Defying Mars (Saving Mars Series-2)

by Cidney Swanson

  24

  FOR HARPREET

  The officer in red armor beside Pavel was speaking quietly into his comm. “How much longer?”

  The two had been trapped in a corridor between locked doors for several minutes following Pavel’s conversation with his aunt. Pavel surmised she’d been shown video footage revealing that her nephew was, in fact, acting in collusion with Brian Wallace. Pavel felt grateful Jessamyn was millions of kilometers from his aunt.

  “I’ll try the door again,” said Pavel, rising and walking calmly to the door that led away from Harpreet’s cell.

  “Stop right there,” warned the officer, breaking off from his comm line conversation.

  But Pavel pretended he hadn’t heard. Because inside his earpiece, Pavel had just received instructions from Ethan.

  “Proceed to the door on your right,” said Ethan. “I will open it and then lock it behind you.”

  “I said stop! You! Brezhnaya-Bouchard!”

  Pavel did not stop. He hoped the officer didn’t have orders to “shoot the nephew if he runs.” Even more, he hoped Ethan was serious about the door opening. Pavel broke into a run as the officer started to chase him. Either the door would open or Pavel would have a badly broken nose very soon. He pushed himself faster. Just as he was about to collide with the door, it slid open. He reached the other side, panting, and it clanged shut behind him.

  To his right, Pavel beheld a mass of people—detainees by their clothing—striding along the corridor.

  “What?” he muttered to himself.

  “Doctor!” called Kazuko Zaifa, beckoning Pavel.

  Pavel slid in beside Brian Wallace, Harpreet, and Kazuko.

  “We break left at the next turn,” murmured Brian Wallace to Pavel.

  “Okay,” said Pavel, his heart racing from the run and the unexpected prospect of salvation.

  “Now,” called Brian.

  The four detached from the mob and dashed left to a corridor with a door leading to the outside.

  “This way,” said Brian, tugging at Pavel.

  The door to the outside retracted, but on the other side stood a guard who looked very much surprised by both the door’s opening and the presence of the four behind the door.

  “Good day, Jonathan,” said Harpreet, who apparently knew the guard by name.

  “What’s going on?” Jonathan asked, taking in the prison garb and medical insignia of the four behind him.

  “Arrest them!” came a voice from somewhere behind them.

  Pavel turned to look and saw the crowd swelling around the corner the four had just slipped past.

  “Arrest the doctor!” came the cry from somewhere behind the crowd.

  The confused guard shifted his weapon. “You heard them, ma’am,” Jonathan said to Harpreet. “I can’t let you pass.”

  She smiled and patted his forearm. “You must do what you feel is right, of course.”

  “Let me through,” demanded a guard from the back of the crowd. “Or we start shooting!”

  Half the crowd drew back like water toward a drain. The other half stood their ground, protecting Harpreet Mombasu. The old woman’s name was upon many tongues, a susurration, an inspiration.

  “Go!” cried a prisoner from the front of the crowd. Along with two others, he hurtled toward Jonathan, knocking the gun from the guard’s grip. Others rushed to tackle the hapless guard, crying, “For Harpreet!”

  A handful of shots rang out and pandemonium ensued, the crowd surging forward and then shrinking back.

  “You heard the man,” said Brian Wallace to his companions. “Let’s go!”

  Harpreet called a hurried, “Have pity on Jonathan,” to the surging crowd before dashing outside.

  As soon as the four cleared the exit from the building, the door slammed shut behind them. They ran to the dirt-brown ship awaiting them and clambered aboard, Pavel throwing himself into the pilot’s seat.

  “Hold tight!” he called.

  Ethan was able to keep the prison doors jammed until the swift ship was several kilometers from New Timbuktu. It was a head start they put to good use, fleeing as if some devil were after them.

  Or, thought Pavel, as if his aunt was after them. It amounted to much the same thing, he mused.

  Pavel called out to Ethan, “You’re a hacking genius, man!”

