“Of course, Amanda,” Garcia said, barely managing to leave himself a way out if he chose to take it. “Stay for a brief spell. Then I must resume my work.”
“Distracted by the arrival of Zenith’s new CO?”
“She’s on my mind, yes.”
“The witch. I’m jealous. Aren’t I on your mind?”
“You are,” Garcia replied, adding, a little too hastily, “so are four other people living on this base.”
“Is there nothing more you can say to me?” Amanda fretted, bending forward, palms smoothing the front of her bare thighs.
Garcia hesitated. A realized fantasy burned into his brain, which he simultaneously fought to remember and forget. It was a blazing-bright picture, indelibly etched, of her lying naked below him, panting, sweat glistening on her heaving chest as he thrust in and out.
Words of passion formed on the tip of his tongue. Move to the bed. Let me undress you. Quiero cogerte.
He forced his mouth shut, fiercely biting his lower lip in the hope pain would supplant the agony of lust he was feeling.
Sensing her own advantage in Garcia’s silence, Amanda slowly rose off the couch. Locking her eyes onto his, she moved behind him, breasts lightly touching his shoulder, she pressed her moist lips to his ear and whispered. “Me haces mojada. Can you forget what I said to you? How I wanted you in my mouth? How I begged to have your cock inside me?”
Reaching her arms around his waist, she lowered her hands to his lap, her fingers touching him through the thin fabric of his pants, feeling the hard physical confirmation he was unable to hide. It was the one proof that she, in the throes of her own passion and a misguided sense of self-worth, was compelled to see.
If he moved he would accede every decision to her. A man could go mad from this libidinous torture—yet he could not fault her for what she was trying to do. Never blame her. Not if she was possessed with half the desire consuming him.
But if he failed to refuse her now he would lose.
“Amanda, you know this—”
Both were startled by a rap on the door.
“No,” she pleaded in his ear. “Don’t answer. Please.”
“I must,” Garcia struggled to say, gently removing her hands from his lap. “I asked Carlos to report to me.”
Face flushed from anger and frustration, Amanda backed away as the automatic door slowly began to slide open. “If I have to,” she sneered, not particularly caring who heard, “I’ll seek my entertainment elsewhere.” Infuriated by Garcia’s rejection, she rubbed past Carlos as he entered, saying, for both men’s benefit, “And you know exactly where I’ll find it.”
“Find—what?” Carlos, confused, stammered out. It was a lot to process: Amanda’s recent interest in him conflicting with what appeared to be her continuing intimacy with the Comandante. “I thought you wanted me to report—” he said. Turning to leave, he tossed an m-file on the Comandante’s desk. “There it is. Copy sent to your mindstor.”
Garcia was perceptive enough to deduce much of what Carlos was thinking, visible in his sullen expression and cold demeanor. The rest could be inferred. He would only go so far to assuage the young man’s feelings. “Not everything is as it seems, Carlos,” he said. “Now sit your ass down in that chair and give me your report.”
“Right,” Carlos said, sublimating his own frustration.
“Give me the high points,” Garcia asked. “I’ll review the complete file later.”
“Carbon dioxide is elevated on every level,” Carlos responded. “You may not have noticed, your attention being otherwise diverted—”
Garcia ignored the insinuation. “You’ve been chasing after this problem for a couple of days now. Explain why the cause has been so elusive.”
“ESS is controlled by a Nexus preconfigured on Varian. It’s impossible to tamper with and it’s not prone to making mistakes. Only it is. It’s confirming that the carbon dioxide scrubbers are on-line and fully functional, instead of what I believe is actually happening.”
“You’re saying the scrubbers have failed?” Garcia asked, becoming alarmed.
“No, I think the Nexus sees the scrubbers as functional even though, without apparent reason, it has issued them commands to start shutting down.”
“What you’re suggesting is atypical of a Nexus. It’s fundamentally an orchestration of molecules in a colloidal solution. There’s virtually no chance that anything could go wrong. You’re making it sound delusional.”
