Labyrinth of Night

by Allen Steele

  It had already been decided that he was going to ride down unpressurised; it would give an extra measure of integrity to the inner hull. Verduin switched his skinsuit’s oxygen-nitrogen hoses to the cockpit’s internal feed valves, then jacked the MRV’s comlink into his suit’s chest unit. ‘Can you hear me better?’

  ‘We copy.’ Kawakami’s voice was much clearer now; the static had all but vanished. ‘You’re coming through very well.’

  ‘Can you run through a major systems-check for us now, please, Paul?’ Tamara Isralilova’s voice was clear enough for him to hear the strain in it. Verduin found himself regretting the fact that she was his other online controller for the mission. ‘TV and main sensors first, please.’

  ‘All right.’ Verduin reached his left hand to the panel above the computer keyboard and stabbed a series of buttons. On the inside panel of the hatch, directly in front of him, the larger main flatscreen came to life; the image was blurred for a moment until the front-mounted TV camera autofocused, then he could clearly see Charlie Akers standing in front of the MRV; secondary images on the right side of the screen displayed his infrared ghost-image and the weakly fluctuating bar graph of his electromagnetic image. Verduin instinctively glanced through the small oval porthole on his left to make sure that Akers was standing there. ‘Do you see that?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Fine.’ Isralilova sounded more business-like now. ‘Switch around to your other cameras now, please.’

  Verduin snapped the other buttons on the communications panel; the main flatscreen swiftly changed, sequentially moving around in a 360-degree arc as the smaller TV cameras arrayed on the MRV’s fuselage kicked in: starboard, the parked rover and the distant pyramids of the City; aft, the desert, with the camera filters automatically screening the glare of the morning sun; port, the vast red slope of the D & M Pyramid, with the wrench tripod poised above the pit leading down into Mama’s Back Door.

  ‘It all looks good,’ he said as he returned the image to the front camera. ‘I’m going to test the ECM now. Hold on.’

  He moved his left hand down to the keyboard and, mouthing the digits under his breath, tapped the appropriate code numbers into the onboard computer. One special modification had been made to the MRV before it had left Japan; an electronic counter-measures system, similar to those used by military jet fighter-bombers to foil enemy radar, had been installed in the Jackalope. Since the pseudo-Cooties were, indeed, miniature robots, then it was possible that an ECM system might scramble their AI systems. The Jackalope’s ECM was designed to lock onto the electromagnetic frequencies they used and jam them, rendering the pseudo-Cooties blind and confused, or even shutting them down completely.

  At least that was the general theory. If it worked, it would provide an effective shield against the aliens. There was only one drawback: it had never been tested on a pseudo-Cootie. Computer analysis said it would perform adequately—but the computers had never faced a swarm of semi-intelligent machines in an underground tunnel.

  The comlink screamed with static and the main viewscreen dissolved into irregular lines until the computer dampered out the jamming signals. When the screen readjusted itself, Verduin saw Akers stagger backward slightly, apparently disoriented by what was coming through his helmet. Verduin laughed out loud; it was an unexpected pleasure to see one of L’Enfant’s men so thoroughly nonplussed. ‘Try that for size, tough guy,’ he murmured.

  ‘The ECM seems to work fine, Paul.’ Kawakami’s voice was harsh with static, but Paul could still detect some guarded humor in his tone. He reminded himself that L’Enfant too was probably in the monitor center; if so, he was most likely not amused. ‘Shut it down now, please.’

  Verduin reluctantly switched off the ECM. On the screen, he could see Akers recovering his composure. The assault rifle he habitually wore during EVA had slipped down its strap off his shoulder; he tugged his rifle back up while silently glaring at the MRV. Paul didn’t like the expression on Akers’ face. ‘Give my apologies to the lieutenant,’ he said formally.

  ‘All right.’ Tamara said. ‘Try to walk now.’

  This was going to be the hardest part. He had done well in practice sessions on a simulation program loaded into the base computer, but that had been like playing a sophisticated computer game. Actually piloting the Jackalope would be another matter entirely. Verduin carefully slipped his booted feet into the stirrups of the foot pedals beneath the secondary viewscreen, then reached up and activated the mobility controls. There was a slight shift as the internal gyros stabilized the Jackalope’s balance. Paul took a minute to grasp the joystick on his right and shift it around; he watched as the waldo manipulator on the MRV’s front end appeared on the bottom of the screen, gliding back and forth like a snake.

