“When a resource becomes precious there are those who, made desperate, will go to great lengths to obtain it,” Roya said. “Let’s hope that’s not true of Zenith’s commander. Anyway, who would have imagined? Diamonds worthless, fresh water—here and on Earth—precious.”
“That’s interesting,” Amanda said, obviously uninterested.
From living in close quarters Roya knew that pursuing the conversation would be one-sided. She changed topics. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so serious. Ever get pumice in your bra? I have. It can be a bit chaffing.”
“Well, there’s an easy solution to that,” Amanda volunteered, laughing.
“Like the other day?”
“You saw?” Amanda answered, the tube’s dark shadows and a rebreather mask partially disguising her discomfort.
“Briefly. You were coming, I think, from the Comandante’s cabin,” Roya said, omitting that Amanda had appeared agitated.
Dimming her helmet beam, Amanda smirked and faced the other woman. “I had hoped to stay longer.”
With good intention, Roya had navigated the conversation into untrodden territory— Amanda’s relationship with Garcia. This was not for any prurient reason; it was inspired by concern for his welfare, someone for whom she held in the highest regard. If she was being overprotective, who cared? After living in close quarters for so long it seemed the natural inclination.
It had been by chance that Roya had spied Amanda, frustrated and unabashedly braless, hastily leaving Garcia’s cabin. She had guessed why her crewmate was upset, even without hearing her last irate words, those thrown into the air meant for Carlos. The assumption was reinforced later in the day, after sensing their changed behavior, the undercurrent of tension between them. Most disturbing was watching the usually imperturbable Garcia wrestle with his inner demons, the palpable battle taking place in the man made evident by the distracted look in his eyes.
Roya was not alone in her observations.
Mariana, in keeping with her duties as base physician, expressed her own concern for the Comandante’s well-being, wondering aloud if elevated carbon dioxide was affecting his concentration. Of course the doctora was disadvantaged by not having seen Amanda rushing from the Comandante’s cabin.
Neither Carlos or Gustavo had picked up on the subtle clues, or “tells,” that would have alerted them to something being amiss. What Roya had herself learned was gleaned from a close read of facial expressions—a subconsciously applied talent falling more within the province of the female of the species. Some call it women’s intuition.
Roya had been disinclined to share with Mariana what little she knew of the matter until after first speaking with Amanda. She had acquired a pretty good understanding of her attractive colleague’s personality, including the inordinate emphasis she placed on the physical side of her self-image. Although they had become friends of a sort, it was rare for them to confide in each other. Getting her to share a confidence now would be tricky. There were no tells as to how it might go. Not in partial darkness and a facemask obscuring part of Amanda’s face.
“When I saw you,” Roya said, choosing her words carefully, “I was in a hurry myself or I would have chatted you up. You seemed flustered. I assumed the Comandante did nothing improper. I can’t imagine he ever would—”
“Shall we continue on?” Amanda said, redirecting her helmet light into the darkness of the lava tube, the action leading Roya to believe the conversation was over. After a minute of walking together, however, Amanda volunteered more. “It’s what he didn’t do.”
“What should I make of that?” Roya replied, continuing down into the tube. Of course, she knew exactly what to make of it. Better off letting Amanda explain it without coaxing.
“He can be a very stubborn man,” Amanda maintained, sounding indignant. “But I can be stubborn, too. We’ll see what happens next time.”
“I can’t see how he’ll be able to turn you away,” Roya said. “After all, you’re a damn attractive woman.”
“Do you think so?”
“Amanda! You’re irresistible,” Roya protested, continuing the ego stroking. “It won’t be a fair contest.”
Amanda basked in the compliment before saying, “Does everyone know what went on between us?”
“Everyone suspected.”
“Figures.”
“Nothing disparaging has been said. We know how lonely it gets out here on the edge. And Comandante Garcia is an extremely attractive man.”
“He’s an extremely passionate man.”
“Why, then, did he chose to be alone?”
“Oh, who knows—something about wanting nothing to influence his command.”
“Is that what he told you?” Roya asked, noting from the sound of Amanda’s voice that she did not accept Garcia’s reasoning.
“Why the question?” Amanda replied, turning defensive.
