Marooned!

by Brad Strickland

  Sean watched as the slow-motion waves reached the far shore, then rebounded, coming back their way. “What about the ice at the South Pole?”

  “The meteorites, you mean?” Jenny shrugged. “That’s mostly for the sake of the atmosphere. As the meteorites evaporate, they add water vapor, nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide to the air. You know the air pressure today is thirty times what it was in 2050? In some of the rifts, the pressure’s up to three hundred millibars, but that’s still not much. Maybe you know that on Earth, standard sea-level pressure is one thousand thirteen millibars. Still, we get clouds all the time now. Maybe in fifty more years we’ll get rain. Or snow.”

  Sean stared out at the surface. Long shadows were creeping across the rusty red plain. The afternoon sun shone on a complex of domes, towers, and antennae. A half-dozen people in pressure suits were working out there, clearing boulders from a stretch of ground between the dome Sean and Jenny stood in and the next one. “When do we get out?” Sean asked.

  “Oh, you won’t be able to go outside for a couple of weeks,” Jenny said. “Not until you learn all about the dangers of the surface. But you can sum them up pretty easily.”

  “I know,” Sean replied solemnly. “Mars has a million ways to kill you.”

  They looked solemnly at each other for ten seconds. Then Jenny began to laugh, and to his own astonishment, Sean joined in. Like gravity, laughing felt very strange. Good, but very strange indeed.

  CHAPTER 2

  2.1

  “What are you doing hero?”

  The voice startled Sean, and he turned quickly—too quickly in the low gravity of Mars. He couldn’t stop and went sprawling onto the sandy edge of the lake. He scrambled up, teetering for balance, and fell forward again—into the arms of an angry-looking man, who set him on his feet.

  Jenny was speaking fast in an anxious tone. “We weren’t doing anything, Dr. Ellman. Sean’s new, and I was just showing him—”

  Ellman was a heavyset man in his thirties, with black hair cut close to his head. Everything about him was square: his broad shoulders, his thick body, his heavy chin. He scowled at both of them from dark eyes set deeply under heavy brows. “If he’s new, he should be at the Asimov Project orientation. What’s the name?”

  “Sean Doe,” Sean said, meeting the man’s unpleasant gaze.

  A smile that looked more like a sneer crinkled its way across Ellman’s lips. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard of Sean Doe. The ward of Dr. Simak, I believe. She will not be pleased to hear how you’re beginning your stay on Mars, Doe. Or how Laslo here is contributing to your rule-breaking.”

  “It isn’t her fault,” Sean said. “It’s just that I’ve heard these lectures before, and I asked her—”

  “Heard them before?” Ellman cut in. “Oh, so you can read minds, can you? You’re sure that you know everything that can possibly be presented to you? Tell me, if you’re so certain, how much of our power is provided by areothermal wells and how much by wind generation?”

  Sean stared stupidly at him. “I—uh, I don’t know.”

  “No. How many kilometers of lava tubes have we adapted for storage, power generation, and factory space?”

  Heat crept upward from Sean’s throat into his face. He tried to control his anger at these unfair questions and merely shook his head.

  “Is that an answer, Doe?” snapped Ellman.

  “No, sir,” Sean said. “I don’t know.”

  “We have 3,212 colonists at the present time. At a standard rate of consumption, disregarding recycling, how many months’ water supply do we have?”

  Jenny whispered, “Six.”

  But Ellman whipped his head toward her. “I heard that, Laslo! You’re confined to quarters for the rest of the day. Doe, come with me.”

  Sean gave Jenny a helpless look, and she shrugged an apology. The three of them traveled down a corridor to an intersection, where Jenny split off to the left. Ellman said, “I suppose you know about the color-coded doors, Mr. Doe?”

  That was a question Sean could answer. It had been part of the training on Luna. “A red-coded door means the room has an opening onto the Martian surface,” he said. “If the room loses pressure, there’s no way anyone could survive inside. A yellow-coded door doesn’t have a wall that adjoins the surface, but no resupply of air. If there’s a breach to the surface, the room will hold air and anyone in it would be safe for as long as the air held out. A green door means the room has a constant supply of—”

  “At least you know something.”