“True, except it has been infused with detailed operating instructions and a limited ability to reason. A type of rudimentary behavior that can be corrupted.”
“How’s that possible?”
“I’ve only a vague suspicion,” Carlos said, then quickly became dismissive of his own statement. “Nothing yet worth mentioning.”
“How elevated are the carbon dioxide readings?” Garcia asked.
“As of the moment—”
“Hold off,” Garcia interrupted. “I’d like to bring Mariana in on this part of the conversation.”
“And Amanda?” Carlos suggested, trying to provoke.
“Zip it,” Garcia cautioned.
Two minutes after receiving the summons via internal com Nadir’s physician was sitting in Garcia’s compartment. Three minutes more and she was acutely aware of why she was summoned.
“—it was to be expected,” Carlos said in conclusion, “that air recirculation and molecular diffusion would result in carbon dioxide roughly reaching equilibrium base-wide. Last I checked, the highest reading, 1,670 parts per million and rising, is being registered by the detector at the primary plenum.”
“Is the increase linear?” Mariana asked. “What are you projecting?”
“There are insufficient data points to make an accurate determination,” Carlos responded. “A guesstimate? We may see 3,000 ppm in a few days. In ten days we could be approaching ten times that.”
“How can that be?” Mariana protested. “Such an increase cannot be explained solely by the carbon dioxide we exhale.”
“Outdated and inefficient power generating equipment, air-conditioning and refrigeration systems are all contributory,” Garcia replied. “None of those, and very few others, can be placed off-line.”
“I assume you called me here to describe the effects of carbon dioxide poisoning,” Mariana stated.
“Worst-case scenario,” Garcia said, nodding.
“It is just in case?” Mariana asked, looking closely at Garcia, expecting words of assurance. “Right?”
Garcia doubted he could deliberately mislead anyone, especially Mariana, even if he wanted to, but if the atmosphere continued to deteriorate he’d have to contemplate measures that, for the moment, were too draconian to detail. “We’ve been self-reliant for quite a spell,” he chose to say. “Has there ever been a difficulty we couldn’t overcome, either individually or collectively? Do you believe this occasion will be any different?”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Mariana said, the advice failing to mollify her. “As for the effects of carbon dioxide poisoning? We could be seeing the first mild symptoms—especially if you feel abnormally tired or drowsy or your concentration has begun to slip a bit. At 3,000 ppm that’ll get worse, then much worse as exposure levels and duration increase. Within a few hours of inhaling 10,000 ppm, heart rate is elevated, headaches become pronounced, fatigue sets in. A few minutes’ exposure to 30,000 ppm you can add hearing loss, dizziness, confusion to the other symptoms. At 50,000 ppm you’ll begin to experience acute vision loss, muscle tremors, labored breathing, choking, vomiting, sweating followed by unconsciousness as you slowly asphyxiate. Beyond that? Death as you strangle from lack of—”
Mariana caught herself at the sight of two somber expressions. “Sorry. You did ask.”
It was the bleakest and unlikeliest of scenarios that she had painted, but that didn’t render it any less disturbing to Carlos who, taking it to heart, now felt the fate of the crew weighing on his shoul
ders. Hiding his anxiety—he viewed the emotion as a sign of weakness—he attempted humor.
“Death does provide one distinct advantage,” he said. “We stop producing excess carbon dioxide.”
“That would be mildly amusing,” Garcia abruptly said. “If you knew what was going on with the ESS.”
It was not the assurance Carlos was seeking.
“Ask that chancro bitch,” he blurted out, no less surprised by the sudden venting of his feelings than a stunned Garcia and Mariana.
“Explain yourself,” Garcia demanded.
Relieved that his accusation and pent-up anger were out in the open, Carlos was eager to comply. “Ellis,” he asserted, the name hissed between his teeth. “Do you really believe her arrival on Murkor coincidental?”
“That is precisely what I think,” Garcia said. “Convince me otherwise.”
