July 28, 2132
Shaila stared out onto the Martian surface from a small crack in the Hub’s wall, marveling at the fact that the existence of the fissure hadn’t spelled instant death to everyone there. Engineering confirmed her immediate reaction back in the command center; the loss of pressure should have blown open any rupture, destroying the base. Instead, she watched as one of the engineers applied a sealant to the crack. A moment later, her view of Mars was gone.
“Integrity restored,” Adams reported over the comm a minute later. “Oxygen levels and internal pressure nominal.”
“Roger that,” Shaila responded, happy with the work. It had only taken two hours for the damage control teams to find all the fissures and cracks in McAuliffe’s walls and get them sealed up. “Let’s get the heat cranked. I didn’t pack a sweater.”
She slid the cowl of her emergency suit off her head and took a deep breath. It was still cold, but now more like a ski lodge than the Arctic. And her lungs weren’t rebelling, either. Shaking her head at the strangeness of it all, she complimented the damage control team and headed back upstairs.
As she watched the crew bustle about the command center, Shaila was impressed with them yet again. Despite the multiple crises—not to mention the utter weirdness all around them—everyone had performed admirably. The reactor was still down, after all, and without it, survival was definitely an open question, even with a breathable Martian atmosphere.
Diaz poked her head out of her office. “There you are. We good?”
“All breaches sealed,” Shaila said. “Internal damage is mostly cosmetic.”
“This time,” Diaz said with a frown. “Get our science guys up here. I need to show them something.”
A few minutes later, Shaila joined Greene, Stephane and Yuna in Diaz’ office after scrounging enough chairs for everyone. A frozen holoimage of JSC’s director, Vice Admiral Hans Gerlich of the German Navy, hung mutely in the air above Diaz’ desk.
“This came in a few minutes ago,” Diaz said. “I wanted you to see it first hand.”
Diaz pressed a button, and the face of the older, balding man in glasses sprang to life. “Maria, we’re still reviewing your data from this morning. Glad to hear everyone’s all right. We’ve also confirmed your atmospheric data using our Earth-based assets, since the MarsSats are still on the fritz. We can’t confirm the gravity readings, but we’ll certainly take your word for it.”
The man took off his glasses and stared into the camera intently. “Frankly, we’re just as stunned and confused as you are. What’s happening on Mars is breaking every rule of geology and physics we know of. Our people here are practically at each other’s throats, debating how this could be happening. For what it’s worth, you may tell Lt. Jain and Dr. Greene that their theory has a few adherents here.”
Shaila looked over at Greene with a small victory smile, but the physicist merely stared intently at the holo. Unlike Shaila, he was probably used to being the smartest guy in the room.
“First off, you should know we’re keeping all this very close. The events on Mars have been classified as Top Secret-Gamma for the duration. Only yourself, Lt. Jain and Doctors Durand, Hiyashi and Greene are to be cleared regarding any new information with regard to these phenomena. And please reiterate to Dr. Greene that his discretion will not only be expected, but enforced.”
Greene’s eyebrows rose at that. “Geez. All right, already.”
“There appears to be no real pattern as to the timing of the earthquakes you’ve experienced,” Gerlich continued. “Thus, it’s impossible to say whether or not it’s safe for you to remain. We already have our survey team in transit, but they are still more than three weeks out, and at this rate, landing may prove difficult if these phenomena continue to threaten the base, particularly the increased gravity.
“We concur that the structure you’ve identified is not a natural phenomenon as we know it. And since we do not have any record of anyone building it . . . .” Gerlich’s voice trailed off for a moment. “I don’t need to tell you what this potentially means, for all of us. This could be the biggest discovery in all human history. I also recognize that your lives are on the line out there. If another quake strikes, you might not be so lucky.
“Your orders are these. If you feel it practical and your engineering group concurs, you have a green light to restart your reactor. Otherwise, do everything you can to conserve power. You may want to investigate using the Giffords’ batteries and solar cells if needed, unless you feel she’s salvageable and can get you off the planet. I strongly recommend you do everything you can to get that little ship up and running, because otherwise, no matter what happens, you’re stuck there. If you can salvage her, you may evacuate at your discretion.
