Defying Mars (Saving Mars Series-2)

by Cidney Swanson

  And then her wish for distraction from parental memories was dramatically fulfilled. The ship rang out with a warning about insufficient oxygen.

  31

  SEAT OF YOUR PANTS

  Insufficient oxygen was different, according to the ship, from insufficient oxygen for human life. The Galleon was notifying her that the ratio of oxygen to nitrogen and other gasses was no longer optimal. But it wasn’t bad enough to kill her. Not yet. And putting on a suit now would mean she would run out of suit air at a time when the ship had no oxygen left. She shook her head. If she made it at all, it would be by the seat of her pants.

  “Well there’s something you’re good at, Jaarda,” she said. “Flying by the seat of your pants.”

  She turned from the ops panel to the navigation panel, scowling at the ship’s low fuel warning. It had been glowing steadily since her last course adjustment seven days ago. She needed fuel and she had no way to get it. It was the same as her oxygen problem. Except that with the oxygen problem, she’d found an answer. She hoped.

  Was there some “elsewhere” on the ship she could find fuel?

  “Come on, Jaarda,” she growled. “This is the kind of thing you’re good at.”

  Jessamyn knew the location of the fuel containers upon her ship, understood how the cylinders delivered requested fuel to her aft or forward thrusters, to port or starboard rockets. Ethan had even shown her a non-standard procedure for delivering extra fuel to the ship’s escape pods.

  The escape pods!

  “Well, I’ll be,” she whispered. “There it is.”

  Jess stood with excitement. The person-sized pods each came filled with a small quantity of fuel. In the event of an emergency evacuation, you didn’t want to be stuck taking the time to divert fuel to your escape vehicle. And if she could transfer fuel from the Galleon to those other vehicles, could she not reverse the process? Transfer the fuel from the extraneous vehicles into the Galleon’s tanks?

  Jessamyn had five fueled escape pods on board. At least she hoped they were fueled. Would they have been fueled? She wasn’t sure. Maybe the crew of Ungrateful Wretches wouldn’t have thought of fueling them. But Crusty would have ordered it. Without fuel, the pods’ only other method of speed reduction was old-fashioned whiplash-inducing parachutes.

  She needed to go below-decks to check the pods. Marching back to the aft quarters, Jess reached out to grab a pressurized suit to descend into the lower levels. She had already shoved one leg through before realizing what she was about to do.

  “Use the suit now and that’s one less suit you can use come landing day,” she murmured.

  Frustrated, she sank upon the bunk, the suit in her lap now, her fingers pinching at the cool fabric. A faint reflection of her face—fish-eyed by the curvature of the helmet—caught her attention.

  “Seven hours until you can suit up,” she murmured to herself. “Okay, get back to your list.”

  She frowned at the next task on her list: determine how to safely land the Galleon with limited fuel. Of course, even if she could siphon off a few kilos of fuel, the landing was going to be anything but safe.

  Jessamyn soon lost herself checking Academy texts which explained how to calculate the optimal angle at which to enter Earth’s kilometers-thick atmosphere. Enter at too shallow of an angle and you risked simply “bouncing” back out. Enter straight “down” and your craft would come in so hot that no amount of forward thrust could slow you in time to land. Jessamyn preferred landings which didn’t end in a flaming ball of fire.

  Having determined her optimal angle of entry, she then examined Earth’s tilt and spin to see which continents would be closest as she approached. She had several possible landing points—all in unpopulated wastelands—but decided upon a deserted position in North America close to where it met the Pacific. This would get her planet-side more quickly than the other locations: she had the limited oxygen to factor into her decision. Best to get off the ship as swiftly as possible. North America it would be, then.

  Her destination chosen, Jessamyn then set out to determine how much fuel she would need for braking. While entry through Earth’s dense atmosphere would provide much of the reduction in speed she required, it wouldn’t reduce her speed enough. She would still come down too hot and too fast.

