Brinker smiled a contented smile. “You guys might actually make good Marines yet!” he said with a chuckle.
In record time, all three suited up and pressurized, devising their plan while they helped one another into the cumbersome suits. With their helmets on, they walked down the tunnel together to Airlock 3.
Surprisingly, they found the door open. Peter picked up his communicator to ask Toon for a status on doors and motion sensor lights when he stopped and looked to Francis who mouthed what he was thinking.
“Our quarry is into the game,” he whispered. “Let’s not give away our moves. He’s responded to our last known position and is trying to cause us to react to his plan. Brinker, what’s he up to?” Francis asked.
Brinker slowly shook his head, his eyes focused on nothing as his mind raced ahead.
“If you were chasing me and I left the door open for you, would you just walk through it?” Peter asked them.
Brinker shook his head vigorously.
“Neither would I,” Peter replied. “Covenant is a strategist. He’s thinking ahead. So what do we do now? I say we walk through the open door.”
Brinker looked back at him through eyes sunken so deep from thought he looked like he was being possessed by his own thought process. He just nodded assent. Francis also nodded as Brinker edged in ahead of them, walking point.
Brinker’s eyes carefully assessed every square inch of the long tunnel ahead as he walked toward the opposite end marked in big block letters: AL03.
Francis quietly unplugged the data lines to the Command Center, so their actions could not be monitored, then closed and locked the door behind them by turning its big center mounted wheel.
When they reached the end of the tunnel, Peter ordered Brinker, “Open it carefully.”
Brinker disconnected the data lines to the door, then slowly opened it into the Airlock chamber. Inside the red night-vision lights glowed, lending a surreal image to an already unreal chase for an individual who was about as tangible as a ghost at that moment, and one that meant them much harm.
The trio entered the airlock chamber and Brinker closed the door behind them.
“Dump the air in the tunnel,” Peter ordered quickly, giving Brinker the instruction to empty the passageway behind them of air so Covenant could not possibly, under any conceivable circumstance exit behind them.
“Wait,” Francis said. “Our life support is critical now, and you want to dump 45 cubic meters of fresh, breathable air outside? No. I’ll stand guard here. He’ll not get past me, even if he manages to make it past you and Brinker.”
Peter thought about the truth of the life support picture. 45 cubic meters of almost irreplaceable life support gasses could mean the difference of surviving at some later point. But, if by some means Covenant were trapped in airlock three, which it appeared he was, they could not afford to let him back into the colony. It was better to risk 45 meters of air than lose it all if he escaped back into the main complex.
“Dump the air; all of it. Then disable the replenishment valve,” Peter commanded Brinker. He looked to Francis. “It’s my call.”
Francis just nodded as Brinker cycled the valve and the air began to hiss out of the tunnel into the deep blackness of the Martian night. As the precious, nearly irreplaceable gas rushed out of the tunnel, Peter began to walk forward into the airlock with Francis in tow. They carefully eyed each square centimeter of space around them. There were only a few places to hide here, and by the time Brinker unscrewed the replenishment valve and hammered its threads, they had reconnoitered the entire space with the exception of the main chamber of the airlock itself. By procedure, that space was always closed and locked.
At that moment, Peter realized that the others must have had the same thought as he - that if Covenant were inside, he would be in the chamber behind the locked door. As a group, they approached the door together.
Brinker looked at the door then spread his hands wide and looked at Peter with a question. “No weapon,” he mouthed.
Understanding, Peter reached behind him and pulled three stiff geology probe rods from the wall and handed one each to Brinker and Francis. At least they could defend themselves against whatever Covenant had against them.
With a careful, slow motion, Peter peeked into the chamber before him. "It's empty, and the outer door is open. He’s gone outside!"
The others looked stunned. Not only did it indicate someone had left the Colony, but they had made a serious and dangerous breach of procedure by leaving the outer airlock door standing open.
"Where could he have gone?" Peter said, voicing aloud the vexing question on all of their minds. He was lost in thought, his mind racing to evaluate all possibilities. There was no where to go in the Martian night. Covenant could never escape outside. Even if he had attempted to steal an MAT, it could only go in the general direction of Shturmovoi - and for what purpose? The MAT would run out of power and supplies long before it reached the RSE base. The only other place he could go was another BC1 structure - and they were all controlled and easily monitored.
"This doesn't make any sense at all," Francis said, voicing Peter's own thoughts.
"Y’all play cards?" Brinker asked.
They stared at him blankly.
"Five card stud. You know - poker?"
"Sure," Francis replied flatly.
"Then you'll understand what I mean when I say this stinks. Somebody has cards they ain't showin'," he said looking at each man through their visors with a steely eye.
eter asked Brinker and Francis to make their way to the adjoining airlock, go outside and shut the outer door on airlock three. He returned as quickly as he could to the dining hall. He was fearful that the power loss and general deteriorating mood would have left the colony in a completely chaotic neurosis.