  Sean plowed on., “The doors don’t open automatically because they have to be heavy in case of a pressure loss, and the power needed to open and close them—”

  “When I want to know that, I’ll ask you,” snapped Ellman. He marched Sean for what seemed like miles until they came to a dome with a sign reading ADMINISTRATION above the entrance. Around the perimeter six doors were arranged. Ellman made for the one farthest from the entrance to the dome and pressed his hand against a plate beside the door.

  It opened, and they stepped into a small office. Amanda Simak sat at a desk studying a holographic projection that hovered above her computer console. “Yes?” she asked without looking away.

  “This young man has committed a serious breach of the rules,” Ellman said stiffly.

  Amanda looked up, her expression stern. It changed to one of surprise when she saw who the culprit was. “Sean? What’s he done?”

  Ellman explained, making it seem as if cutting a lecture was the equivalent of armed robbery. When he finished, he added, “I’d suggest confinement for at least a week.”

  Amanda nodded grimly. “I will consider your suggestion, Dr. Ellman. Thank you. You may leave us alone now.”

  With a final scowl at Sean, Ellman turned and strode from the office. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Sean said, “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble—”

  Amanda shook her head. “Of course not. But you’ve had lectures enough to last a lifetime on the trip from Earth. I know.” She touched a pad near her computer and the holographic display—a maze of red and green corridors connecting red and green domes—faded. Another touch of the pad, and a section of the wall behind her cleared, becoming a window looking out onto the afternoon landscape of Mars. Long shadows stretched away, twinkling with frost.

  “That’s what interests you. A new world.”

  Sean nodded. “I met a girl, and she was going to show me around.”

  “What girl?”

  “Her name is Jenny. Jenny Laslo.”

  Amanda smiled. “Yes, she’s one for bending the rules herself. Sit down, Sean.”

  Sean sat in the only other chair in the office, on the other side of the desk from Amanda. She sighed. “Well, we won’t be too harsh on this first day. However, you will have to cooperate, Sean. I don’t know if you’re aware of how controversial the Asimov Project is.”

  Sean shrugged. “It’s just a few teenagers.”

  “More than that,” Amanda told him. “Twenty young people, between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. You got the very last spot in the project, Sean. You should know that there are many on Earth who say that the dangers we face are too great to allow us to risk the lives of young people. Others say the whole effort is a waste and that Mars can never be a home to humans, so sending anyone here, let alone youngsters, is futile. We intend to prove the doubters wrong. The purpose of Marsport is to test whether Mars can ever be fully colonized by humans. Our task is to prove that we can survive for one Martian year—do you know how long that is?”

  “Six hundred and eighty-seven Earth days,” Sean said. It was a figure he had heard over and over during the long voyage from Earth.

  Amanda nodded. “Very close. Actually, 686.98 Earth days. The Martian day is a little longer than an Earth one—24 hours and 37 minutes, approximately—so in Martian terms, the Martian year is 651.17 days long. That’s a long time, Sean. A very long time for a colony to be independent from Earth.”<
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  She put her hands together, making a steeple of her fingertips. “We believe that the Martian colony has to reflect a real community, just as the lunar colony now does. A real community includes teenagers and even children. The Asimov Project is very expensive, Sean. That’s why the selection process was so difficult. And that’s another reason people on Earth object. For what it cost to send you to Mars, the Levelers say, a thousand poor children on Earth could be fed, clothed, and housed for a year.”

  Sean shook his head. “There’d be no point. Things are falling apart on Earth.”

  “I know they are,” Amanda said. “The trouble is that the governments of Earth are too stubborn to admit it.” She rose from behind her desk. “All right. You have to learn to live with rules, Sean. Dr. Ellman isn’t very diplomatic, but he’s right about some things. Do you understand?”