“What can corrupt a Nexus? I have the answer. Cloaked, function-specific nanoparticles. Coalition, violating international convention, must have found a way to render them undetectable. Once they’ve inserted themselves into the Nexus’s colloid they can spread like a contagion.”
“When and how was this accomplished?” Garcia asked, his impatience giving way to interest.
“Three days ago, just prior to Nexus misbehaving. Exactly when Ellis’s shuttle hovered directly overhead. Perfect opportunity to release a nanocloud, the cloud’s entry facilitated through the compromised integrity of the palladium panels or the ESS’s intake ports. From there they are easily dispersed by the HVAC ductwork.”
Hearing nothing that was impossible, only implausible, Garcia asked the next logical question.
“And the motivation behind what would be regarded as a serious and unprovoked attack?”
“Ellis came straight from Varian,” Carlos asserted, his conviction growing as he spoke. “She was ordered here for one reason. You don’t have to look hard to see the Coalition’s ulterior motive. I’ve seen it before. They’re aiming to sabotage Nadir in order to gain access to what they need most. Water.”
Garcia thought back to Carlos’s recounting of the Río Pecos Incident. It was obvious that the suffering and sorrow inflicted on an impressionable child was a burden he carried through the years and light years to Murkor. Like an invisible nanoparticle, it had infected his thinking.
What the Comandante failed to see was that Carlos’s hatred of the Coalition had caused him to marshal his considerable engineering talents into proving his accusation—in the process unintentionally overlooking a simple defect in ESS that would have become apparent upon further investigation. While feeling compassion for Carlos, he had no way of relieving him of the burden he was under. Nor could he determine with certitude that his engineer’s allegation was a misdirection. On the face of it, it appeared to have some validity. Seeking advice, Garcia turned to Mariana with a silent query.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said, shrugging. “Do I trust Coalition? The simple answer is ‘no.’”
“Retaliation is unlikely to improve our circumstances,” Garcia responded. “If your assumption is correct, Carlos, what practical remedy do you propose?”
“A temporary one,” Carlos said, forging ahead with an idea that entailed its own measure of risk. “I can tap into the ESS’s ductwork and redirect a small, constant, volume of base atmosphere to the intake port of the oxygen concentrator. Carbon dioxide is one of the gases in Murkor’s atmosphere the concentrator is programmed to remove; it’ll act as a temporary scrubber, keeping the levels in check.”
A clever solution, Garcia thought to himself. “What’s the downside?”
“The additional volume of air passing through the oxygen concentrator may decrease its efficiency.”
“That’s your idea of a solution?” Marianna protested. “Shall I spell out the effects of a low-oxygen environment? Impaired judgment and coordination, fatigue, muscle weakness, convulsions, loss of consciousness. Death. Let’s assume we continue to maintain standard atmospheric pressure. Symptoms will be subtle at first, onset at nineteen percent oxygen concentration. At ten percent you have a few minutes before taking your last breath.”
“What I’m suggesting buys us more time,” Carlos insisted. “I should be able to maintain nineteen or greater.”
“And if,” Garcia asked, “as you contend, the Nexus has been corrupted?”
“What I’m proposing doesn’t alter that. If I’m right, it does bypass the erroneous command the Nexus is sending to the scrubber.”
“Implement your plan,” Garcia decided. “I’m relying on your expertise. Power off any nonessential equipment that adds to the carbon dioxide burden. Mariana, please inform Roya and Gustavo of these developments.”
“And Amanda?” Mariana asked.
“Yes, yes. Of course. Her, too.”
When Mariana and Carlos got up to leave, Garcia remembered something else.
“One more thing. Pass the word. We shall convene to discuss this development over dinner.”
***
Sitting in the solitude of his cabin, Garcia evaluated what had transpired in the last few hours. None of it was good: ESS malfunction; the possibility, however remote, of sabotage by Zenith; the distraction of Amanda.
In retrospect, he was dissatisfied with how he handled all of it: Forgetting to consult Carlos about the air quality on L3; his inability to find a suitable response to an incursion by Zenith (shit, he fell asleep at his desk thinking on it); the irresolute manner he dealt with Amanda.