  “So my sister has often told me,” replied Ethan.

  At the mention of Jessamyn, Pavel felt his heart fold over on itself. The smile faded from his face and he fought off memories of the girl in the orange dress, laughing beside him. She’d probably forgotten him by now. He busied himself with the ship’s navigation.

  Ethan continued. “It is almost certain the Chancellor will have requested Cassondra Kipling be brought in for interrogation. Should we not make the attempt to abduct her as well?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Brian Wallace. “Sounds like we’re headed back to the capitol, then?”

  But when Ethan brought up information showing Kipper’s new location at the Dunakeszi Hospital and Clinic for Brain Injury, Pavel flat out refused to attempt her rescue.

  “Seems a bit heartless, lad, don’t you think?” asked Brian Wallace.

  “No,” argued Pavel. “Look at these records. She’s comatose. My aunt won’t get anywhere trying to question her. And I don’t have the equipment or personnel to handle a patient requiring this level of care. She’s safest where she is. If we attempt to move her, she could die.” He glanced over to Ethan and Harpreet. “I’m sorry. But she’s getting state-of-the-art care at Dunakeszi.”

  “How is your aunt likely to deal with a prisoner in Captain Kipling’s state?” asked Harpreet.

  Pavel frowned. “She’ll rage and fume at the physician in charge, but once she learns nothing can be done, she’ll forget all about her. Move on to the next big thing.”

  Harpreet sighed. “In that case, I am forced to agree it would be in the captain’s best interest for us to leave her in the hospital for now.”

  “That’s settled, then,” said Pavel. “So what’s next?”

  Harpreet smiled. “Dr. Zaifa has been telling me some very interesting things about the languages used to communicate with the deep-space satellites circling Mars.”

  Pavel blinked in surprise. “She knows where you’re from?”

  “And she is interested in helping us,” replied Harpreet.

  Pavel shook his head. Harpreet had a remarkable effect on people.

  Dr. Zaifa spoke. “I’m certain I can recreate the code necessary for communication with the satellites. Only a reasonably robust computing system would be required. However, I must caution you against simply sending the information to the extant deep-space satellite dishes.”

  “The Terran government monitors those transmissions,” Ethan said.

  “Exactly,” replied Kazuko. “You would be better served by building your own dishes.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Pavel, rolling his eyes. “Because there are so many retailers selling do-it-yourself satellite dish kits for use in deep space.”

  Brian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Actually,” he said. “I know of an enclave where this sort of thing could be built.”

  “Enclave?” asked Pavel.

  “They like to keep their heads low,” replied Brian Wallace. “Not the friendliest of folk, mind, but open to economic opportunities outside those normally sanctioned by Lucca Brezhnaya’s government.”

  “A black market,” said Pavel.

  “Well, they prefer to be called independent traders,” said Wallace. “Shall I contact them?”

  Pavel deferred to Ethan, who in turn deferred to Harpreet.

  “That would be lovely,” she said.

  25

  NEVER GET AHEAD

  The range of Lucca Brezhnaya’s emotional states had severely contracted through the centuries. She had attempted to eliminate all strong emotion, but anger remained and revealed itself in either a white-hot rage or ice-cold calculation. In her rages, Lucca k
illed things, destroyed things. In her cooler moments, she plotted destruction, carefully weighing the many possibilities before her.

  She considered it very unfair that so much of her time had to be devoted to destruction. All she’d ever wanted was to cultivate her world as would a careful gardener his garden. But if weeds and weevils crept in, they must be burned or squashed. How else could one ensure a healthy garden?

  Once, when Zussman had lain ill, Lucca had ventured to a café for her morning coffee. She’d been struck by something she’d overheard. A housefrau was complaining to a friend: I can never get ahead. No matter how many times I sweep the floor, there’s always a fresh mess the next day. Lucca sympathized. As well, she felt good about her empathy; the fact that she could empathize meant she was still human. She was simply a common human Writ Large, was she not?

