Then the captain got on the team comm channel. “All right, people, get moving. I want this mast up and testing in twenty minutes. As soon as it passes mooring and electrical tests, I want it online. No, scratch that, bring it online as soon as it’s up, and test while Van der Ven starts scanning for storms. I don’t care what it takes, just get him operational. I want accurate weather data an hour from now. As soon as you’ve got the mooring solid and the tests started, those of you not involved in the tests start cycling downstairs. We’ll have a briefing in two hours. Carver just advanced our schedule again.”
One hour, fifty-three minutes later, we were all unsuited and gathered in the shelters. Captain Aames and our lander 2 crew were in the access shaft, and the lander 1 crew watched via video from the original shelter. The captain’s plans called for a direct access tunnel between the two shelters, but that would depend on what we brought down from orbit.
As soon as we were settled, Captain Aames started his briefing. “All right, people, we have a lot of bad news, so let’s get to it. Things are going to get tighter here, and we only have a short time to work before they get impossible. Take a look at this orbit track and projections.” Swiping a finger on his sleeve comp, he pushed an image to our own comps. It was a model of the Mars system, the big Red Planet against a black backdrop and its two small gray moons spinning around it, Deimos slowly speeding around at three diameters out while Phobos sped the other way at barely one diameter. The captain tapped his comp, and the image froze. A silver dot appeared, almost as far from Mars as Deimos, representing the Bradbury. There were also several transparent dots representing past sightings. A set of thin gray whorls circled around Mars, connecting the silver dots. “You’ve all done orbital calculations, but that one’s pretty unstable. Carver?”
Lieutenant Carver stood and paced as he lectured. “The gray lines are best estimates of the Bradbury’s orbit, based on the sightings we’ve made. It definitely looks unstable. And projecting into the future”—Carver drew on his comp, and a wide yellow band appeared on our screens—“the instability is growing. It’s tricky to do precise work with a single lander telescope, but I’ve checked and rechecked my algorithms. They’re solid. That band there is the range of likely paths for the Bradbury’s orbit by the day after tomorrow.” He drew a pale green band, much wider than the first. “That’s the range for five days from now.” He added a third band, pale blue. This one covered much of the screen. “That’s in a week and a half. Notice that the inner range intersects Mars, and the outer range may very well escape. It will take days to narrow down that range so we can make more accurate predictions.”
Gale looked up at that. “More accurate predictions. That implies you have some predictions.”
Carver’s mouth turned down. “I do, and they’re not good.” He wiped across his screen, and the colored bands disappeared. In their place was a single white dot that moved rapidly around the screen, tracing out new whorls that swung farther away from Mars, then closer, farther, closer. And then . . . “My best prediction is that the Bradbury exceeds h-dot-max somewhere in Valles Marineris in nine days.”
H-dot-max. Apollo-era slang for a vehicle crashing into a planet.
Gale pointed at the orbit projection. “But how did the orbit get this bad?”
Carver nodded. “The captain asked the same question. Here’s the best image I can get of the Bradbury, with the best image augmentation I can manage. There’s not a lot of sunlight to illuminate it, and it’s still more pixels than picture, but . . .” He pushed the picture to our comps, and then started to draw circles to point out features. “This dark blotch here, I think that’s engineering. Completely blown out. From that and the captain’s data feed, I can simulate the collision.” He pushed out a slow-motion simulation video: Lander 2 approaching from the wrong angle, too high and way too fast; the lander ripping through the hull of the bow; the Bradbury starting to slide and flex from the impact; the ribs of the hull ripping through the lander’s hull in turn, tearing into the engine assembly; the lander’s engine exploding, ripping the entire bow off the Bradbury—including the mactory deck—and adding more wobble and tumble to the ship; and the lander slipping free, but then colliding with the engineering deck at the aft end, sliding forward and into the fusion reactor, causing a coolant leak and the collapse of the fusion reaction. Seconds later—microseconds in real time—the reactor’s magnets let go and exploded, spewing chaff through space and adding one more tremor and yet another velocity vector to the Bradbury.
