Fable Hill

by Christopher Uremovich

  Unable to get the rover operational and on the ground once again, Frank and Mia developed a system for laying the pipe across the crater floor. They loaded the reel with brand new polyethylene tubing, using the dead rover and airship in tandem. Mia remained atop the dead rover’s body. She broke the locks that controlled the reel’s speed, allowing the plastic pipe to unravel faster.

  “Are we ready?” Frank asked from the cockpit.

  Mia gave the thumb’s up, far below the safety of the gondola. She straddled herself atop the rover a hundred feet above the Martian crater floor. Frank punched the gas, releasing a second canister of CO2. He made sure to use controlled bursts as too much power could snap the plastic tubing, or worse, the grounding cables holding Mia precariously high above the ground.

  Like an anchor being released at sea, the bright yellow pipe unraveled. It unraveled faster than expected and Mia panicked. “Slow down!” she barked.

  I can't slow down, Frank thought to himself. He shut off all mono rockets and checked ballonet levels. They were at one hundred percent capacity. All he could do was monitor the situation and hope for the best.

  Nearing the end of the first roll, Mia signaled for a second roll. Frank stepped out into the Martian air and onto an outside support beam and wire. He shimmied himself over to the storage cage. With one arm on the wire and the other on the cage door, he reached inside and carefully lowered more piping to Mia below.

  He grunted and spat, his arm burning with exhaustion. “Just a little more!” he cried to himself. The piping was cumbersome and awkward.

  “Just a little more Frank, a little more, almost there!” Mia said, her words pure encouragement to the battered pilot. “You can do it!” she cried over the net.

  Frank paused briefly to rest. He rubbed his arm again to ease the burn of torn muscle. With a deep roar, he summoned the last of his strength and Mia grabbed the very end of the roll.

  “We need to find a different solution,” Frank bellowed, still shaking his arm, free hanging from two hundred feet. The giant airship jerked to a halt. The slacked pipe grew stiff and stopped the airship from drifting further.

  “Can you get us any lower?” Mia asked.

  “Not until the sun goes down,” Frank said. He carefully sidestepped his way back into the cockpit. “Can you climb back up?”

  Mia scanned the cables for a way up; it was fruitless. The sun had reached its 1500 hour position in the sky, giving way to the highest temperatures of the Martian day. Even with full ballonets they would not see the ground until sundown.

  •••

  Keiko watched as rusty dust devils danced across the flat expanse of Anatoli Plain. They grew in size and then shrunk, almost disappearing entirely before growing again. She observed the wind speed indicator on her HUD change from thirty-one to thirty-five kilometers per hour.

  She compared data to a newly-installed anemometer attached to the settlement. It took her most of the morning and early afternoon to set up the small device. She recorded a final voice log, indicating a 0.5% margin of error before heading back indoors.

  Near the front entrance of the main settlement dome, Renee assisted Alexei in lining up the fleet of dilapidated rovers. Each rover told a story over the last ten to fifteen years. Each one exhibited old or new technologies. Some were simple with exposed wiring, others more advanced and streamlined with fully-enclosed housings and all-terrain capabilities.

  Alexei cannibalized older rovers for parts while getting newer rovers and other robotics operational again. The main issue for older models was the degradation of internal parts and heavily dust-covered solar panels. More advanced rovers with exterior skins extended the life of internals tenfold.

  The Russian nuclear scientist took apart an American science lab rover with a production date of September 7, 2036. Its design was a sleek magnesium alloy outer shell with four aluminum cast wheels.

  “You see this?” Alexei asked Renee, touching a black bar with the tip of a drill bit. “This is the differential bar, this triangle shape right here is the rocker, and attached to that, the bogie,” Alexei identified.

  Renee looked on with intrigue. She had no idea what any of it meant but was thankful for the demonstration. She grabbed for the tool kit to help Alexei carry it to the next rover but was given more free instruction on vehicle suspension.

  “You can see how drastically rover tech has changed since the early thirties, yet we have been using the same suspension system for fifty years!” he croaked.