  She sighed, tapping her dark red nails upon her desk.

  Today she was in a cool mood. She was angry, certainly, but in an icy way that her staff often mistook for calm. Look how well she’s handling her nephew’s betrayal, they murmured. Somehow, word had leaked out that all was not well between aunt and nephew. She would have to see to eliminating further leakage. But right now she needed to see to Pavel.

  So. He refused to come home.

  Very well. Lucca knew how to communicate with him over space and time. She smiled. She brought up a listing of all the hospitals at which Pavel had volunteered the past five years. Of course, he’d logged the most actual hours at New Kelen here in Budapest. Lucca sighed. It was tempting. But, no, she would not risk making her government look weak by arranging an attack upon a hospital in the capitol city.

  No, the destruction of one building in Budapest had been quite enough, thank you very much dear nephew of mine, she thought, bringing her palm down upon a tiny spider crossing her desk.

  At first she’d not known he’d been at the Martian satellite facility. When she’d learned of it, she momentarily wondered if Pavel’s only goal had been to destroy something, anything, in the capitol city as a way to strike at her. But this possibility had been swiftly eliminated by the fact that he’d chosen to steal away from New Timbuktu with Kazuko and the other inciter.

  No, he was involved in the group secretly planning to visit Mars. She was sure of it now. He wanted an adventure, or tellurium wealth, or simply to do something he knew his aunt wouldn’t like.

  Of course, she reassured herself, he could have no way of knowing why she wouldn’t like it.

  She needed to communicate to him swiftly. To nip this little Mars venture in the bud. She stood and paced—thinking, considering. And then she remembered a tiny something about one of the hospitals. Hadn’t he persuaded her one Christmas to make an excessive donation to one of them? Yes, she was certain. He’d declined interest in any gifts for himself that year, asking only for this charity.

  She returned to her desk. There it was. The Hospital for Mental Illness and Recovering Minds. It was an elegant choice as well; if you were going to create a shortage of bodies for the Re-body Program, best do it by eliminating those least deserving of re-bodying. Paris had been a mistake in that regard. The Re-body Program had lost some very healthy bodies that day.

  She called in the two members of Red Squadron who had failed her so miserably at New Timbuktu, glad she’d spared their lives after all.

  “The pair of you are volunteering for a special mission. I’m in need of a few … committed inciters,” she said. The two officers glanced at one another as if to say, “Did she just say what I think she said?”

  Lucca smiled. She adored the moment of puzzled confusion that always followed pronouncements such as this.

  “Your target is the Hospital for Mental Illness and Recovering Minds in Hong Kong. I want something messy.” She paused, imagining Pavel’s reaction. “Very messy.”

  26

  THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

  On the morning of her twenty-fourth day out from Mars, Jessamyn awoke with her heart pounding hard against her ribcage. She’d thought of a third reason the ship’s computer might be reporting she had so little fuel remaining.

  “Extra weight,” she muttered.

  Jumping out of her bunk, she stumbled to her locker. To find out if her hunch was correct, she would need to descend into the bowels of the ship, which weren’t kept habitable. She hesitated a moment between her g-suit and a spacesuit. A part of her school pledge echoed in her head: I will not waste oxygen. She grabbed the g-suit.

  Slipping inside the suit, she toggled the oxygen reserve to supply itself from the main cabin. This meant a wait of a minute and gave her time to admire the fit of her boots and gloves. She wondered briefly if she could talk MCC into allowing her to keep the suit for everyday use upon Mars. She rolled her eyes at her idiotic idea. MCC was going to lock her up and throw away the key once she got home.

  Even with its customized fit, the suit felt awkward. Jess had grown accustomed to movement without a suit. She’d passed nearly a month in deep space. She was certain she’d never gone more than a single day on Mars without suiting up, often spending entire days back home inside the pressurized suit with the oxygen supply which made her life possible upon Mars’s surface.

  She eased into the tiny airlock that led to the ship’s lower levels. Lighting was poor down here, and she flicked on her headlamp.

