No answer, and her voice channel hadn’t sent an acknowledge, so she wasn’t anywhere in radio range, or she was buried too deep for him to reach her.
He tried the distress channel and got a message saying that if he was above thirty degrees north latitude and wasn’t bleeding to death within ten kilometers of a hospital, he was on his own. Navigation channel was out as well, but if he had to he could just walk with the Bears and Cassiopeia to his back while they got the navigation system back on, and still get himself to somewhere much safer and closer to other people, though getting out of the dunes might take a week without his skis.
When the crest had avalanched under Léoa she’d been at least one hundred and fifty meters behind him, and he wasn’t sure she’d gone down into this bowl. He tried her on direct voice again, and still had nothing, so he tried phone and was informed that overhead satellite service was temporarily suspended. He guessed that the impact had thrown enough junk around to take down some of the high-ellipse polar satellites that supplied communication and navigation.
If he knew he was alone, the thing to do would be to start walking south, but he couldn’t leave Léoa here if there was any chance of finding her. The first aid kit in Baggins had directional gear for checking her transponder, but Baggins was probably buried or crushed, and even if the porter was still rolling it might be a while before it found its way to him.
He would wait a few hours for Baggins anyway; the porter not only had the food, but could also track the tags on his skis and poles, and had a power shovel. A lot better to begin with a shelter, food, and skis than to get one or two kilometers farther and a lot more tired. And he did owe Léoa a search.
The best thing he could think of to do—which was probably useless—was to climb to the top of the slope he’d rolled down. The predawn west wind was rising, and the sand swirled around his boots; it was hard going all the way up, and it was dawn before he reached the top. The small bloody red sun rising far to the southeast, barely penetrating the dense dust clouds, gave little light. He clicked his visor for magnification and light amplification, and turned around slowly, making himself look at each slope and into each bowl he could see into, since with the wind already erasing his boot prints, he knew that once he walked any distance he’d have little chance of finding even the bowl into which he’d fallen.
There was something small and dark moving and slipping down the side of the next bowl north; he took a few steps, and used the distance gauge. It estimated the object to be about a meter across and two kilometers away.
He moved toward it slowly until he realized it was Léoa’s porter, headed roughly for the bottom of the bowl, so it must be getting signal from her transponder. He descended to meet it and found it patiently digging with its small scoop and plow, rocking back and forth on its outsize dune wheels to get more leverage.
Thorby helped as much as he could—which wasn’t much—with his hands. He didn’t know whether the porter would try to dig her out if the med transponder showed she was dead, and, of course, it would ignore him, so he didn’t have any way to ask it about anything. The suits usually ran with a couple of hours of stored air as a buffer, and made fresh air continually, but if she’d switched to pure direct oxygen as he had, there might not have been much in her tank, and if the intake was buried and filled with sand, she could suffocate.
Presently he felt a hard object; an instant later the porter reached forward with a claw, took a grip, and pulled one of Léoa’s skis from the sand, putting it into its storage compartment, before rolling forward. Thorby stared at it for a long moment, and started to laugh as he followed the porter up the hill, to where he plucked out a pole. Presumably it would get around to Léoa, sooner or later; nobody had thought to make lifesaving a priority for a baggage cart.
The roiling sky was the color of an old bruise and his temperature gauge showed that it was cold enough for CO2 snow to fall. He followed Léoa’s porter and tried the phone again. This time he got her voicemail, and left a message telling her what was going on, just in case she was wandering around on a hill nearby and out of line of sight from the satellite.
Five minutes later his phone rang. “Thorby?”
“Yeah, Léoa, are you okay?”
“No. Buried to my mid-chest, I think I have a broken back and something’s really wrong with my leg, and I can see your porter from where I am but I can’t get its attention.” Her voice was tense with pain. “Can’t tell you where I am, either. And you wouldn’t believe what your porter just did.”
“It dug up one of my skis. That’s what yours is doing over here. All right, to be able to see it you must be in the same bowl I landed in, one to the south, I’m on my way. I’m climbing without skis, so I’m afraid this is going to be slow.”
