Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium

by Abyss Of Elysium (Lit)

  Peter's radical approach began at this point. He spread authority out to the department heads. Hernandez was appointed head of the administrative group; Gorteau headed the scientific. Peter sat in the middle between the two with the authority to direct their activities and the ability to decide the direction of one or the other.

  Peter detested meetings with a passionate intensity. He put the word out that if a meeting was called, it had better be essential and if he were invited, his presence had better be truly required. This forced decisions to be made by the department heads, rather than to diffuse responsibility among nameless groups in meetings. This way Peter knew he could get a handle on problems quickly and the department heads were compelled to work harder to keep up with things for which they were personally and directly responsible.

  Peter set the priorities of the community:

  PRIORITY ONE: Life support, immediate and long term.

  PRIORITY TWO: The mental health of the community.

  PRIORITY THREE: Rationing plan, life support equipment.

  PRIORITY FOUR: Exploration for Martian water sources.

  PRIORITY FIVE: Research of possible Martian power resources.

  PRIORITY SIX: Continuation of previously scheduled research.

  Peter spent the better part of the sol following Kerry's arrival in the dining hall. He set up one of the tables as his desk and began summoning individuals to discuss specific items on his agenda. Francis acted as his chief of staff.

  Peter worked with lightning precision, making decisions in minutes that would have taken career bureaucrats sols or weeks. He asked Suzanne Nikifortune to act as his secretary and as fast as she could record the events, he was issuing orders. Before nine in the morning, he had the priorities out on the community bulletin system. Half an hour later, he had developed his governmental agenda and it was posted.

  oward mid-day, Peter summoned Brinker. Francis and Peter were sitting at their table, making personnel assignments and working through the community priorities when he arrived.

  "Yes, sir," Brinker said, standing half at attention before Peter. His attitude reflected Brinker's ambivalence at the whole series of events that led him to this point in time. As a career Marine, he had been trained in a life-and-death obedience to the military system. In Brinker's world, change was looked upon with extreme suspicion. Radical change was to be resisted at all costs. But the unique set of circumstances that led Brinker to this juncture was not of his own making, so he endured the neurosis of trying to do his job as best he saw it in a situation he had not been trained to handle or even fully understood.

  "Brinker," Peter began, "I'm appointing you the chief law enforcement officer for BC1 effective immediately."

  "Can't do it, sir," Brinker replied instantly.

  "Why not?" Peter asked, not even looking up from his work.

  "Just like I told Lipton a week ago, I’m a United States Marine and I’m not permitted by Marine Corps regulations to engage in or interfere with civilian law enforcement."

  Peter was fully prepared for Brinker's answer.

  "Brinker, I'm going to give you a series of choices, one of which you must chose. One: resign from the Marines. Two: contact your command in one hour on earth for a special release. Three: accept our "Honorary Community Sheriff" plaque, granted to you by the director of the community for your continued efforts in enforcing the protections guaranteed us by the U.S. Constitution, in accordance with your oath of office. Your choice."

  Brinker did not even pause. "I'll accept your plaque, sir."

  "And the responsibilities?" Peter asked.

  "If it's in my oath, I can't very well refuse, can I?”

  "Nope. Congratulations, Marine, on your new assignment. I shall ensure that no one accuses you of involving yourself in "civil law enforcement" duties."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "That's all, Brinker," Peter said briskly, then remembering a final question, looked up to Brinker. "Do you want a badge?"

  "A what?"

  "A badge; a shield; a tin star. You know, an insignia?" Peter replied, feeling a little ridiculous.

  Brinker laughed loudly. "Now what would I need one of those for when I got these?" he said, flipping his row of expert marksman medals he always wore on his chest.

  "Good point," Peter said smiling. "Tell Hiraldo and your other two Marines that I've got deputy plaques for them, too."

  The reorganization came together with remarkable smoothness. Peter and Francis quickly passed out the special tasks with relative ease. There were no complaints to speak of; everyone knew of the extent of the straits they were in and that it was going to take a remarkable piece of leadership to pull them out of it. The one exception was Julian Covenant.