  For over three weeks, she’d assumed her fuel indicator was malfunctioning. But what if someone—some trade-obsessed individual too contemptible to mention by name—had filled the ship’s hold? Jess felt sick as she considered the possibility. But it would explain the larger burn to get the ship off Mars and up to velocity. A heavier ship would have consumed more fuel. Something Kipper’s idiot brother would have been likely to overlook.

  Shuffling past the ship’s escape pods, Jess made her way to the large doors leading to the ship’s hold. She felt her pulse increasing as she waited the agonizing time it took for the hold doors to retract. What she saw in the glow of her headlamp took her breath away.

  Cavanaugh had filled the ship’s hold with tellurium.

  Sinking onto the floor, Jess gazed in despair at the valuable metal.

  “No wonder you burned through all that fuel,” Jess whispered to the ship.

  It was a potential disaster. If the ship’s fuel readings were accurate—and she had to assume now that they were—she had big problems. Jess leapt to her feet and sped back toward the ship’s habitable level.

  This was not a minor issue like last week’s episode with the squealing clean-stall beside her quarters. Not a humorous one like the morning she’d awoken bobbing about in her quarters like a floating cork and had to reengage the ship’s artificial gravity with a cold frame boot to the system.

  “Trouble always comes in threes.” In her mind, Jessamyn could hear the rasp of Crusty’s gravelly voice as he’d spoken those words in the past. She heard, as well, Harpreet’s laughing response: “Only a fool borrows trouble from the future.” Jess supposed that meant something along the lines of, “Don’t go looking for a third problem.”

  “Well, we’ve got one now,” she said aloud, including the ship in her use of the plural pronoun.

  Back on the bridge, Jess ran calculations through the ship’s computer over and over again. Her results, unfortunately, were not encouraging. The fuel indicator reported the consumption of an amount of fuel in proportion to a ship loaded down with tellurium. The fuel indicator wasn’t busted.

  No, it was fairly certain Jess did not, in fact, have the fuel she needed to make the kind of safe landing she’d made six weeks ago upon Earth’s Isle of Skye. Nor did she have enough to come to a full stop and return to Mars. In fact, assuming the indicator was correct, she might not even have enough to guide the ship back into Mars’s orbital path to wait out the red planet’s arrival.

  “Great,” she said aloud. “I’m dead.”

  She’d faced death in a cockpit before—most recently just before MCAB had grounded her. But those times, the prospect o
f death had been immediate. This time she had nearly forty days between her and her probable demise. And this meant she had time to think about death.

  And so, day by day, she learned to live alongside the fact that each day brought her closer to the probable conclusion of all her days. She vacillated between utter despair and a sense that everything would work out in the end.

  It was a strange way to live.

  She continued to receive periodic communications from Mars with demands for her return. These she read and ignored. Then one day a message arrived from her parents, pleading for her to reconsider. Her mom sent a set of calculations showing she’d still have the fuel to return until day forty-seven. Her mom didn’t know about the additional tellurium weight, of course. Jess stopped reading messages after that, and on day forty-eight, they stopped coming. MCC had apparently given up on her.

  Jess spent much of her time analyzing the ship’s three hundred Earth-years of data regarding entry, descent, and landing on the Terran world. But this activity, like reading MCC’s messages, served only to fill her with unease. What she saw did not look hopeful. The day after the MCC messages ceased, Jess decided to discontinue analyzing possible landings as well.

  “I’ll make it or I won’t,” she said aloud.

  But with two weeks to go, she badly wished she’d brought something to read.

  And then she laughed aloud. Running down the hall to Crusty’s storage locker, Jess fished inside the small dark space and pulled out a long-forgotten bag, crammed with the items she’d packed her last night at home. She hadn’t intended for it to be her last night, obviously, but now she hugged the bag to her chest in delight.

  She pulled out her reading wafer and settled on her bunk to lose herself in a favorite story. And then another. And another. Until she fell asleep reading.