  Early Terrans had solved the speed reduction problem with the use of parachutes. In fact, early Mars landings had also used the parachute as the most efficient way to apply the brakes, since Mars, unlike Earth, didn’t have several kilometers of atmosphere to create drag.

  Well, the Galleon didn’t come equipped with parachutes, so that option wouldn’t work. Her head ached and her stomach growled. Jessamyn couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last.

  A ration bar and a drink of water later, she felt better—physically anyway—and set herself back to calculating how much of her braking would be done by Earth’s atmosphere and how much of it had to be accomplished using her forward thrusters.

  Coming up with a number she didn’t like, she repeated her calculations. And repeated them again. And again.

  Things did not look good. She knew how many kilos of fuel remained, but precise conditions on Earth would mean she might be off by a bit in her estimation of fuel consumption. Not to mention a degree or two difference between the angle she planned to enter the atmo and the angle she actually achieved meant there would always be a margin of error.

  “Anyone want to place bets?” she demanded aloud. “Anyone?”

  Shaking her head, she rose and crossed to the clean-stall. Her hair, kept from the influence of sunlight and Marsian peroxides, had darkened slightly. It was still red, but a deeper shade than she remembered. The skin below her eyes was tinted with purple.

  Jess startled. If she squinted just right, she could see where her First Wrinkle had arrived sometime in the past weeks aboard the Galleon. She was an adult now. “Well,” she said to her reflection, “You’re probably going to asphyxiate or crash into a million pieces very soon, but at least you look amazing.”

  With two hours to go before she could suit up, Jessamyn began to worry that her ability to concentrate was fading. She checked the ship’s oxygen levels—dangerously low—and grabbed one of the suits off the bunk. Sinking down where the suit had rested, she looked into the share-mask. She found her new tiny wrinkle reflected upon the share-mask. She wondered if she should get up and do something to stay awake.

  And then she drifted to sleep.

  32

  YET HERE WE BE

  Pavel Brezhnaya-Bouchard was regretting he hadn’t attempted to perform surgical facial alterations upon himself while he had the chance. His claim that despite being Lucca’s nephew, he was only in Yucca to build satellite dishes sounded implausible to many of the residents.

  “This whole group of strangers is part of an elaborate trap put into play by the Chancellor,” said Roy to Yucca’s leading citizens, gathered to examine Pavel and his friends. “She makes everyone think her nephew’s been abducted by placin’ that reward on his head, but really she’s got him doin’ her dirty work findin’ dissenters.”

  The Shirff frowned and tugged at his moustache.

  “It’s true my aunt wants me back,” said Pavel. “The reward is real. But the kidnapping claim is ridiculous. Does it look like I’m with these friends because they kidnapped me?”

  Brian snorted in laughter.

  “Brezhnaya looks weak if word gets out that her nephew’s run off of his own accord,” muttered the enclave’s oldest citizen, her pipe between her teeth.

  “Exactly,” said Pavel. “But it’s also not the case that I’m doing secret spy work for her. My aunt knows the truth about me—that I have no interest in supporting her goals or her government.”

  Harpreet’s clear voice rang out. “With all due respect, I believe it might be better to ask why Lucca Brezhnaya would send her highly-recognizable nephew to trap dissenters when an unknown face would surely garner more trust. Not to mention the fact tha
t had her government been made aware of your existence, Red Squadron might have put an end to all of us by now.”

  The woman with the pipe nodded. “Yet here we be.”

  The Shirff cleared his throat and addressed the five strangers. “We need time to discuss this situation. I’m sure you’ll understand if we place your party under protective custody for the remainder of the day.”

  Harpreet spoke for the group. “Of course you must be allowed to consider what you have learned. It changes nothing for us, however. We remain grateful for your hospitality and hopeful that it will continue.”

  But the discussion continued long into the night, and the party of five were told to expect word the following morning. Harpreet graciously accepted the information, passing it along to her companions.

  Pavel felt restless.

  “I’m going outside,” he said.

  “Are we allowed?” asked Dr. Zaifa.

  “Guess I’ll find out,” replied Pavel.