Carver tapped his screen, and the simulation switched to normal speed. The changes in the Bradbury’s orbit weren’t done yet. The lander, pushed by the exploding reactor, ripped through at least two more compartments before its battered hull ripped free of the Bradbury. Meanwhile, atmosphere vented from the bow of the ship, giving it yet another push. Then as the ship tumbled farther, it crossed paths with the lander one more time. This time the battered lander bounced right off the drive bell, cracked, and spun away in two pieces. Meanwhile the ship continued on yet another new path.
We all stared, openmouthed. Finally Gale asked, “How reliable is this simulation?”
Carver looked down, not meeting our eyes. “At least 94 percent. It fits all our data. And . . .” Once again he pushed out his pixelated image of the ship, but this time he put it in motion. With the fuzzy image, it was hard to describe the motion, but there definitely was motion. Plenty of it, and in multiple axes. And worst of all, I saw nothing at the bow at all.
Somtow said what I was thinking: “The mactory deck is gone.” And then the meeting exploded, everyone talking at once.
But the hubbub ended in only seconds when Captain Aames shouted, “People!” We all went silent. “This is no time to panic. Yes, we desperately need what was on the mactory deck. We also desperately need whatever’s left on the Bradbury. Until the Collins gets here, every resource is vital; but there’s no sense worrying about what we can’t have. Let’s get what we can. Now.”
“Now, Captain?” Ensign Hsü pulled back up the orbital prediction. “It’s at least six days before the orbit decays too far for us to work with. Can’t we take time to study and plan our rendezvous?”
“No.” Aames shook his head. “Van der Ven, tell them the rest of the bad news.”
Van pushed out his own Mars map, this one overlaid with waves of dust clouds. The nearest wave was red and distinct, but the waves behind it were gray and transparent. “Another storm comes,” he said. “Our Doppler radar has limited range, we cannot predict exactly. But the radar on the mast, it sees these.” He circled the bright leading wave. “The rest I infer from our Martian weather models. Not Carver’s 94 percent confidence, maybe, but this sandstorm comes in three days. And when it hits, it lasts at least three more, wave after wave with only brief lulls between. Too brief for landing visibility even if Bradbury could help.”
“So that means now,” Captain Aames said. “Or as soon as we can be ready. Carver, Hsü, Smith, you’re my crew for this flight. I want you all to get a solid eight hours of sleep so you’re fresh for the launch. The rest of you, I just pushed out a work schedule to get us ready. Priorities are reducing as much mass from lander 1 as you can by stripping out gear and making lots of cargo space. Also, Van der Ven, whatever you need for meteorology, add that at the top of the work orders.”
Aames picked up his helmet to return to the main shelter and his bunk, but Gale stood to stop him, holding the helmet down. “Captain, I think I should lead this mission. We cannot risk you.”
The captain’s eyes widened, and he hesitated before answering, “Negative, Gale. We need a pilot up there, and we need you as a medic down here. You’ll be in charge.”
But Gale didn’t release the helmet. “You might need a medic up there as well. Besides, Carver is a decent pilot, he can fly the lander.”
I glanced at Carver, and I saw that he was as surprised as me. Gale didn’t make compliments very often.
Then I looke
d back to Aames and Gale, as the captain said, “Carver’s good. If we can salvage any automated landers, he can telepilot them down. But for this flight, we need our best. And that’s me.” He yanked his helmet away, put it on his head, and spoke through the open visor. “Now if you’re done arguing with me, Lieutenant, I have a launch window in nine and a half hours.” He closed the visor and entered the airlock. Carver and I found our bunks while the others suited up to get to work.
We sat in lander 1, ready for launch. Captain Aames was in the pilot pod in front, hanging from straps with his skinsuit already wired into the ship’s controls. Every move he made in the suit would translate into movement of the ship. Well, almost every move. Pilots tell a joke about a guy who scratched his nose and accidentally launched a missile attack, but it can’t happen. The skinsuit interface only responds to moves you make with your fists clenched.