  ‘The waldo works well,’ he said. ‘Okay, I’m going to walk now…or try to, at least.’

  He took a deep breath, then grasped the throttle bar with his left hand, shoved it forward slightly, then lifted his right foot and set it down again. The screen tilted- slightly to the right; simultaneously there was a slight jar as the massive vehicle took a step forward. Lights raced across the secondary screen, but no warning signals flashed.

  Verduin let out his breath, then raised his left foot and set it down. The MRV stepped forward again, the machine trembling as the footpad found the rocky ground; the gyros kept it upright, and Verduin tried again with his right foot. The Jackalope took another big step forward; on the screen, he saw Akers cautiously backing away from the advancing machine.

  ‘This is great.’ Paul grinned through his anxiety. ‘I feel like Baby Godzilla.’

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ Kawakami said, ‘Practice for a while before we…’

  There was a muffled pause, an unintelligible background conversation, then his voice returned. ‘We are advised that you should take it to the wrench for lowering. Are you confident enough to do this now?’

  Verduin lost his grin. L’Enfant. He had to be in the monitor center, calling the shots. He was silent for a few moments as he considered the options. He could justifiably claim that he needed more time for practice; the Jackalope was still unwieldy, his own movements uncoordinated. He could certainly use more time in this juggernaut before he took it down into the catacombs; under normal, sane circumstances, he would have been allowed a couple of days—even another fifteen minutes—for rehearsal.

  However, the present circumstances were neither normal nor sane. A dust storm was whipping out of the western plains; in another twenty-four to thirty-six hours, this area would be lashed by hurricane-force winds which could drive dust at bulletlike velocity through the MRV’s hull, shredding fine internal circuitry. Even though the machine could be covered by tarps, there was no guarantee that it would survive the onslaught.

  But nature wasn’t his worst enemy. The co-pilot of the Akron—he had to remember that his real name wasn’t Donaldson, but Nash—had turned out to be a spy. Only yesterday L’Enfant had turned Akers and Marks loose on him, and according to Tamara they had nearly killed the man.

  L’Enfant seemed to have something in mind; he was getting desperate, and that desperation was making him relentless and reckless. Would another person be dragged into the storeroom if Verduin refused to go forth? Verduin doubted that he himself would be tortured—L’Enfant needed him to pilot the MRV—but what about the others? Shin-ichi? He could never survive the ordeal Nash had been through. Boggs? They might spare him because they needed him to fly the Akron…but what about Tamara, or Miho?

  Verduin shook his head. No, he couldn’t let that happen.

  And, he had to admit to himself, he did want to discover what was down there…and there was no better chance than now to find out. He had the MRV, he had the skill, and he had been in Mama’s Back Door before, albeit in a remote sense. If he could make it into the catacombs, discover the secrets of the aliens…

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  There was a short pause on the comlink before Isralilova ret
urned to him. ‘All right, Paul. We concur.’ Her voice held a nervous quaver. ‘Ah…can you please switch on your internal video? For the…’

  She didn’t finish her comment, but Verduin knew what she meant to say. ‘For the record’—in case he didn’t come back. He stabbed another button on the communications board, then looked straight up at the little TV lens directly above his head. He grinned and waggled his fingers at the camera, hoping that it would make her feel better.

  As he did so, though, a dark thought involuntarily crossed his mind: they’ll remember me like this…

  There was a long silence inside the cramped monitor center when everyone saw Verduin waving at the camera. Kawakami stoically gazed at the screen. Isralilova switched off her mike and looked away from her console and everyone else, a quiet sob escaping from her mouth before she covered it with her hand. Boggs pursed his lips together in a rare frown and pretended to study the toes of his boots. Next to him, Sasaki’s face remained stolid, her back stiffly erect but her hands nervously curled into tight fists at her side. Boggs hesitated, then comfortingly placed his hand on her shoulder: Miho flinched at his touch, but didn’t move away.