  He wandered up the set of stairs leading outside. The old woman sat just outside the entrance, chewing a pipe and blowing smoke rings to the night sky.

  “Is it okay if I take a bit of a walk?” asked Pavel.

  She gazed at him. “I’m to notify the Shirff if you don’t return,” was all she had to say.

  Pavel nodded and strode out and away from the small streaks of light leaking from the dwellings. He raised his eyes to the heavens, searching the east-west arc of sun and planets until he found Mars. The red planet glowed a faint yellow, approaching the months when the two worlds would be farthest apart. Pavel had told himself not to hope for Jessamyn’s return when the planets drew near once again. He had repeated it often. But he hoped and ached and dreamed anyway.

  He squatted, lowering himself onto the desert floor, still slightly warm, a memory of the day’s heat. Running his hands through the sand—cooler on top, warmer below—he remembered the night he’d spent at Jessamyn’s side. She would understand Yucca better than he did, fit in better. His weeks in the desert had fed a small flame inside him, a twinkling of an idea, half-glimpsed. He’d learned that another sort of community was possible. Camaraderie existed among these people who lived each day uncertain whether or not their most basic needs would be met. They needed one another. And they knew it.

  It made him sad, in a way he didn’t understand. Now that he knew he might be expelled from Yucca, he admitted he’d felt more at home living here in a hole in the ground than he’d ever felt with his aunt, in her well-appointed mansion. Of all the treasures and trinkets in his aunt’s palace, Zussman’s smile was the only thing he wished he could see again, a black cup of kávé the only luxury he missed.

  He stretched out along the sand, looking up. The moon had not yet risen. Overhead, the stars glimmered, small fires hung in the sky, multitudinous in this land so far from city lights. He wondered if the Marsian sky looked more like this one. Would Mars’s shallower atmosphere make the stars glow brighter? Seem nearer? He hoped so. And then he hoped Jessamyn might be looking to the faintly blue twinkle of Earth in her sky, thinking of him.

  “Fool,” he murmured, rising to go to back inside.

  The old woman with the pipe greeted him as he returned. “Shirff says as you can stay, boy.” With that she stood and left.

  Slipping into his borrowed bed, Pavel felt almost content. He knew he should have been content. An hour ago, all he’d wanted was permission to stay. To help, in some small way, the home world of the girl with red hair. But now all he could think of was the whisper of the silk she’d worn, the warmth of her breath as his mouth found hers, the curve of her smile as she pulled away.

  33

  CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH

  Just minutes after she’d sunk into low-oxygen-induced sleep, a loud noise blared from the ship’s system.

  Not the Cratercoustics, Jessamyn decided as she sat up.

  But it was a noise she recognized. Something she’d been trained to respond to since her earliest school years. Without thinking, she smashed the share mask over her nose and mouth and pulled the suit’s cylinder pin. Oxygen began flowing and Jess realized she had a massive headache.

  Which the siren wasn’t helping. The warning from the Red Galleon that oxygen levels had tapered below human tolerances was designed to be attention-grabbing as well as (apparently) loud enough to wake the dead.

  “I get it, I get it!” she moaned.

  Jess struggled into Cavanaugh’s suit, challenging because her limbs felt uncooperative. She sat, simply breathing, for a full minute before she stood to address the irritating noise.

  As Jess shuffled to the bridge, ship’s wafers upon multiple surfaces flashed the deadly warning, instructing her to seek emergency oxygen immediately.

  It took her several agonizing minutes to pass herself off as the ship’s commanding officer and first officer in order to turn the alarm off.

  Only now, as she turned into the rations room, did she realize she’d missed the opportunity to dine one last time upon regular ration bars prior to suiting up. Sighing, she reached into a cupboard from which she collected one of the squashy packets that combined wet and dry ration into a single … slimy concoction.

  When she’d been younger she’d begged her granddad for one of the special interplanetary pilot’s emergency rations. He’d mussed her hair and muttered, “Be careful what you wish for, Jessie.” He’d also refused her request. As she slurped the concoction down, Jess realized he’d done her a favor.

