, when Marcy knocked his hands away.

“What doing?” she slurred.

“I’m trying to help.” He went back for another go, and she pushed him away again. “She’s not letting me.”

“Give me a minute.”

“We haven’t got a minute, Alice.”

“Best guess. Her CO 2scrubber’s failed. She’s breathing too much of it in. Can you take over the driving and get her back here?”

“I’m doing it now.”

He stepped around the console and punched the buckle release. As the crossing straps fell away, he took her arm, one hand under the armpit and the other under the bulge of the life-support system.

“Get up, Marcy. I’m driving the rest of the way.”

She fought him, and the violence of her attack caught him unawares and off-balance. His foot slipped, and he fell backwards. Slowly. But still holding on to her, so that she was dragged out of the bucket seat.

He had time to work out what to do, whether to let go or keep his grip, before he hit the ground. He didn’t want to land on his back, and he didn’t want to land on his face. Shoulder, then, and keep his hands in. He pulled Marcy to him, to try and protect the vital parts of her suit.

They landed, Frank with his arms around her. There were rocks, but nothing punctured. Dust plumed up, and settled down on them. Marcy started spasming. Her eyes rolled up, and vomit splashed against the inside of her helmet.

“She’s… having a fit. Alice, what do I do?”

“Get her on to her face. Open up the hatch on her back. Hard reset her life support.”

“Turn it off?”

“And turn it on again. Do it.”

Marcy wasn’t resisting now. Frank turned her over, his blunt fingers scrabbling at the opening mechanism. He got his fingers in, and pulled. The lid flipped open. He’d been trained to know what he was looking for: the recessed buttons on the top right.

He hit the red one. The lights faded.

“How long?” he asked.

“Ten? Ten seconds?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No. I’m doing my best here.”

He waited until eight and couldn’t stand it any longer. He pressed the green, and watched the suit power up again.

“Frank?”

“Alice.”

“Her heart’s arrhythmic.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. Pick her up. Put her on the buggy and get here as quick as you can.”

“She’s been sick again.”

“Then keep her face down.”

“I’ll need to tie her down. I can’t drive holding on to her.”

“Then do it. Jesus, Frank. Just do it.”

He picked Marcy up, and she was like a rag doll, light and loose-limbed, but still awkward to carry. Her legs dragged and her arms flopped, and though the upper part of her body was held in the rigid shell of the suit, it added bulk. There was no way he could get her gently up on top of the buggy, so he threw her up in the air in an imitation of a clean-and-jerk, and then bounced her across the frame.