As he quickly approached the hall through the tunnel, he thought of what to tell the others about what had happened and feared the effect it would have on their already deteriorated psyche. Removing his helmet, he could clearly hear raised voices as he got closer to the dining hall. His greatest fears were reinforced by the din. It sounded as if the colonists had all turned on one another. Taking a deep breath, as his pace moved from a fast trot to a full run, Peter burst through the door and was totally astonished at what he saw.
He was met by a blast of conga music and the colonists dancing around the hall in a rhythmic chain dance. Rat was on a make-shift stage lip-synching the lyrics into a flashlight he was using as a fake microphone. Peter’s mouth literally fell open at the sight of the intense, incredibly passionate party with every colonist either joining in the dance or laughing hysterically and clapping their hands with the beat.
As the procession went by, a hand reached out and tugged at Peter’s space-suited sleeve, pulling him into the dance line. It was Ashley, who continued to dance but faced him as she pulled him along in the line. The sight of Peter being pulled along, dressed in his space suit, his helmet tucked under his arm, only increased the appreciative noise of the others. His eyes were wide with amazement as he saw the colony in full revelry; the very last thing he thought he would see on his return. He looked quizzically to Ashley.
“When the lights went out and you guys went running out of the room,” she shouted into his ear, “everyone started to panic. Then Rat pulled a flashlight out of his pocket, stuck it up under his chin and started a Count Dracula stand-up routine on top of his table. It was so hysterical that we couldn’t help but laugh. Then, when then lights came back on, Rat didn’t miss a beat. Before you know it, he turned disk jockey and now this!”
Peter’s smile turned into a full laugh; a laugh of relief such as he had not felt since Lipton ordered his deportation from Mars. He tossed his helmet to Rat who immediately put it on. Then he spun Ashley around and joined in the wild and raucous dance. President or not, he was going to party. And as far as he was concerned, Mars had two heroes on this evening. One sat at a keyboard in the Command Center and the other
stood on top of a table dancing, singing into a flashlight and wearing Peter’s space helmet.
26
eter awoke the next morning to a pounding noise. Someone was hammering on his door, causing his head to ache with each reverberation. His senses returned to him slowly, forced to the front of his mind and overpowering his desire for more rest as he heard the voice shouting, “Peter… Peter, wake up!”
Immediately his C2 began to ping, which forced him to sit straight up in his bed. Ashley awoke and sat up at the same time. They looked at one another, then to the status panel by the bed. The power was still on. It was after seven in the morning.
“Peter… answer the door!”
“Okay! Okay! Hold on for a second!” he said as loudly as he dared for his headache’s comfort. He tossed the thick blanket aside and slid his naked body out of bed. Immediately he felt the shock of the cold air against his skin and rushed to pull his cotton long-johns over his bare form. Then he quickly pulled his jumpsuit bottoms on and tied the top around his waist using its sleeves. He watched Ashley disappear into the bathroom as he opened the door to his stateroom to face Geoff Hammond, then he held up a finger before Geoff could speak and reached for the C2.
“Peter here,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Wait one.”
“What’s up?” he asked Geoff in a sleepy voice.
“We lost the Mars orbiting satellites. All of them,” he replied in an urgent voice.
Peter spoke into the C2. “If this is the Command Center, I’m on the way. If not, it’ll have to wait,” he said into the receiver, hanging it up. “Lead,” he said to Geoff, and then looked back as he left the stateroom. “Ashley, I’ll be in the Command Center,” he said with a loud voice while racing to keep up with Hammond. As Peter arrived in the Command Center, he immediately noticed every seat was full. Others were standing behind the consoles watching. His first thought was order.
“Who’s the Watch Officer right now?” he asked crisply.
“I have the con,” came the voice of Francis. Peter looked to the center Command Console, and saw Francis leaned over the seated form of Toon at the controls.
“Francis, I think we need some room in here,” Peter said, not looking at anyone in particular.
“We can’t do that, Peter. This is emergency manning for the Command Center. We have no extra bodies in here.”
Peter then realized that the colony’s Command Center had never been formally manned in an emergency before. The other events that had led up to this moment had all been managed under lesser priority protocols. Now the Command Center was full of people manning specific tasks, and everyone had a job to do.
“Who called the priority emergency?” Peter asked.
“I did,” Francis said. “I wanted to wait to see if we were really stumped before waking you.”
“Thanks,” Peter replied.
“We lost every single orbiting satellite link save one,” Francis began. “We still have the navigation set.”
“Do you still have ALL of the nav set?” Peter asked in reference to the half dozen navigation satellites that pinpointed their position on Mars and in space.
“Yes. They’re all responding normally. All the others are gone.”
“Gone?” Peter asked shaking his head. “What do you mean gone?”
“It’s as if they never existed at all. No telemetry of any kind is being broadcast.”
“Is it our friend?” Peter asked quietly, referring to Covenant. “Can he do this with software; make us think we’re blind?”
“No,” Toon replied. “I’ve evaluated every single software avenue. It’s real. The satellites are really gone.”
“How can that be?” Peter asked. He knew that the probability of a simultaneous loss of all the Martian satellites was less than nil.
“What’s the event profile?”
“Simultaneous,” Francis replied.