“In the meantime, do the best you can to repair any and all sensors you have available, and gather as much data as possible. Send all raw data to Houston for analysis. We’re working on some reboot procedures that might get your AOO sensors running again.
“Finally, you are to gather a small survey team and, if safe and practical, enter the sensor outage area and proceed to the pyramid structure. Investigate and assess. If section 138 of the JSC General Operations Code applies, then you are free to perform those duties, as outlined therein, to the best of your ability.”
Gerlich sat up and put his glasses back on. “It seems like I should have something more momentous to say, but I really don’t. Good luck and Godspeed, Maria. Gerlich out.”
The image flickered off, leaving Diaz behind her desk with a wide grin on her face. “Well, then. How about them apples?”
Shaila was smiling too. “I didn’t think they’d let us investigate this,” she said. “I thought they’d tell us to stay the hell away. And I never thought they’d buy our theory, either.”
“It’s the only theory that fits right now,” Greene said. “Of course, you need a leap of faith to go there, but we were breathing Martian air this morning. So I guess they’re willing to see just how far this particular rabbit hole goes.”
“What’s your take, Yuna?” Diaz asked.
Shaila turned to see the older woman, now wearing a rig of microhydraulic spars strapped over her emergency suit, looking down and frowning. “I honestly doubt we’ll find what he thinks we will, but it’ll probably be good for all of us to go and find out for certain,” she said. “I just hope there isn’t another quake. I don’t want these young people sacrificed for nothing.”
Stephane raised his hand awkwardly. “I have a question, Colonel?”
“Yes, Durand?”
“What is that regulation he mentioned, section 138?”
Diaz turned to Shaila. “You want to tackle that one, Lieutenant?”
Smiling, Shaila pulled up the Joint Space Command General Operations Code on her datapad and scrolled to section 138. “Section 138, JSC Code, reads as follows,” she intoned. “’The following section provides regulations and guidelines for JSC personnel in the event they should encounter intelligent life forms not of Earth origin while in pursuit of their duties.’”
Stephane looked incredulous. “We have rules for this?”
“You should see the regs for installing a zero-g toilet,” Shaila quipped. “Long story short, we’re not to antagonize anyone. If we can communicate with said life forms, we’re to offer greetings of peace and goodwill, ascertain their intent and attitude, and offer to open a dialogue. And what’s more, we’re only to act in self-defense if we’re actually attacked—and then only non-lethal force.”
“That seems vague,” Stephane noted.
“Nobody thought we’d actually need it,” Diaz said. “Anyway, we’ve got some work to do. I’m going to brief the rest of the crew, then try to get the reactor and sensors back online. Jain, have Finelli start salvage ops on the Giffords, while you huddle with these guys and come up with an EVA plan. Back here in two hours. Live long and prosper.”
Laughter briefly filled the room as everyone got up to leave. One
person wasn’t laughing.
“Shay, what was so funny?” Stephane asked on their way out.
“What, you haven’t seen Star Trek?”
“Ummm . . . Star Trek?”
She shook her head in amazement. “When all this blows over and we have some time to kill, you and I are going to sit down and watch a whole lot of old sci-fi shows.”
“I like that idea,” Stephane said with a grin. “I will bring the wine.”
Shaila’s inner geek exulted. “You’re on.”
CHAPTER 23
June 19, 1779
Mars loomed large ahead of the Daedalus, the swirling, golden sun-currents visible before the bow as they curved toward the southern pole. Already, the descent had been a difficult one, the currents playing havoc with the gaping rents in the hull. The repaired plane and rudder sails were holding for now, though James was particularly worried about the ruddersail.
“She’s dancing about like a French girl, Mr. Weatherby,” the bo’sun said, his sure hands gripping the wheel tightly. “It’ll be right impossible to keep her full on course.”