  “I guess so,” Sean said. “It’s just that—well, I’ve been on my own for so long. But I’ll try. And I’ll take my punishment.”

  Amanda looked satisfied. “I appreciate that attitude. Confinement to your dormitory wing for the remainder of the day and night. And tomorrow you will attend the orientation sessions. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  2.2

  It wasn’t quite so simple. Marsport seemed vast and confusing, and finally Amanda walked with Sean to the same intersection where Jenny had turned away. “Your dormitory section is to the right,” Amanda said. “Your room is A4-5. That’s Asimov section, fourth group, fifth room. Clear?”

  Sean glanced at her. “A green-coded door,” he said.

  Amanda gave him an odd look. “Yes, it is. All the dormitories are green-coded. Anyway, your luggage should be there already. Better hurry, or you’ll miss your dinner.”

  Sean made his way down another corridor. He could hear voices from ahead. He opened the heavy green-banded door and stepped into an open area ten feet across and thirty feet long. Four teenagers sat at a table, eating and talking. They fell silent when he stepped in. One of them rose and gave him a brilliant smile. “Sean Doe, I’ll bet! Your travel case showed up half an hour ago. We’ve already gone through it.” He grinned. “Just kidding. But we’re supposed to expect a Sean Doe, and you must be him.”

  Sean nodded, uneasy to be meeting these new people.

  The boy who had spoken was African, perhaps one year younger than Sean. He was slim, a little shorter than Sean, and quick in his movements. “Grab some chow and sit down! I’ll introduce your cellmates! I’ll start with me, since I’m the leader.”

  The others jeered him good-naturedly. “Okay, okay,” he said, still smiling as he sat down again. “I am only a legend in my own mind. I’m Alex Benford, and one day I’m going to be the hottest pilot on Mars.”

  “Uh, glad to meet you,” Sean said. “But where’s the food?”

  “New man! New man!” said an Asian youth. He jumped up. “Come this way, Sean, and I’ll show you. And don’t let Alex fool you. I’m the oldest, so I’m the leader of this crew. My name’s Patrick Nakoma, I’m eighteen—the old man of the Asimov Project, thank you very much—and I’m in zoology. That means I help take care of the animals we’re trying to adapt to Mars. Here we go, this is the mess module.”

  Sean realized that this area was almost exactly like the Administration dome—a large central space with rooms opening off it—and followed Patrick into a hexagonal room. “Here you go,” Patrick said, opening a panel in the wall and pulling out a tray. “This is the food. Pop it in here.” He slid the tray into another panel and in ten seconds it popped back out again. “Now it’s cooked. Utensils are here.” He opened still another panel and produced a knife, fork, and spoon. “Glasses are here, and this dispenses your drink. Today it’s synthetic chocolate milk, water, or lemonade.”

  Sean chose the chocolate milk and took his tray back to the table. Patrick showed him how the lid lifted off and folded under. The meal was chicken, vegetables, and a roll. Sean’s mouth began to water at the aroma, and he dug in as Alex continued. “Before I was rudely interrupted by Mr. Nakoma there—aren’t you retiring next year, old man?—I was about to introduce your other two dorm mates. On your left is the youngest human being on the entire planet, Master Roger Smith.”

  “I’m thirteen,” objected Roger, his accent revealing him to be British. He had untidy brown hair—long for a colonist—a snub nose, and a pale complexion. “That means I’m only a year younger than Alex, so pay no attention to him. I’m pre-engineering.”

  “Watch out for Roger,” Alex warned as Sean wolfed down his food. “He’s got a warped sense of humor. And last and certainly least, on your right is Mr. Michael Goldberg, another old codger. What are you, Mickey, seventy-one?”

  “Seventeen,” Mickey corrected. He had a plump face, curly dark hair, and—most unusually—round rimless glasses. “Hydraulics specialist. And before you ask, I can’t have corrective surgery and I hate contact lenses, so I wear specs. What’s your specialty, Sean?”