His concentration was slipping. A symptom of the carbon dioxide?
More likely a symptom of Amanda Cruz.
He couldn’t get his mind off her. “Me haces mojada.” She said that to him. Right now he could take three steps down the hall and fuck the hell out of her.
Or take his libido off auto-pilot. Engage manual override. At best, a few hours relief.
What in hell would he do if she came on to him again? With no way to avoid her, could he resist her? What harm if he didn’t?
He knew better. It was the ensuing complications that were to be scrupulously avoided when assuming command. He had jeopardized his authority by entering into a relationship that could lead to emotional and unpredictable behavior in one crew member and jealousy in another. Complications, ill-timed at that, affecting Amanda’s and Carlos’s attitudes toward him and to each other. Ultimately affecting their discharge of duties.
As for the harm inflicted on himself? He didn’t have to look far. Carlos was right when he suggested that Amanda, an accomplished chemist, should have been consulted along with Mariana. She was excluded to avoid the sexual distraction.
The question he posed for himself remained unanswered: What would he do if she pursued him again?
If he was Carlos’s young age, the question of resisting Amanda’s advances would never be asked.
No way in hell.
Or in the eighty-nine days he had remaining on Murkor.
***
Six humans that had much in common sat at the L2 dining table. Nearly identical DNA. Born on Earth. Citizens of Unión de Naciónes de la América Latina—
On the other side of the ledger they were identifiable as six distinctive personalities equally divided between two different genders.
Carlos came straight from working on the ESS. He arrived shortly after Amanda discretely informed her colleagues that she had conducted her own spectral analysis of Nadir’s corrupted atmosphere. Unaware, assured that his colleagues were anxious to hear the results of his repair efforts, the engineer took a seat proclaiming, “I can fix anything.”
Upon further review, the claim was viewed as something of an overstatement. Although he had managed to avert a more immediate crisis by curtailing the rise of carbon dioxide, oxygen values were beginning to sink below the crucial nineteen percent safety threshold. When prodded, he protested that this development should be viewed merely as a temporary setback which he would soon rectify. “Have I ever failed you?” he said with an eye tow
ard Amanda’s approval.
“No,” Gustavo interjected before he could respond, “but your first time might be your last.”
“Forget that,” Carlos said, offering up in defense, “you’re of the mind there’s a first time for everything.”
“You boast too much,” Gustavo responded. “‘The true genius,’ Poe once penned, ‘prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.’”
Born and raised on the island of Cuba, somewhere in his forty-three years Teniente Gustavo Ramírez had found the time between earning advanced degrees in hydrogeology and communications to become versed in the works of Edgar Allan Poe. It was an inclination he cultivated on Murkor. It suited the planet perfectly.
“I can relate to that first part,” Carlos replied. “That part about being a genius.”
“Didn’t take you long to break the silence,” Gustavo answered back.
The retort was too subtle to divert Carlos’s attention away from Amanda, hands clasped in front of her mouth, lips slightly parted as she nibbled the edge of her forefinger. “I, for one, feel we’re in good hands,” she chirped, patting the young man’s muscled forearm. “If it wasn’t for the arrival of Zenith’s new CO, we wouldn’t be concerned about any of this.”
“Is conjecture now being accepted as fact?” Garcia protested, looking around the table.
“There does seem to be compelling circumstantial evidence,” Gustavo said. “And Zenith does have great need of our water.”
“And what do you think, Roya?” Garcia asked.
Roya Allawi was the only non-Latino crew member. Of Arab ancestry, she was born and raised in what had once been Morocco, enjoying a childhood immersed in the rich cultural diversity of the region. To escape climactic changes and the relentless encroachment of the Sahara desert, as a young adult she relocated with her family to the Iberian Peninsula. Water, or the lack of, played a large part in her choice of careers. An M.S. in hydrology, fluency in Spanish, and wanderlust taken to the extreme all contributing to how she wound up on Murkor.
The Symbionts of Murkor Page 9