Weatherby turned to Foster, who was looking at the red planet through his glass. “Mr. Foster, go and fetch three of our strongest men to help James with the wheel,” he said.
Foster rushed off, leaving Weatherby to survey the quarterdeck. Morrow stood off to the side of the wheel, surveying the ship’s operation, the currents, everything. His posture was sure and steady, but his eyes darted about, and he murmured minute corrections to James as the ship surged forward to the red planet.
Franklin and St. Germain insisted on remaining above decks, and both used spare glasses to survey the planet before them, looking for Chance or further clues as to its destination. Finch and Anne stood ready to assist them, each carrying a handful of maps and books about Mars, in case reference was needed. The four alchemists consulted each other quietly, noting this landmark, that canal, some kind of ruin. If Mars was once indeed a verdant world, the Xan’s vengeance had been thorough, for all Weatherby could discern was sandy desert and bare rock the color of rust . . . or blood.
The sky around the ship began to lighten as Daedalus entered the atmosphere, and the turbulent currents became even more dangerous. Weatherby could see men on the main deck begin to stumble and pitch as the ship bucked beneath their feet. By rights, everyone should have been below decks, but with a dry landing before them—and large chunks of the lower hull destroyed in the battle—the main deck was their only real option.
“All hands! Secure body lines!” Weatherby shouted over the increasing winds. “Stay low to the deck!”
The men immediately began tying their lines around their waists, and Weatherby and Foster aided the others on the quarterdeck to secure theirs. Weatherby could see the four men on the ship’s wheel straining with the exertion of keeping their course true, and the men on the planesails were having a similar time of it.
“We’re dropping too fast!” James shouted. “We’re too heavy to be landing this far from the poles!”
Morrow simply nodded; Weatherby could see the calculations ongoing behind his eyes. He would still choose proximity to the Martian ruin to a safer landing. Weatherby frowned, looking around for something, anything to do.
The answer came in the form of a cannon that had broken clear of its lines, its carriage wheels rolling it slowly to and fro upon the gun deck, in sight of the cargo hatch. “Captain,” he said. “We can lighten the ship. The cannon, the shot, anything that we don’t need to land.”
Morrow gave a small, somewhat rueful smile. “It cannot harm us, anyway. Do it.”
Weatherby strode toward the railing overlooking the main deck. “All hands! Throw the cannon and shot over the side! Anything that is neither food nor medicine must go overboard!”
The food, of course, was certainly an added weight, given that it needed to sustain several score men for weeks at a time. But it felt wrong to Weatherby to cheat the men out of a last hint at survival. Immediately, the men got to their feet and began hurling shot over the side; the cannons took some effort, but they too began to fall to the surface, though they would not likely get all the guns overboard before landing.
Weatherby turned to James with a questioning look. “That helped a little bit, sir,” the bo’sun said, still looking quite haggard and worried.
“Mr. Weatherby!” Finch shouted. “A word, if we may?”
Weatherby turned to see the group of alchemists looking upward at the sails, smiling and pointing. “Now is not an ideal time, Doctor,” Weatherby said as he joined them.
“It is the best time,” Franklin said. “Our Miss Baker here has had a most ingenious idea.”
Weatherby turned to her. “What is it?” he said, trying to keep impatience from his tone.
Her frown showed he was not quite successful, but she went on regardless. “The sails above are not critical to this landing, are they?”
“Normally they would be, but our descent is far too rapid to make much use of them,” he said.
“Can we not attach the lower spars of the sails on the main and mizzen masts to the masts in front of them?” she asked.
Weatherby looked up, trying to picture what she was saying. Untying the lower spars from the masts, then securing them to the masts before them. As the ship fell, the sails would then catch the wind under them . . .
. . . potentially helping arrest their fall.
“It was something I saw in a copy of one of DaVinci’s sketchbooks,” Anne said, as if trying to convince Weatherby of the provenance of her idea. Yet he needed no further prodding. Weatherby quickly turned and shouted for Morrow and Foster. Thirty seconds later, the men were climbing the rigging, casting lines around each end of the spars and otherwise preparing for a major, and quite dangerous, adjustment in their sails.