“I mean, do you believe there’s another reason—something he’s refusing to tell you?”
“Why, no—”
“So he believes what he is saying?”
“Apparently so.”
It was the admission Roya wanted to hear. “Then it must be important to him. Do you have any idea just how difficult it is for a man like him to give up what you have to offer? It’s damn near impossible.”
“I hope so,” Amanda declared, trying to back away from the serious tone the conversation was taking.
“Wait a minute,” Roya said, trying to rein her colleague back in. “You don’t love him, do you?”
“It’s not like that. What’s the difference if I did?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Roya said. “Speaking for myself, being physically attracted to a man is as commonplace as diamonds. Love’s different—love is precious and always will be. I guess you can say it has infinite value.”
In the silence that followed there was no discernible tell that would let Roya know the message she tried to deliver had been received. She had cautiously avoided suggesting a certain course of action for Amanda to follow. When shown the wisdom of walking a different path, a person is often inclined to start running down the one they’re already on. Perhaps she had gone too far by meddling in a private affair. If so, it was because she had been with the Comandante on the planet from the start. Ample time for a bond, a special closeness to develop. In her feelings for the man, Roya knew that if Garcia lost his internal struggle he would be losing a small part of his self-respect—and everyone would be the worse for it. Including, ironically, Amanda.
“Bzzzzzz! Time’s up. What’s going on in there?” complained an impatient Gustavo, speaking through the com link running the length of the siphon hose.
“Hell, Gus,” Roya said, “we thought you left by now. I mean you now being a little absent-minded and all.”
“I contemplated leaving. That was after I remembered you two were in there screwing around. By the way, when I checked in with the Comandante he asked why we were operating in an outlying area. Then he questioned me as to why we were in an unexplored tube network. Lastly, and not least, he demanded to know why we were exploring a network in such close proximity to the epicenter of a shock wave. Admittedly, three real good questions.”
“He’s worried about the tube’s structural integrity?” Roya asked.
“Uh huh. The possibility of collapse. Should he be?”
“I hadn’t considered it. Very low risk in my estimation. Are we being ordered out?”
“No. We have been advised to proceed at our own discretion.”
“There’s no sense leaving now,” Amanda said, trying to hide her growing unease. The selection of N119 had been entirely her idea. She didn’t want it to be a bad one. “Sniffer’s maxed out. Water, lots of it, just up ahead.”
“Are we agreed then?” Gustavo urged, “If water isn’t found in the next ten minutes you’re out?”
“I’m fine with that,” Roya said. “Besides, this place is starting to creep me out.”
“The usual?�
�� Gustavo asked, referring to the feeling that Amanda was trying to hide and, to varying degree, troubled anyone who spent any length of time in Murkor’s lava tubes.
“A little more so.”
“How about you, Amanda?” Gustavo asked, knowing she was more impressionable. “Bogeyman coming to get you, too?”
“Sure, joke about it,” Amanda snapped back, “while we’re in here and you’re safely out there.”
“I’ll be quiet now,” Gustavo said.
Five minutes later, the beams emanating from two helmet lights were reflecting off the surface of a placid pool of water located in the dead center of an enormous chamber.
Amanda uttered one word, “excellent,” then rushed to the water’s edge. With a head tilt she directed the powerful arc of light from her helmet into the crystalline depths. “Roya, come take a look,” she insisted. “I can’t see bottom. The light disappears first.”
“This is the deepest pool I’ve ever seen,” Roya said, adding her beam to Amanda’s.
“You’re welcome,” Amanda replied, taking credit for the discovery.
“Hey, Gus, you’re about to get wet,” Roya said, using the customary phrasing to denote that the waterproof com link on the siphon hose was about to be submerged, rendering it temporarily out of service.
“That’s good news,” a relieved Gustavo replied, activating the CAM-L’s suction pump. “The Comandante will be mollified that we didn’t come this far only to return with an empty hump.”
After feeding the hose deep into the small pool, Roya sat on a nearby ledge, taking a needed rest. Staring at the pool of water, she noted with great interest that the water level did not lower as siphoning progressed. Five minutes later three thousand liters of water were safely stored in the CAM-L’s tank.
To prevent damage or hang-ups, the irreplaceable hose was to be followed out of the tube by both team members as it auto-rewound. Except during an emergency, the rule was deemed inviolate.