  Peter learned that Julian Covenant was a full Professor of Business and Management at Cambridge University and, besides being a RSE expert, he was also a widely renowned expert on management styles and systems. He had been asked to come to Mars by the NASA Administrator for Manned Interplanetary Exploration to suggest improvements on the management at BC1.

  The convoluted trail that followed Covenant to BC1 would fill a doctoral thesis, but in brief, the White House was looking for a politically expedient way to get rid of Lipton. It put pressure on NASA to find them a way out. NASA Headquarters, in turn, pressured the NASA administrator for Manned Interplanetary Exploration, who turned the screws on the NASA director of Mars Exploration to come up with the wherewithal to pull it off successfully. They hired an outside consultant, Covenant, whom they knew looked critically on the type of managerial style Lipton had imposed at BC1. What they failed to take into account was that Lipton was much more astute than they and smelled the plot before Covenant even boarded a ship at the Kennedy Space Center for the flight out.

  When Covenant arrived at BC1, Lipton virtually made a hero out of him from the moment he stepped off the lander. Lipton not only set Covenant up with the most extravagant living arrangements of any individual at BC1, but he personally befriended him. In the course of a month, Covenant was the closest personal friend Lipton had. The outcome of Covenant's 340 sol study was decided within 60.

  Covenant was asked to report to Peter for his assignment. Now that Covenant's management study was on hold, Peter was going to interview him to place him in the task best suited to his education and abilities.

  Brinker was sent to recover him, but when Covenant arrived, it was clear Brinker's task had not been a pleasant one.

  "I am outraged!" Covenant shouted as Brinker ushered him to Peter's table. Peter had been warned that Covenant was going to be a hard egg to crack.

  "Outraged over what?" Peter asked in a calm manner.

  "The way I have been treated by this, this animal!" Covenant said, looking with a certain abhorrence at Brinker. Covenant meticulously straightened his jacket and tie as he complained, running his hand down his slick-backed hair and evening his glasses over his owl eyes.

  "What do you mean?" Peter asked.

  "This soldier forced me from my quarters in a roughshod manner befitting a back alley gangster... I am no conscript! I’ve never been so humiliated."

  "Your turn, Brinker," Peter said patiently.

  Brinker sighed, put his arms behind his back and said, "I asked him to come along. He said no. I asked him if he had to go to the bathroom. He said no. I told him that all other priorities took second place, I forgot his engraved invitation, and that if he didn't come along I was going to have to hold his hand. He slammed the door in my face so I removed it and..."

  "Okay, Brinker, I get the picture," Peter replied, then looked to Covenant. "Dr. Covenant, I apologize for this incident." Brinker looked supremely put out. "But, I instructed this Marine that all former priorities of this community had been rescinded and replaced by the ones I published this morning."

  "You mean your manifesto?" Covenant spat.

  "Call it what you like, Covenant. The game here is survival," Francis replied. He had been sitting beside Peter, an
d he appeared somewhat absorbed by the whole affair.

  Peter raised his hand to prevent Francis from agitating Covenant any further. "In any event, Julian, had I known that you had a problem with coming down here today, perhaps we could have worked out another way," Peter said sincerely, forcing himself to be amiable in the face of this individual who was apparently used to the fast track treatment at BC1.

  "Never, never call me by my first name until you have been invited," Covenant began, spitting the "t" at Peter. The veins in his neck protruded as his face reddened.

  "Okay, Covenant," Peter shot back, his patience wearing thin.

  "It is Doctor Covenant to you!"

  "I can see this isn’t going anywhere," Peter replied. "Now let me tell you why I asked you down here..."

  "You are a traitorous mutineer, Traynor!" Covenant replied, pointing his finger to Peter. "The death of Lassiter Lipton does not change your status as an outlaw..."

  "Shut up!" Peter stopped him in an even voice. "The next time you interrupt me I'll have the Marine gag and bag you so that I can finish."