  Sean gulped some synthetic chocolate milk, which tasted almost completely unlike real chocolate milk. “Don’t have one yet,” he said.

  They waited for a moment, and then Alex asked, “How old are you?”

  Fifteen and six months,” Sean replied..

  “And how many days?” Roger asked with a grin.

  “No, I’m just joking with you. Go ahead and eat. You look starved.”

  Though he had shown up late, Sean was so hungry that he finished his dinner along with the others. They showed him how to return the tray to yet another compartment for washing, then explained the layout.

  “Bathroom and shower are in the module to the right of the mess module,” Alex said. “Computer library and rec module is the one to the left. Then our rooms, which I’m sure you’re going to love just as much as we do. Patrick’s in number one, because he showed up first. Then Mickey in two, me in three, and Roger in four. Yours is five, right over there. And the last one, in case you’re interested, is the laundry. We do our own. Oh, what we sacrifice to be a part of the Asimov Project!”

  2.3

  The room wasn’t very impressive, Sean had to admit. It was hexagonal, like all the others, and was perhaps eight feet in diameter. The desk, with its own small computer, was beside the door. The chair folded out from the wall. Storage shelves occupied three of the other five walls. One wall was actually a closet door—he unpacked his clothes and hung them there—and the last one folded down to become a bed.

  The others were playing some complex computer game in the common room and invited him to join them, but he begged off, explaining that he was tired. “Anyway, I’d better go to my room,” he finished. “I’m sort of confined to quarters.”

  “Why?” Roger asked, sounding surprised.

  Sean explained the trouble he had landed in. The others looked at each other, shaking their heads. “Man, you got off on the wrong foot,” Alex said sympathetically. “Ellman’s a real pain. You have to watch out for him, or you’ll be on the first shuttle back to TF.”

  “TF?” Sean asked.

  “Terra firma,” Mickey explained. “Otherwise known as Earth. Ellman’s a stickler for rules.”

  “Most of which he makes up on the spot,” Patrick put in. “That’s just to keep us on our toes.”

  “I’m terrified of him,” Roger said.

  Sean stared at the younger boy. “Really?”

  “Well,” Roger said with a grin, “at least I’m always sure to leave no clues when I pull something on him. Seriously, though, Ellman hates the Asimov Project. I think he’s secretly a Leveler.”

  “I hate Levelers,” Sean said.

  “I think they’re a bunch of nuts who just think they’re important,” Mickey added with a shrug.

  “Besides,” Roger said with a grin, “what did they ever do to you?”

  “They killed my parents,” Sean said evenly. “I was born in Aberlin.”

  Roger gaped at him. “No way!” />
  “I was.”

  Alex was no longer smiling. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. What’s Aberlin?”

  Roger began, “It was this town in—” He looked at Sean. “Sorry.”

  “Go ahead,” Sean told him. “It’s in the past now.”

  In a lower voice, Roger said, “Aberlin was a small town in Scotland. It had about the same number of people in it as Marsport, I think. Anyway, the Levelers hit it with a biobomb about ten, eleven years ago. They were calling for everyone not of British descent to leave the islands. Load of rubbish, but they said that if they didn’t get their way, they’d destroy one town a month. Almost everyone in Aberlin died of a modified form of plague. Sean was one of the few survivors. You were raised in the States, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which explains why you don’t sound Scottish. But they caught that ring of terrorists. They’re all in prison now.”

  “Yeah,” Sean said bitterly. “And my parents are still dead.”

  Patrick put a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “This is a new world,” he said. “A new beginning.”

  2.4

  Sean turned in a few minutes later. With his door closed, he couldn’t even hear the others. He knew they’d be talking about him, though—the only Asimov Project kid to come in on this flight, and the last one scheduled to come to Mars. They might even be feeling sorry for him.

  The bed felt strange at first. During the whole flight out from Earth, for many months, Sean had slept in a pressure web, a zero-gravity sleeping bag made up of elastic tubing that alternately inflated and deflated, the kneading massage keeping his muscles toned and his circulation healthy.