After a while as he climbed, the wind picked up. “Léoa?” he called, on the phone again because radio still wasn’t connecting them.
“I’m here. Your porter found your other ski. Do you think it will be okay for me to have some water? I’ve been afraid to drink.”
“I think that’s okay, but first aid class was a while ago. I was calling because I was afraid sand might be piling up on you.”
“Well, it is. I’m trying to clear it with my arms but it’s not easy, and I can’t sit up.”
“I don’t think you should try to sit up.”
They talked while he climbed; it was less lonely. “Your porter is digging about three hundred meters behind me,” he told her. “It must be finding your other ski.”
“Can’t be, if it’s already found one, because the other one is bent under me.”
“Well, it’s getting your pole then. If your ski is jammed under you, it sounds like it hurts.”
“Oh yeah, the release must have jammed and it twisted my leg around pretty badly, and walloped me in the spine. So the porter must be finding my pole. Or maybe I dropped a ration pack or something. They’ve got so much spare processing power, why didn’t anyone tell them people first, then gear?”
“Because there probably aren’t a hundred million people, out of sixteen billion, that ever go off pavement, or to any planet they weren’t born on,” he said. “The porters are doing what they’d do in a train station—making sure our stuff is all together and not stolen, then catching up with us.”
“Yours just found a pole and it’s heading up the hill, so I guess it’s on its way to you now.”
He topped the rise a few minutes later, just as Baggins rolled up to him and waited obediently for orders. “Skis and poles,” he said to his loyal idiot friend, and the machine laid them out for him.
He couldn’t see Léoa, still, but there was so much sand blowing around on the surface that this might not mean anything. He tried direct voice. “Léoa, wave or something if you can.”
An arm flopped upward from a stream of red dust halfway down the slope before him, and he glided down to her carefully, swinging far out around her to approach from below, making sure he didn’t bump her or push sand onto her. He had to wait for Baggins to bring all the gear along, and tell it to approach carefully, but while the porter picked its way down the slope, he put the first aid and rescue gear manuals into his audio channel, asked it to script the right things to do, and listened until he could recite it back. This was one of those times that reminded him he’d always wanted to learn to hand-read.
Meanwhile he kept brushing sand off Léoa; she was crying quietly now, because it still hurt, and she had been afraid she would be buried alive, and now that he was there to keep her intakes clear, she was safe.
Late that afternoon, he had completed digging her out, tying her to the various supports, putting the drugs into her liquid intakes, and equipping Baggins to carry her. She was lying flat on a cross-shaped support as if she’d been crucified. Voice-commanding Baggins, he slowly raised her, got the porter under her, and balanced her on top. With Baggins’s outrigger wheels extended as far as they would go, she would be stable on slopes less than ten degrees from the h
orizontal, and at speeds below three kilometers per hour. Thorby figured that hauling her would be something to do for a couple of days until rescue craft were available for less urgent cases.
Com channels were coming back up gradually, and the navigation channel was open again, but there was still little news, except a brief announcement that the impact had not been an early breakup of the comet, but apparently been caused by an undetected stony satellite of Boreas, about a half kilometer across. Splashback from the impact, as Thorby had guessed, had destroyed most of the satellites passing over the pole in the hours following. The dust storm it had kicked up had been impressive but brief and localized, so that only a half dozen stations and towns in the far north had taken severe damage, and tourist trade was expected to increase as people flocked to see the new crater blasted through the polar ice and into the Martian soil before the Boreal Ocean drowned it.
Authorities were confirming that the pass over the South Pole in seventeen days, to be followed with an equatorial air brake nine days after that, was still on schedule. Thorby figured he’d be able to cover those, easily, so Léoa’s little political action would mean very little.
He wanted to ask her about that but he didn’t quite see how to do it.
Shortly after Baggins began to carry the cruciform Léoa in a slow spiral up the inside of the bowl, gaining just a couple of meters on each circuit, her porter appeared over the top of the dune. It had apparently found the last ski pole, or whatever it was digging for, and now followed her transponder like a faithful dog, behind Baggins, around and around the sandy bowl.