  From his position behind Kawakami’s chair, Nash noticed all this, but kept his attention focused primarily on Terrance L’Enfant. The commander, perched on a metal stool behind and between Isralilova and Kawakami, seemed unmoved by Verduin’s gesture. Implacably silent, his narrow gaze darted from screen to screen, intent on every detail, as he absently stroked his mustache between his fingers. Nash observed that there were dark circles under his eyes; it didn’t look as if the commander had slept well, if at all. At the far end of the module Marks stood like a sentry next to the closed hatch, his eyes never straying far from Nash.

  On another TV monitor, the POV from the Jackalope’s forward camera showed the vehicle slowly lumbering closer to the pit. The big machine, as cumbersome as it looked, seemed remarkably well-suited for the Martian terrain; after a moment of hesitation, Verduin stepped over a boulder which a rover would have been forced to drive around. In the background, they could see Akers hop-skipping toward the tripod-and-wrench arrangement above the pit.

  L’Enfant touched the lobe of his headset mike. ‘Make certain the grapples are well-secured so that they won’t slip off, Lieutenant,’ he instructed Akers, ‘and give him plenty of slack on the cable once he’s down.’ His voice held an unaccustomed rasp. ‘We’re going to need to be able to get him out of there in a hurry if we have to.’

  There was a firm double-knock on the hatch; Marks opened it to let Swigart inside. She quickly walked to L’Enfant, wordlessly handed him a folded sheet of computer printout, then turned and strode back out of the monitor center, returning to her post in the command module. L’Enfant unfolded the sheet and studied it for a few moments, rubbing at his eyelids, then handed it over his shoulder to Boggs, scarcely glancing in his direction.

  ‘Current nowcast says that the dust storm is at fifty-two degrees west,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘The leading edge has just crossed into the Acidalia Planitia and it’s expected to pick up speed as it moves across the hemisphere.’

  Boggs grunted as he skimmed the nowcast. ‘The new ETA is at twelve-hundred hours tomorrow. Shit.’ He crumpled the paper in his fist and looked at Nash. ‘Change of plan. If we’re going to beat the sucker, we’re going to have to be out of here by at least oh-dark-one-hundred tomorrow. Maybe sooner.’

  Nash looked back at the airship pilot, then slowly shook his head. Despite the repairs made by the clinical nanosurgeons to his bruises, he still ached from the beating he’d been given. He edged closer to L’Enfant; seeing this, Marks’ hands moved toward his rifle as Nash bent over the commander.

  ‘Call it off,’ he murmured to L’Enfant, ignoring Marks entirely. ‘Whatever you’re planning, it’s not going to work before that storm hits us.’

  L’Enfant didn’t look away from the consoles. ‘Since you don’t know what I’m planning, seaman, how can you be so certain?’

  On the screens, Akers had climbed onto the MRV’s fuselage and was attaching the wrench’s cable-grapples to rungs on either side of the cab. The Jackalope was poised at the edge of the pit, the forward camera peering down into its shadowed, rocky maw. ‘The only thing I’m certain of,’ Nash said softly, ‘is that you’re about to throw away this man’s life. You can wait until…’

  ‘Mr Nash, you are way out of line.’ L’Enfant still didn’t look at him, but his voice gained a terse edge. ‘If you believe I will sacrifice months of preparation because you think…’

  ‘No!’ Kawakami snapped. The exobiologist swiveled around in his chair, his normally placid eyes seething with anger as he stared straight at L’Enfant. ‘He is correct. Paul is unprepared for this mission. He barely knows how to handle the MRV. We will stop the sortie now, or I’ll…’

  ‘You shall not tell me what to do!’ L’Enfant shouted.

  Everyone in the monitor center was staring at him now, but L’Enfant’s abrupt rage was focused directly upon Kawakami. ‘I have listened to you long enough,’ he continued, his voice now ragged and harsh as he thrust a finger at Kawakami, ‘and I’ve let you drag this mission into the ground! Now I’m in charge, and you will follow my instructions!’

  Kawakami remained unswerved. He looked over his shoulder at Isralilova. ‘Prepare to shut everything down, Tamara,’ he said firmly. ‘Discontinue onboard telemetry with the MRV and…’

  ‘Sergeant!’ L’Enfant snapped.