  A deep rumble rattled the ground below Renee’s feet. She could hear the low frequency noise of an engine. It was soft, akin to being underwater and hearing noises on dry land. She turned and saw the Mars Exploration Vehicle driving towards their area.

  Roland was in the driver’s seat. He had brought the vehicle out to provide an electrical source to help resurrect rovers from the grave. It was the size of a large van. Designed and patented by Nagoya Industries, only one MEV was ever finished because of funding. The vehicle carried an enormous amount of technology and mechanical abilities, including a retractable crane and portable rocket launch platform.

  Roland disembarked from the hulking machine and walked about, turning a battery disconnect switch to conserve power. “Gotta knock out your MEV refresher training first, gather round,” Roland notified.

  Alexei ignored the invite and grabbed attached slave cables from one of the MEV’s many exterior compartments. Roland grasped firmly Alexei’s hand and scolded him.

  “I’m serious, Alexei, everyone is required to receive this training before operating the MEV,” he said. Alexei dropped the cables, causing them to retract automatically.

  “It’s a beautiful feat of engineering, isn’t it, sir?” Renee ogled the vehicle.

  “Yes it is,” he replied.

  “On paper, the correct designation is MEV-01, since it’s the first production model,” Roland droned on about the history of the vehicle. Alexei stood still with his head slung back towards the sky. Renee stood fixated on Roland, listening intently to every word.

  “The chassis is made from titanium alloy with a next-gen, self-leveling pneumatic suspension. All six wheels are composed of a three-part system: the outer thread made of aluminum with flanges, grousers, and holes to evenly distribute soil; the inner wheel, with inverted swirl spokes also made of aluminum attached to a titanium rim. Each tire is an independently driven, six-wheel-drive system with pneumatic compressors able to bleed air and blow away sand for heavy top soil applications.” Roland tapped the front wheel with his hand.

  “What does that part do?” Alexei pointed to a small hexagonal bolt connected to each tire.

  “Um . . .” Roland replied. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  Alexei was quick to respond back. “It’s the suicide bolt to remove the tire from the air brake,” he said.

  “Fine, I get it . . . go do something more productive!” Roland cried. Alexei took off like a lightning bolt across the open expanse and disappeared behind one of the domes.

  Renee chuckled. She laid a hand on Roland’s slouched shoulder. “I don’t know a bloody thing about trucks, hun. You may proceed.”

  Roland gave out a long sigh with his transceiver off, then continued the training. “This big panel here is the airlock,” he said as they walked towards the rear. “Pull the handle downward and it releases air pressure from the rear passenger compartment. The driver compartment will remain pressurized at all times.”

  He deployed the air release lever, causing the rear hatch to swing upwards and a step platform to lower. A modest cloud of air dispelled out into the Martian atmosphere. Inside they continued to discuss the vehicle and its capabilities until Amirah interrupted.

  “Captain Chartier, we have received a message from Goza,” she continued. “They request permission to overnight the operation due to minor technical difficulties.”

  “Permission granted. Amirah?”

  “Yes, captain?”

 
; “What’s our water situation?” he asked.

  “Current water production is seven percent of total water capacity, not including reserve capacity. Ōme Station must achieve seventy percent efficiency to sustain total operations and thirty percent to sustain human life to the target habitability period of 667 Martian sols. Current production is inadequate and life expectancy is currently fifty-four sols for three astronauts and twenty-seven sols for six astronauts,” Amirah said with grim discourse.

  “Amirah,” Roland said, his voice cracking, dry from lack of water.

  “Yes, captain.”

  “Hail Yamada and see if Sarai can send us another five hundred gallon water tank. Have her use an older Osaka capsule rather than waste another Sakura,” he ordered. “I’m coming back to use the base station radio.”

  The Yamada had two Osaka capsules in reserve. They were much older and used primarily for supplies because of a lack of internal airlock or life support. Roland’s main objective was water. Everything depended on it, even if it meant initiating drastic measures.

  Once inside Ōme, he cornered Keiko who tended her fragile assortment of crops. “Keiko, I honestly don’t want to do this but we may have to destroy your plants to conserve water,” he said boldly.