Léoa insisted that he get visual recordings of that silly parade, but he quietly killed the audio on it, because all that was really audible was her hysterical laughter. He attributed that to the painkillers.
About dawn he sat up, drank more water and swallowed some food, and skied easily to the top of the dune crest, where Baggins had just managed to carry Léoa after toiling in that slow spiral around the bowl all night. The monitor said she was fast asleep, and Thorby thought that was the best possible thing. Through most of the morning and into the afternoon, he skied along the newly reorganized dune crests, working a little ahead of Baggins and then sitting down to wait for it to catch up, listening to the slow spitting of sand against his suit, and watching the low red dust clouds gather and darken, with only his thoughts for company.
When Léoa finally awoke, she said, “I’m hungry.” It startled Thorby; he was about sixty meters ahead, using his two remaining stalkers to shoot the dunes through the red dust that was still settling.
“Be right there,” he said, and skied back, the stalkers hopping after him. Her mouth, throat, and digestive system were basically okay, according to the medical sensors, though they wanted her to eat mostly clear broth till she could be looked at properly in a hospital. This time she chose chicken broth, and he hooked it up so she could sip it. All the diagnostics from the rescue frame said she was more or less normal, and as far as he could tell the broken leg and spine were the major damage.
After a while she said, “If I call out my stalkers, will you tell the story about the bicycle ride around the comet, and all those things about becoming famous?”
“Sure,” he said, “if it will make the time pass better for you. But I warn you it’s very dull.”
So he sketched out the basics, in his best “I am being interviewed” voice, as the red dusty sky grew darker. When he was fourteen he had been sent to live with his grandmother because his mother had a promising career going as an actress and his being visibly a teenager would have spoiled her image as a sex object for teenage boys. His grandmother had been part of the earliest team for the first Great Bloom projects, so he had found himself dispatched to Boreas with her, forty-five AU from the sun—so far out that the sun was just a bright star. He had been bored and unhappy, spending most of his time playing games in VR and bored even there because he was so far from the rest of the solar system that radio signals from anywhere else, even Triton Station, took most of a day for a round trip.
“So on the day of the first fire-off—”
“Fire-off? You mean the atom bomb?”
“Well, sort of atom bomb. Laser initiated fusion explosive, but nobody wanted to call a bomb LIFE. Yeah, the thing that started Boreas falling down into the lower solar system.” He skied back to look at her life-support indicators; they were all green so as far as he knew, she was fine. “On that day, Grandma insisted that I suit up, which I didn’t want to do, and go outside with her, which I really didn’t want to do, to sit and watch the sky—the gadget was going to be blowing off over the horizon. They put it in an ellipsoidal super-reflecting balloon, at one focus, and then put the other focus of the ellipsoidal at the focus of a great big parabolic parasol—”
“None of this means a thing to me.”
“They had these really thin plastic reflectors to organize it into a beam about a kilometer across, so all that light, X rays, heat, everything pretty much hit one square kilometer and blew off a lot of ice and snow in one direction.”
“That’s better. So, you got to see one big explosion and you liked it so much you decided to see them for the rest of your life?”
“My helmet’s opaqued, did you want a reaction shot to that?”
“I’ll make one up,” she said. “Or use stock. I’m not that purist anymore. Anyway, I’ve heard you mention it two or three times, so what was Cookie Crumb Hill?”
“Home. It was where the base was. Basically a pile of sand cemented together with water ice, it was the boat for the base.”
“The boat?”
“It floated on what was around it, and if anything had gone wrong it would have ejected as a whole, so we thought of it as a boat. But we called it Cookie Crumb Hill because it was a pile of meter or bigger ice clods. The stuff in the core was mostly silica, so the robots spun that into glass fibers, stirred that into melted water, and added enough vacuum beads to make it float on the frost, because otherwise anything we built would have been under twenty-five kilometers of frost.”