“Give it to me in nanoseconds,” Peter requested, knowing events in computer time were measured in billionths of a second and that understanding these very tiny time intervals often told their own story.
“Simultaneous loss. No measurable interval between platforms,” Toon replied.
“This isn’t an event of probability,” Peter replied instantly.
“No. No it’s not,” Francis agreed. “There’s very definitely a human hand behind this event.”
“Are we seeing the same profile as the earth links loss? What are the similarities?” Peter asked quickly.
“No and none. That had an event driven profile. Those losses were not simultaneous and they were linked with electromagnetic events. This loss is entirely different. The links just disappeared simultaneously with no profile, no EMP, no link related circumstances.”
“Toon, can you be sure that we’re not being blocked out of the links with software?”
“Just to test that theory, we sent Jamie outside with a handheld signal locator that’s been in my possession from day one,” Toon replied. “He dialed in each satellite and there was no response. Then he dialed up the navigation platforms, and they each replied just as they are here in the Command Center. No, it’s not software. The platforms are silent.”
“Give me the list. What have we lost?” Peter said in a low voice.
“All camera views; weather; earth-links; all communications; and all down-links to Shturmovoi. Except for navigation, we’re totally blind,” Francis replied in nearly a whisper.
"Can we use the Soviet birds? Can we somehow link to them?" Peter asked.
"No way," Toon replied. “No frequencies. Even if we had them, all traffic is strongly encrypted."
“All this by a human hand and we don’t know why…” Peter replied, looking to each of them for an answer which did not come. “No unusual solar activity? No meteor shower?” he asked, almost out of desperation.
“No, Peter, and even if there had been, it wouldn’t have been simultaneous and it would have left a clear profile.”
Peter pulled Francis aside, as well as he could in the cramped quarters, so only he could hear. “What about Covenant? Could he have done this from a communications node outside the colony – say at the launch complex?”
“First, Peter, we know of no way you can shut down a satellite from the ground. They were created to transmit until destroyed. They’re built never to go silent, period; not by mistake and certainly not by design. The military guys put them together just so that this would never happen. As far as I can determine, this can’t be done at all,” Francis whispered almost shrilly. “Covenant isn’t behind this. He can’t be!” Francis said too loudly.
“How can you be so sure? Look what he did yesterday!” Peter responded.
“Then what kind of equipment does he have that we don’t and what’s his motive?” Francis asked bluntly.
“I don’t know, Francis,” Peter replied. “But I suggest that we form up a search party and comb every square centimeter of this colony and the outlying areas until he or his dead body turns up. And if I find out he’s behind this, I strongly hope for the latter!”
shley left the stateroom and headed to the CELSS laboratory. She had decided it would be best to avoid whatever crisis was brewing in the Command Center. She had her own crisis brewing, this one much slower but just as ultimately dramatic. The life support system was slowly running down and it was her job to pin down the times and dates. In the meantime, it was her task to try and suggest ways to slow down the crash and, if there was a miracle to be had, to seize it and turn the clock back or stop it altogether.
The life support system at BC1 was based on a linked set of components. The integrated arrangement consisted of plants that produced oxygen and absorbed carbon dioxide, as well as huge oxygen tanks that absorbed the gas from the superoxides locked in the Martian soil and any excess oxygen produced by the plants. It also removed carbon dioxide by several methods including plant and algae systems. The problem they faced was that the organization was not yet self supporting. They depen
ded on re-supply from earth to cause it to recycle. They needed water, oxygen, food and energy supplements. If any of the elements of the life support equation ran out before the other, the life support game was over, and they would die. While the BC1 organization was complex, efficient and highly advanced, it was still not capable of wringing out enough life from Mars without support from the earth. It was Ashley’s job to find out what would end first and when – then find a way to make it last a little longer.
She entered her tiny laboratory office, which was nothing more than a cubical-sized space crammed with a desk and small computer. She sat in front of the screen and watched the computer’s projections for life support system failure change after each iteration, each turn of the clock, each moment of time, each movement of the organic colony. As the colonists slept, they gained time. As the colony woke and began to move about, using more oxygen, producing more carbon dioxide, consuming more food and energy, they lost time. Ashley carefully evaluated this diurnal cycle, applying a relatively simple kind of linear regression analysis fused with a complex Fourier transformation, eking a pattern out of the background of mind boggling data. It was a trick developed a generation before by NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory for analysis of data in the search for extraterrestrial intelligence.
Ashley sought not only the simple patterns of the colony life cycle, but also the more subtle patterns of chaotic systemic change. She looked relentlessly for the butterfly effect in her data; a statistical concept hinting at broad patterns of change emerging from tiny nuances, buried in the chaotic background, but powerful enough to emerge later as a major, even cataclysmic change. The term ‘butterfly effect’ was coined when it was suggested that the simple flutter of a butterfly’s wings in San Francisco could ultimately lead to a hurricane in the South Pacific. It was these nuances that Ashley labored so diligently to uncover. What had been an interesting research project just a few weeks before, now became on obsession as she worked to project how many sols they had left and perhaps discover a solution, if there was one to be found.
Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium Page 31