  Keiko was caught off guard. Her eyes swelled with emotion at the thought of tearing apart all her hard work and dedication, like a mother forced to smother her children by someone else’s decree. “Roland . . . please.” She couldn’t think of anything better to say in that moment.

  The old team lead rested his hands atop the young Japanese woman’s shoulders as he attempted to console her. “Keiko, we’re dying. All of us,” he said plainly.

  “They’re out there right now, getting the pipeline finished—soon we’ll be swimming in water! You haven’t even exhausted all our options yet, sir,” she argued fruitlessly.

  “Keiko, they’re just plants. You will grow more plants, I promise. You’re a fantastic botanist!” Roland squeezed her tightly and then walked away.

  Keiko remained in the atrium, slumped over her step stool. The first cherry red tomato budded behind her, amongst a sea of green. Wisps of nutrient-rich mist doused the plants in rhythmic unison.

  •••

  The sun descended beyond the massive crater escarpment. A violet-blue tinged twilight remained for a considerable amount of time, diminishing light levels within the crater.

  Two fibrous metal cables that acted as mooring lines finally touched the sandy crater floor. Mia, who had remained straddled to the floating rover, casually got off and walked away. She signaled to Frank, who confirmed the airship was finally under-pressurized enough to lower the rope ladder.

  Temperatures plummeted with the sun retreating beyond the visible horizon. Mia confirmed readings of -53°C at 1900 hours, only four hours after achieving maximum temperature during the Martian day.

  “Did you speak with Roland?” Mia asked as Frank climbed down the rope ladder.

  “Yes, he said they were initiating emergency water procedures,” he replied. Frank suddenly noticed faint alterations to his vision. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He assumed his visor was having issues dealing with the drastic temperature drop.

  “Is your visor acting funny?” Frank asked. A strange radio static broke apart Mia’s response, making her words inaudible. Frank stepped onto the crater floor, his boot sinking deeply into loose aggregate. A bowl of dust wafted up and swallowed his legs.

  “Like walking on talcum powder,” he commented, a white bag slung across his back like a satchel. Mia helped unsling it as they proceeded to hunker down for the night.

  Radio communication had suddenly become useless as only static could be heard between the two. Frank used hand and arm signals while Mia tapped her transceiver to tell Frank it was malfunctioning.

  Frank unraveled the portable habitat over soft ground. Mia connected the pump and compressor to the primary life support system and took a few steps back. Air began to fill the bag through two hoses, one for intake, the other for exhaust and recirculation. Frank knelt beside her and monitored the life support’s touch screen control pad. Once a stable pressure of 90.3 kilopascals was achieved, they prepared to enter the tent.

  “Wait, check the tent’s air circulation,” Mia said, her transceiver randomly working again.

  Oxygen 30%. Nitrogen 62%. Carbon Dioxide 8%. Barometric Pressure 13.5 PSI. Habitat Temperature -1°C, Frank read from the LCD display.

  “It says the infrared heater is operating nominally. I guess we’re just going to freeze our asses off tonight,” Frank said sarcastically.

  “Well, the outside ambient temperature is -57° C and dropping, we should be thankful we have heat at all,” Mia replied.

  The two entered through a flimsy-looking airlock made of fabric. For a brief moment, Frank prepared for the space tent to implode, but they entered without any problems. Once inside, the reluctance to remove their helmets was apparent, both wondering if the display data could be wrong.

  Frank removed his helmet first and took a deep breath—and suddenly collapsed to the floor, holding onto his neck as if suffocating. Mia panicked and quickly grabbed Frank’s helmet to put back on his head. As she knelt down Frank began laughing uncontrollably. He had fooled her. The cool, calm, and collected Mia turned red from embarrassment. She slugged Frank right in the stomach.

  “I’ll give you something to laugh about!” she said, removing her own helmet.

  The air inside the temporary habitat was biting. It was a labor to breathe in the cold, dry air. Large plumes of condensation expelled from their mouths.