Behind the captain sat Carver at the comm station, which Razdar and Roberts had adapted into a copilot station. He didn’t have a skinsuit, just a computer console, but he could still back the captain up on controls and observation. Carver was damn good with a computer. If anybody could do it, he could.
Behind Carver, Bi Hsü and I sat in the two remaining acceleration couches. Hsü was an older Chinese astronaut, a short woman who had started her space career with the Chinese National Space Agency, then transferred to the International Space Corps when the Chinese finally joined the Initiative. Her hair was cropped short like mine, and some gray showed in the stubble, but she still passed all physicals with flying colors. She looked over at me with a smile, and I smiled back despite the grim situation. For a spacer, a launch is always a thrill.
The captain lowered his legs, and the rear of the lander dropped down upon the adjustable landing gear. The front gear rose at the same time, and soon we sat back at a sixty-degree angle, ready for launch.
“Meteorology?” Aames said.
On the comm, Van answered: “Clear skies, Captain. Sandstorm’s moving a little faster than the model, so don’t waste time.”
“Understood. Launchpad?”
Adika answered, “Pad is clear of debris, sir, and your landing gear reads 100 percent.” As soon as we launched, the gear would have to collapse against the hull, so we needed this last-minute check.
“Thank you. Ground control?”
Gale answered, “All telemetry is responding, Captain, and you are green across the board. You are go for launch, on schedule, in one minute.”
We sat in silence. A formal checklist and countdown were unnecessary; landers were designed for takeoff with no ground crew at all. But the captain was taking no chances, not after lander 2 destroyed the propellant factory. We sat there and waited for the clock.
“Thirty seconds,” Gale said. Then, “Fifteen.”
Then, “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . booster igniters hot . . . two . . . one . . . ignition!”
A giant boot kicked me in the ass, right through the thick acceleration couch cushions, and we were airborne as Gale continued his report: “We have liftoff. Forward gear retracting. Forward gear secured. Rear gear retracting. Rear gear secured. We are in flight configuration. Prepare for primary propellant disks in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .” And suddenly the giant push from behind us cut off. “One . . . ignition.” And the boot was back, kicking harder this time, and we leaped into space. “Primary ignition is green and green. You are go for orbit.” Our solid booster propellant came in disks of fixed sizes and power, allowing us to add or discard disks as needed for our flight. It didn’t give us the fine control that the liquid fuel main engines did, but it was still better than old-style solid boosters. We would save the mains for navigation and rendezvous in orbit.
“All right, ground,” the captain said, “we have this. You get back to work on construction. When we get back to Mars, I want to see a proper landing facility.”
“Yes, sir.” Gale cut out, and we flew in silence.
Sunlight on Mars is less than half as bright as on Earth, so it wasn’t easy to pick out the Bradbury as we approached; but Carver’s code found it on the scope, highlighting the tiny gray dot with a blue circle. When we got close enough, the lander’s spotlights speared out and illuminated the derelict ship, showing us just how bad the damage was.
Carver’s model had been too optimistic. The Bradbury was now a cylinder with a long gash through it, several cabins ripped open to vacuum. The mactory deck was gone, as we had feared, along with most of the bow. So much for Chief Maxwell: he would’ve been in the copilot pod, right in the bow, and would’ve been lost in the first moments of the crash. The drive bell at the aft end was crumpled, with a giant tear, probably left by lander 2. It hung from the ship at an odd angle, almost detached, cut loose by the explosion of the reactor. Three of the four cargo landers were still docked, but the fourth docking port was lost in the long gash. Landers 3 and 4 were nowhere to be seen. The antenna package amidships was undamaged; but the ship tumbled rapidly around two axes, too rapidly for the directional antennas to lock onto any signal. Even if anyone on the Bradbury had somehow survived, there was no way to reach Mars without the directionals. Or Earth, for that matter.
But as close as we were, we didn’t need directionals. The captain spoke into the comm: “Bradbury, this is Captain Aames on lander 1. Come in, Bradbury.”