A virgin Kuiper Belt Object begins as a bit of dust accumulating frost. It accretes water, ammonia, methane, hydrogen sulfide, all the abundant things in the universe, a molecule at a time. Every so often it adds more dust, and as it grows bigger and bigger, the dust sinks through the loose vacuum frost to the center. At Kuiper Belt velocities, hardly anything ever hits hard enough to cause vaporization, and anyway it’s too cold for anything to stay vapor for long. So over billions of years, the frost at the center packs slowly around the dust, and all of it sinks and compacts into a kind of sandy glacier. Frost on top of that sandy glacier packs in to form “fizzy glacier”—water ice mixed with methane and carbon dioxide ice. And always the surface at a few kelvins, where the slight mass and the low gravity are not enough to compact the crystalline structures, grows as thick frost; at the bottom of twenty-five kilometers of frost, on a world as small and light as Boreas, the total pressure was less than the air pressure of Mars. Time alone made Boreas large and its center hard.
“So before people got there,” Léoa said, “you could say it was one big snowflake. Fractally elaborated fine structures of ice crystals, organized around a dust center—just that it was more than seven hundred kilometers across.”
“Small dust center, big compacted ice center,” he said. “More like a snowball with a lot of frost on it. But I guess you’re right, in a sense. So we called it Cookie Crumb Hill because with the fiber and beads in them, the ice boulders looked sort of like cookie crumbs, and we built it up in a big flat pyramid with sort of a keel underneath to keep it from turning over, so it was also a boat on a fluffy snowball, or if you would rather call it that, a snowflake.
“Anyway, I was a complete jerk as a teenage boy.”
“I had twin teenage boys a couple decades ago,” Léoa said, “and I might have the reversal and have more babies, but only if I can drown them or mail them away at age twelve.”
T
horby skied alongside Baggins to check her indicators; she was farther into the green range, probably feeling better, and that was good.
“Well,” he said, “I was unusually unpleasant even for a teenager, at least until the bicycle ride. Though being bad wasn’t why Mom got rid of me; more like the opposite, actually.” It came out more bitter than he had expected it to; he sometimes thought the only time he’d really been emotionally alive was between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, because everything after seemed so gray by comparison. “Anyway, I sat up there with Gran, and then there was a great light in the sky over the horizon, and about ten minutes of there being an atmosphere—I felt wind on my suit and for just a moment there was a sky instead of stars—and then, poof-click, all this new spiky frost forming everywhere. That was when the idea started, that it would be wonderful to be outside for a long period of time, especially if I could control what I did and how I spent my time.
“So for physics class, I figured out the gadget, and had the fabricators make it. That kilometer across loop of spinning superconductor that was basically a big flywheel I could spin up to orbital velocity by doing shifts pedaling the treadmill, so over about a month I got in shape. Bicycle that I could ride around the inside of the loop as a maglev, picking up speed and momentum for the loop. That was trivial stuff, any lab could build that now, and our local robots didn’t have much to do once the base was done. So I built my loop and my bicycle, or rather the robots did, and pedaled the loop for a few hours a day. In a frictionless very low g environment, the momentum adds up, and eventually that loop was moving at close to six hundred kilometers per hour, more than orbital velocity. With controllable superconduction on my bike tires, I could gradually increase the coupling, so I didn’t get yanked off the bike when I first got on, and just ride my relative speed up high enough before getting off the loop and into orbit.
“Then I just needed the right timing, enough air, food, and water, and a way to come down when I got bored. The timing was done by a computer, so that I pulled out of the loop right at the top, while I was riding parallel to the ground, and I just had a one-time program to do that, it took over and steered when it needed to, since my launch window was about three meters long and at that speed, that went by in about a sixtieth of a second. A recycling suit took care of the air and water. The food was in the big container I was towing. And the container, when it was empty, could be given a hard shove, and dragged through the frost below, as an anchor to get down to about a hundred kilometers per hour, when I’d inflate the immense balloon tires around the superconducting rims, and skim along the frost back to Cookie Crumb Hill.
The Year's Best SF 25 # 2007 Page 10