  Darkness descended upon the makeshift camp. Mia opted to take off her suit and curled up in a down mummy bag. Frank remained in his suit and stared intently at synthetic fiber walls. The machines that kept them alive droned on as wind sprinkled silicates against the sides of the shelter. For the first time Frank could hear the sounds of Mars, low-pitched and distant, as if some unseen force had lowered the volume of the planet.

  Frank turned off the light and closed his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of a shadow outside the tent. He reopened his eyes slowly and waited for them to adjust to the dark. A faint light radiated from the outside. It cast an eerie figure-shaped shadow on the synthetic fibre tent wall.

  Fear gripped Frank as he tried to reassure himself that Mars was a dead planet. Slowly he closed his eyes again, wondering to himself what was causing the ambient light outside. His mind raced with assumptions and he reopened his eyes once more but the shadow had disappeared. Goosebumps and raised hairs dominated his body, his head buzzing with fear as tunnel vision blurred his sight.

  He grabbed for his gear pack and quietly rummaged inside, revealing his father’s old 1911 pistol. Being a generally cautious individual, it made sense for him to be prepared. It could be the Chinese spying on us, he thought. His mind went over every possible scenario as he prepared himself for whatever it was. A familiar nausea set in, the same feeling he got right before combat.

  More and more time went by before finally the ambient light slowly dissipated until only the dark was left. Frank forced himself to let it go and find sleep. He cleared his mind and focused on the low purr of the pump and compressor, keeping them alive in the vast wasteland.

  Chapter 17

  Nagoya Headquarters

  Tokyo, Japan.

  May 16, 2045

  A trail of black, unmarked SUVs sped across the Rainbow Bridge into Minato City. They ascended the exit to the second tier of the Kaigan Dori expressway in view of the towering Nagoya International building. The skyscraper, shaped like a multi-faceted glass shard, stood fifty-eight stories tall, overlooking Tokyo Bay.

  Known as the Diamond Tower, its main attraction was its energy self-sufficiency. At the top of the skyscraper an annular wind turbine provided seven megawatts of pollution-free power to the building and surrounding area.

  Driverless, each blacked-out vehicle transported some of the wealthiest men and wo
men in Japan and the United States. They drove unhindered into the open-air parking ramp at the base of the tower. Botanical gardens grew amongst parking spaces as gardeners and landscapers labored in the unseasonably hot spring.

  Parked in perfect tandem, bodyguards escorted the investors and shareholders of Nagoya Industries into the main lobby of the skyscraper dubbed The Crystal Court. Inside the hundred foot, open, skylit space, a large marble cistern snatched water cascading down from the ceiling. A dozen or so black olive trees surrounded the marble centerpiece. Employees went about their business, most unaware of the powerful people that had arrived.

  On the fifty-fourth floor, Mr. Tajika paced nervously back and forth in his office-connected conference room. A polished oak table with plush seats sat empty. Two assistants hurriedly poured glasses of ice water and wiped glass cleaner over the touchscreen tabletop.

  “Where are you?!” Tajika demanded, speaking into his lapel.

  “I’m running down the hall now,” a winded woman replied.

  The door swung open and a middle-aged Japanese woman stopped abruptly just inside the conference room. She quickly fixed her hair and straightened her fitted, black blazer and matching capri pants. Tajika quickly briefed his Chief Director of Operations, Ms. Aya Ueto, on the no-notice arrival of their many wealthy investors.

  “I’m supposed to be on a plane to Okinawa,” she interrupted.

  Tajika shot a fervent look to one of his female assistants. She acknowledged and left to make the necessary arrangements. A security guard entered the room, letting Mr. Tajika know that the official party had arrived.

  “Let them in,” was his reply. It’s now or never, he thought.

  Pouring into the room, men and women from governments, wealthy investors, company shareholders, and members of the elite keiretsu bowed respectively to Nao and Aya. They each instinctively took their seats at the elongated oval table. The last member to enter was the one that surprised Mr. Tajika the most: the CEO of Toyama Group, Mr. Shinzo Maeda, Nagoya’s main competitor.