The process was painfully slow, and the Martian surface continued to approach alarmingly fast. But from the moment the first sail was adjusted, the ship’s descent seemed to moderate. “Well done, Miss Baker,” Morrow said. “I doubt we’ll get them all rigged, but it may be enough.”
A loud rending noise from directly below the quarterdeck erased their optimism. “The ruddersail’s gone, sir!” James shouted.
Immediately, the Daedalus began to spin and twist in the swirling winds. “Bring the planes in line with the deck!” Weatherby shouted, extending Anne’s idea to the sails on each side of the ship. While it did little for the spinning motion, the adjustment seemed to slow the ship further.
Morrow looked over the side of the railing to the surface below. “Get the men down from the tops, Mr. Weatherby,” he said. “There’s no more to be done there.”
Weatherby relayed the order, and immediately the men clambered down, surely relieved to be freed from their dangerous duty. One man slipped on the rigging as the ship bucked ferociously in the wind, but he was caught by his body line and aided by his fellows.
Morrow, meanwhile, continued to monitor their descent, and suddenly ran toward the front of the quarterdeck. “Forty-five degrees upward on the planes!” he yelled.
To Weatherby’s great surprise, the ship’s spin began to slow, and the Daedalus even began to move forward as it fell, so that it was approaching the surface at an angle—a far better prospect than dropping down like a stone.
Of course, this was a matter of degrees. It was still going to be awful.
Weatherby looked over the railing to see the ground rushing up to greet the ship. Something caught his eye in the distance—some sort of dome shape, oddly enough, but it flashed by quickly. A Martian ruin of some sort?
A gust of wind shook the ship, and drew Weatherby’s attention back to the peril before them. They were close. “All hands brace for impact!” he yelled. “Move to the center of the deck! Stay down and hold on!”
Weatherby turned to see Anne and Morrow aiding Dr. Franklin in an effort to get him sitting upon the deck, no easy task for a man of his age and girth. But soon they were all sitting, te
thered to the mizzenmast and bracing for what was to come. Weatherby looked up and saw Anne’s face regarding him. He managed a weak smile that she returned in kind, fear overcoming recent animosity for at least a few moments.
And then the ship hit the planet.
Bodies slid across the decks, both forward and to starboard, as the ship careened onto the surface of Mars with an ear-splitting crunch. Weatherby felt the body line around his waist tighten as he was thrown, wrenching his midsection and causing him to cry out as he was thrown about. The sounds of splintering wood meeting grinding rock and soil surrounded him as Daedalus plowed violently across the rust-red deserts. More crunching sounds followed—surely the bow was all but gone by this juncture—and the ship was jolted regularly as it struck boulders and rocks in its path. The screams of the men were audible above the din.
And then, after what seemed like an eternity, all movement stopped abruptly, pitching everyone forward one final time before all was still.
Weatherby was lying on the deck, which was at a slight angle against the Martian surface, noting they must not have landed evenly upon the keel. He chanced to raise his head, positioned as he was against the railing overlooking the rest of the ship.
The bow was indeed gone, an unrecognizable jumble of wood piled up against a rather large boulder. There were men there, across the bow, he knew, but there was no trace of them at all. The remains of sails, spars and rigging hung limply from the masts, while the main deck was strewn with further debris . . . and bodies.
The men upon the main deck were piled upon each other and tossed about, but there was movement among them, tentative and slow, and the groans and cries of the injured began to rise to Weatherby’s ears. In this circumstance, he felt that cries of pain were far more preferable to no sound at all.
Weatherby slowly regained his feet, taking in the destruction of his ship. It took a moment before he noticed that the Daedalus was sitting surprisingly low upon the ground, no more than fifteen feet. He looked over the edge and gasped when he saw that the impact had shorn the bilges and the hold clean away. Turning aft, there was a massive furrow upon the ground, strewn with wooden debris, which looked to be no less than three miles long.
The Daedalus Incident Revised Page 37