  Peter allowed a respectful few seconds of silence to pass to permit Covenant his choice in the matter. Covenant's face grew even redder, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as his mind and body made their choice. Brinker's muscles flexed and his hands were ready to slap the gag on Covenant from whom he had already taken enough abuse.

  "Very well, Covenant," Peter continued. "Now let me lay it all out on the line for you, in words you hopefully can relate to. I called you down here to discuss your future in a professional manner. We were going to discuss your talents and desires and work you into the job that could best benefit the community. Now you obviously don't want to cooperate, so what do we do with you?" Covenant looked like he was about to choke on the answer, so Peter let him have his way. "Go on," he invited.

  "You will unhand me this very moment and leave me alone. I will not become your servant or anyone elses. I am contracted to do a job here and that is what I will continue to do. I have no intention of joining in any aspect of your little insurgency!"

  "You leave me with an interesting choice here, Covenant," Peter replied, sitting back in his chair, looking closely at the tightly wired professor. "I could let you go on about your merry way, but that wouldn't be fair to the rest of us working for your survival. Now, since there isn't any need for your particular consultation services, I have to find a job for you. As you aren’t predisposed to discuss your talents with me, then I have to assign you to a job.

  “Henceforth, you will sweep the passageways of BC1, every passageway, a minimum of twice per sol, until you can help us discover some more productive talent within yourself to contribute to the community. I'll not have you lounging around while the rest of us are supporting you."

  "You have domestic robots to perform that menial task!" Covenant shouted indignantly.

  "Their batteries and mechanical parts are being scavenged and stored for survival purposes," Francis replied with some satisfaction.

  "I’ll also let you in on another confidential item that may be of some interest to you," Peter said, driving the issue home. "I will not tolerate you going on strike or threatening the other people of this community. If you refuse to work or if you agitate or threaten the community in any way, I'll put you on trial by your peers and recommend they lock you up. When we reestablish communications with earth, you can have one of the first calls out. Until I’m relieved by a vote of the community, I'm in charge, not you. Any questions or comments?"

  "I have no peers here." Covenant said flatly, working his mouth into a deep frown.

  "You said it, not me," Peter replied. "Brinker, fix this man up with a broom and prop it in front of his door. Covenant, you’ll sweep eight hours, seven sols a week. You’ll report to Roman Adkins Thomas. He’s your immediate supervisor."

  "I will never report to a man named Rat!"

  "If this man fails to report to Mr. Thomas tomorrow morning, confine him until trial," Peter said to Brinker. "You may go now, Covenant."

  "I'll see you hang for this, Traynor. You can't do this to me and get away with it. I'm not the only one who feels like this around here!"

  Peter rested his chin on his hand and replied, "Perhaps not. But if you change your mind and decide to join the community, my offer to discuss the best use of your talents is still good."

  Covenant looked at Francis and sneered. "You, of all people, should know better than this. Do you have any idea..."

  "Oh yes," Francis replied, "Oh yes I know what I am doing. And if you know what's good for you, you'll follow right along with whatever Dr. Traynor wants. His plan and your plan don't exactly mesh. Don't let them come in conflict if you want to live." Francis looked at him long and hard and they exchanged a protracted and bitter look at one another.

  "Now get out of my sight, Covenant," Francis warned.

  Peter stole a glance at Francis, then back to Covenant who was being led away by Brinker. Covenant was still staring at Francis over his shoulder as he rounded the corner into the hallway.

  "Thanks for the help, Dr. T!" Rat yelled from his kitchen.

  21

  eter had just retired for his much deserved four and a half hours of sleep. In the darkness, he fitted the curves of his body against Ashley's resting form, already warm under the blankets of his small bed. He draped his arm over her and she squeezed his freezing fingers in her warm palms, just as the C2's pinger sounded.

  "Damn!" he swore.

  "High cost of being the one in charge," she mumbled from beneath the blankets.

  "Where have I heard that before?" he replied acerbically, smashing the speaker with his palm. "Peter here..."