  There was the soft metallic cha-chik of a rifle being cocked. ‘Do what the commander says,’ Marks said quietly.

  Everyone except L’Enfant looked toward the sergeant. Marks held his Steyr halfway to his shoulder, his right forefinger within the trigger guard. Nash raised his hands slightly, keeping them in plain sight; Kawakami followed suit, and Isralilova’s hands froze above her console.

  ‘Holy fucking Moses,’ Boggs said.

  ‘Shut up, Mr Boggs.’ L’Enfant touched the lobe of his headset. ‘Queen, report to the castle on the double. Come hot. King’s knight, stand by.’

  He half-turned to gaze at Nash. ‘You’re beginning to be more trouble than you’re worth, seaman. I don’t like troublemakers.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment,’ Nash replied drily. If it was L’Enfant’s idea to suddenly assign chess-derived code names to his squad members—an absurd gesture, considering that everyone knew where everyone else was located—then his paranoia had undoubtedly reached critical mass. One look at L’Enfant’s reddened face, his hyper-alert eyes, and Nash could tell that the man’s mental condition was deteriorating.

  He cast a glance toward Sasaki. Her eyes briefly met his and she nodded ever so slightly; she had picked up the same clues. L’Enfant was on the verge of losing control. Although Nash couldn’t count on her assistance, a dangerous gambit was taking form in his mind. If he could just give L’Enfant a little push in the right direction…

  He cocked his head toward Marks. ‘You know, Commander, having him open fire in here would be a serious mistake. Even if he doesn’t miss and cause a blowout, he might get the wrong person. You yourself, for instance.’

  ‘Like I really mind,’ Boggs murmured. Sasaki shushed him.

  A hint of a smile appeared on L’Enfant’s face. ‘First, the sergeant’s rifle is loaded with safety bullets, same as the rounds in your own gun,’ he said calmly. ‘Second. Alphonse is an expert marksman. You should know that he was once a Marine Corps combat instructor.’

  ‘Which means you’re living on borrowed time, pal,’ Marks said from behind the stock of his rifle. ‘Comprende?’

  Nash started to say something, but Sasaki suddenly cleared her throat. ‘All I know, Commander L’Enfant,’ she said, ‘is that…’

  She hesitated, her lips trembling. L’Enfant turned around in his chair, locking eyes with her. ‘Yes, Dr. Sasaki?’ he said softly. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘I know that…you’re the sickest motherfucker I have ever me
t,’ she said with slow, carefully-pronounced deliberation.

  She swallowed, then added, ‘And it’s a wonder you can walk and chew gum at the same time.’

  L’Enfant’s face turned dark red as he gaped at her. Despite the fact that they were being held at gunpoint, everyone else stared in absolute shock at the astrophysicist. Kawakami’s mouth sagged open like a father who has just heard his daughter graphically describe the loss of her virginity.

  ‘Goddamn, Miho,’ Boggs breathed. ‘Who taught you to talk like that?’

  Turning dismissively from L’Enfant, Sasaki smiled sweetly at Boggs. ‘You did,’ she replied. Her face became mock-serious. ‘Did I get it right?’

  ‘Uh…yeah. Sure. Especially the sick motherfucker part.’

  There was another double knock on the hatch, and Swigart stepped through the doorway, holding her own rifle at the ready. ‘Is there a problem, Commander?’

  L’Enfant licked his lips and slowly nodded his head without looking toward her; his gaze shifted to Nash. ‘Yes, Megan, there is,’ he said. ‘Mr Nash is responsible for a loss of proper morale. Please remove him. The storeroom will be fine for the time being.’

  He reconsidered for a moment. ‘On second thoughts, Dr. Sasaki seems equally to blame for the disturbance. Since she’s nonessential personnel, please secure her in Module Five. Stand guard in the corridor to make sure that neither of them leaves without my permission.’

  Swigart pointed her rifle toward Nash and Sasaki and jerked her head toward the hatch. As they eased past L’Enfant, the commander took a long, deep breath, then returned his attention to Kawakami. ‘Now, sir, you will continue with the mission with no further protest. If you refuse me again, I will instruct Lieutenant Swigart to escort Dr. Sasaki to the airlock for rapid decompression. Is this clearly understood?’