The comm was silent for seconds before a warm female voice responded. “Lander 1, this is Bradbury. Be advised, your approach is unauthorized. Withdraw to a safe distance.”
“Deece? This is Captain Aames. Report your status.”
This time the response was faster. “Lander 1, this is Decision Control Bradbury. All contact with Captain Aames was lost seven days ago, and he is presumed dead. Your identity cannot be confirmed. Be advised, your approach is unauthorized. Withdraw to a safe distance, or we must take defensive measures.”
“Deece!” The captain’s shout echoed through the lander. “This is Captain Nicolau Aames. Override sequence: one; code: one-one-A. Now report, damn it!”
But Deece remained as calm as ever. “Lander 1, your override is rejected. All override controls were reset upon the death of Captain Aames. Your attempt at override constitutes hostile action against this ship. Withdraw immediately, or we must take defensive measures.”
“Carver!” The captain twisted in his harness to look back at the copilot station. “What’s the matter with your damn program?”
Carver punched furiously at his console as he answered, “It’s a total security reset, Captain. I’m trying to open command channels, but they’re all blocked. I think Deece has had a breakdown.”
“A breakdown? She’s a program!”
“She’s an AI, Captain. She operates on situational models. When the models deviate from reality, she can get weird; but when they get too far out of line, she ‘regresses’ to a known state. That warning she’s issuing is from models clear back during her construction phase, when unauthorized access could be a spy satellite or a saboteur.”
“And what about these defensive measures? We weren’t armed.”
“We weren’t; but in the orbital construction zone, she could summon fighters. She still thinks she can. Don’t worry, she’s toothless.”
“Toothless and useless. I was hoping she could test the attitude jets. If they’re still working, at least we could null that tumble. We can’t dock like that; and even if we could, it’d be hell working in there.”
Carver tapped at the screen some more, but then shook his head. “It’s no good, Captain. I could bypass her locks pretty easily from inside, but not by remote.”
The captain paused before responding, “All right, everyone suit up with maneuvering units. I’ll get as close as I can. Smith, you’ll go aboard as search crew. Your top priority is survivors.”
I knew not to argue with Captain Aames, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Captain, you can’t expect—”
“I don’t give up on people, Smith.
Ever. We don’t ‘expect,’ we find out. So look for survivors as you’re looking for salvage. Find anything fragile or perishable. Try to get it into a cargo lander. And anything that can survive vacuum, whatever it is, we’ll find a use for it. So toss it out the nearest hatch. Hsü, you play catch: Whatever Smith throws out will be on a random vector; you’ll chase it down and throw it to the lander. Carver, you get to the main controls, straighten out Deece, and get me control of my ship. If you can.”
That may sound like a desperate plan, but not if you’re a graduate of Advanced Orbital Survival School—and we all were, as part of our training for this mission. Boarding a derelict is a standard exercise in OASS, and we had practiced it until it was routine. A two-axis tumble made it trickier, but the computers in our maneuvering units could handle that. You just lock the MU onto your target site—in my case, an open cabin where I could get hold of a hatch and enter the main vessel from there—and let it study the tumble for a minute or so, and it would calculate a perfect approach path, bringing you to a dead stop relative to the site. Then you just grab on, and you’ve matched course with the target. You’ll still get quite a jolt as the tumble hits you, but at least you won’t collide with the derelict itself.
So imagine my surprise when, on my approach to the cabin, I saw the hull of the Bradbury twist and sway and swing toward me. Suddenly my approach angle was all wrong, and I was headed for a bone-breaking crash. I opened my mouth to shout.
But before I could draw breath, Carver’s arm snaked around my waist, and a burst of MU jets pulled us away. Carver called on the comms, “Good news, Captain: we can confirm that the attitude jets are still functional.”
“I can see that, Lieutenant,” the captain answered. “And your AI has teeth.”
“She does, sir, but I’m still smarter than her. We’ll get in, sir.”
“Make it snappy, Carver. We’re on a time clock.”
The Last Dance Page 20