  “Vile,” she mumbled to the empty ship.

  Her vile morning rations consumed, Jessamyn made her way down to the ship’s belly, eager to investigate the escape pods in search of fuel. The pods rested upon their emergency hatch exits. She tapped the wafer embedded on the outer wall of one small craft. It informed her that the pod was functioning nominally and held a full reserve of rocket fuel.

  She smiled. “Brilliant, Pilot Jaarda,” she said aloud. “Brilliant!”

  Brilliance aside, she wasn’t sure how to pull fuel from the pods. She spent a frustrating two hours skimming wafer manuals. The portion of the guide devoted to fueling the pods from the ship was painstakingly detailed. It called to mind the launch and landing checklists compiled for her by MCC, which in turn reminded her that creating her own entry, descent, and landing checklist would be wise. At last, she landed upon a discussion of the procedure in question and began to move fuel into the Galleon’s tanks.

  After the first transfer, she journeyed up to the bridge, hopeful that the fuel transfer had rid her of the “insufficient fuel” warning.

  It hadn’t.

  And the activity of stairs made oxygen rush to her helmet. “Just great,” she said, closing her eyes tight and slowing her breathing. “It’s not like I really need the suit to last a full day or anything.” She left the bridge vowing to move at a more sedate pace and to stay below-decks until all the transfers were complete.

  When she came to empty the fifth pod, she paused. If she had to actually use the pod in an emergency, it would be easier to maneuver with working thrust rockets. Cursing Cavanaugh and his fuel-wasting tellurium, she scowled at the final pod, hands on her hips.

  And then she shook her head and addressed the Red Galleon. “If I can’t land you safely, my beauty, what’s the point?” She gave the orders to evacuate fuel from the final pod.

  Making her way back to the bridge, Jess was frustrated to see no change to the “insufficient fuel” message. A chill ran along her spine. Perhaps she shouldn’t have pulled fuel from the final pod. She thought about it for a long hard minute but decided in the end that she’d made a choice she could live with. Not giving the Galleon every possible chance? That was something she couldn’t live with.

  She searched the ship’s database for the entry, descent, and landing plan she’d used on her first trip to Earth. She had nowhere near enough fuel to follow those protocols, but she planned out a few variations to a conventional landing that might just get her and her ship down safely.r />
  She’d just completed her EDL list when the Galleon’s “low oxygen” warnings began to blare once more. This time hacking in as the ship’s commander didn’t seem to help. Frustrated and tired, Jessamyn tried the dubious course of reasoning aloud with her ship.

  “Yes, my beauty, I understand that you are worried about the air quality right now,” she said. “But see? I’m wearing a suit. I’m good. Really.”

  In what struck Jessamyn as either remarkably friendly on the Galleon’s part or else very eerie indeed, the alarm abruptly ceased. She waited for several minutes to see if it was really done, and decided, eyes drooping, that she could risk going to bed.

  The next morning, Jessamyn woke early and simply lay curled in her sleep nest in Ethan’s room. Breathing in the oxygen-rich air of the suit, she realized she ought to make provision for making certain she would always awaken before and not after each suit’s oxygen supply ran out. A few scheduled alarms later, she made her first transfer suit-to-suit. She could use her old suit’s emergency share-mask to maintain a steady flow of clean oxygen. However, the procedure seemed clumsy and she decided to simply take off her helmet and suit, risking a minute without oxygen.

  The stench of putrefying organisms was overpowering.

  Next time she’d use the share mask.

  Three more days passed with three more suit transfers. Smith turned out to have narrower shoulders than Jessamyn and wearing her suit made Jess feel as if someone were squeezing her shoulders all day.

  Another day and another suit and at last it was day sixty-five—her touchdown day. Her EDL was ready. The blue planet hurtled toward her at a terrifying speed. Would the Galleon deliver her safely or become her coffin? A shiver ran through her. Then she threw her shoulders back and made her way to the ship’s helm.