  "Peter, Jamie Powers. Better come on down here to radio, right away."

  "Earth is back on the line?" Peter asked excitedly. Ashley sat straight up in bed.

  "Not exactly... Just come on as quickly as you can," Powers said, then hung up.

  "I'm coming with you," Ashley said, tossing the blankets back. "This sounds like it just might be worth the trip."

  "Good idea," he replied. "I may need someone to show me the way back to bed."

  "I'm your ticket," she replied, shivering in the cold air of the room.

  They hurriedly dressed and made their way to the Command Center’s tiny Message Center as quickly as they could through the dimly lit passageways. Powers stood in the door when they arrived.

  "What do you have, Jamie?" Peter asked, out of breath. Beside him stood Francis.

  "This," Powers replied, holding it out to him. "What do you make of it?" Powers handed him a palmtop display unit whose message glared in the darkness:

  1 10 11 100 101 110 111 1000 1001 1010 1011 1100 1101 1110 1111 1 0000 10001 10010 10011 10100 10101 10110 10111 11000 11001 11010 10001 10010 11000 1 10 11 100 101 110 111 1000 1001 1010 11100 10011100001110000 111010101111110000101100000000 1 10 11 100 10 1 110 111 1000 1001 1010 1011 1100 1101 1110 1111 10000 10001 100 10 10011 10100 10101 10110 10111 11000 11001 11010 10101 1011 1 001 10110 11001 10110 10 10001 10010 1101

  (Message signature: 9600 Baud, 101 MS total, 36 MS lead-in tone. Message length: 65 MS)

  "What do I make of it?" Peter asked. "Well…” he began with a light laugh, his eyes squinting at the array. “It’s binary, of course… a digital transmission.” Then he shook his head and laughed lightly again, looking back at Powers. “I guess that's just about all I can tell you."

  "Funny. That’s the very same in-depth analysis I managed to generate," Powers replied with unconcealed frustration.

  "Where did it come from? Was it broadcast from earth?" Peter asked.

  "The Little Kremlin."

  Peter looked confused. "Shturmovoi! Was it sent to us deliberately in response to our request?"

  "We don't know that, Peter," Francis replied, cautiously.

  "What do you mean, you don't know?" Peter asked. "Was it or wasn't it?"

  "Well, it was broadcast from the Little Kremlin," Powers expla
ined. "It was transmitted from their geostationary satellite on the frequency we’ve been instructing on our urgent automatic messages. But it's not exactly what we were looking for..."

  "What he means," Francis interrupted, "is that this may be a mistake."

  "How could it be a mistake?" Peter asked.

  "It’s a digital transmission over a circuit that just as easily could be used for voice. If they want to talk to us, why not just use Soviet or English or some recognizable computer code?" Francis replied. "Secondly, the entire digital message, including tone was just slightly over a tenth of a second in length. If they’re talking, they sure don't have much to say."

  "Which leads to our favorite theory," Powers picked up. "We’re led to believe it’s a misdirected transmission. By the looks of it, it was probably meant as instructions or interrogation of a remote field probe. They apparently broadcast it over the wrong frequency. If it had been a millisecond or two shorter in length, our filters would have ignored it altogether as static."

  "How can you be so sure that it's a probe interrogation?" Peter asked.

  "Well, its’ brevity, for one thing. That and the digital elements in the message appear to be counting sequences which are frequently either used as calibration events or attention pulses," Powers replied.

  "Well, I don’t know. But I do think we should at least bring in Gorteau for a second opinion before we toss it," Peter replied. "Ashley, what do you think?" he asked.

  "I'll buy in with the mistake theory for now," she replied. "But it could also be a code. If it's a code, there’re no better brains to pick it apart than Gorteau's. I say we wake Fabian."

  A few minutes later, Gorteau arrived, also looking very tired. But, as always, he was as gracious as if he had just enjoyed a restful weekend on the New England beaches.

  "What do we have to be so happy about tonight?" he asked, looking at their interested expressions at such a late hour.