On this particular occasion, Amanda thought otherwise. Although she had done her best to submerge her anxiety, the strange atmosphere in the tube was becoming untenable. “Why must we wait for the hose to retract?” she said, then offered up an excuse for leaving. “The heat in here is unbearable.”
“Come, sit down beside me,” Roya urged, seeing Amanda’s discomfort while coping with a milder version of her own.
“No, I can’t sit,” Amanda protested. “I won’t sit.”
“You know it’s nothing,” Roya contended. “Just our minds playing tricks on us.”
“We have to leave,” Amanda demanded, retreating from the pool of water, nearly knocking herself senseless backing up hard against the nearest wall.
A wall which she hoped would be a defensible position against an invisible assailant.
“We can’t let this place get to us,” Roya said, seeing Amanda’s desperation and rising to her feet.
“What the heck is going on in there?!” Gustavo, chimed in. Out of caution, he had kept the com link open. “You two are freaking me the hell out.”
The familiar voice, a momentary distraction to Roya, became an irresistible beacon summoning Amanda to the outside. Unable to withstand the feeling besieging her, she bolted toward the chamber’s exit.
Exactly where Roya, ignoring a scream of “get the hell out of my way,” had firmly planted herself.
The same forward momentum that propelled Amanda careening down the long, dark tunnel toward freedom sent Roya sprawling onto her back. Facemask dislodged, she gasped in the Murkorian atmosphere. Struggling to stand, frantically reattaching her mask, she fully embraced what her desperate colleague was feeling.
She was not alone.
“Talk to me somebody,” the com link squawked again. “If you two ladies are pranking me—”
“Yellow One alert,” Roya shouted through labored breaths.
“Type?”
“Panic attack. She’s headed your way. So am I.”
“Understood,” Gustavo replied.
Retaining enough of her sanity, Amanda traced the siphon hose back to the CAM-L, where Gustavo was waiting with a mild tranquillizer.
Not long after, all three crewmates were reunited. The safety equipment was stored away, and the siphon hose successfully retracted.
Informed of what happened, Gustavo had a question.
“Amanda, what, may I ask, the fuck were you thinking?”
Before she could offer a reply, Roya came to her defense.
“You weren’t in there.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Gustavo asked.
“Want to go in alone and find out?”
“Sure—”
“No—don’t!” Amanda interrupted. Surprised by the strength of her own reaction, she repeated the word in a barely audible whisper. “Don’t.”
“You got spooked,” Gustavo said, shaking his head in sympathy. “It happens. But you, too, Roya?” He had been listening in on the com when Roya, running out of the tube, had tried to bolster her idea of a sensible universe. “What was that you kept saying? ‘I am a scientist!?’ Shouted several times if I recall—”
“I repeat,” Roya said, responding to the teasing, “you weren’t there.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Gustavo professed as he piloted toward what they assumed would be the security of base.
No one spoke. Halfway home, having dredged his memory for the most apropos Poe quote, Gustavo said what they were thinking.
“Want to know the truth? Maybe I don’t get it. None of us do. ‘There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.’”
7. Sorely Tested
ELLIS HAD HOPED FOR BETTER.
Six arduous expeditions to find water over the course of two consecutive days had yielded a grand total of thirty-eight liters of the precious resource. The prevailing mood inside resplendent Zenith had gone from bad to worse.
She was under no illusion that the anxiety would find its outlet in anger, the most suitable target being herself. Reflecting on the alternatives, there were two choices: Run from the storm or meet it head-on.
The choice itself was easy, if not its execution. If facial expressions and body language were any indication, she could count on three or four allies and maybe a couple of undecideds among the twenty-nine people assembled in front of her.
“As you are well aware,” Ellis began, “we have reached a tipping point. The supply of water is being outpaced by demand. This development has come upon us sooner than anyone anticipated. It will necessitate some additional actions on our part. To appreciate what must be done I have asked Mr. Schulman to extrapolate a circumstance where our existing store of water is no longer supplemented by new finds. Please share your conclusion with us, Mr. Schulman.”
“Uh, certainly, Commander. In brief?”
“Preferably.”
“There are currently 11,233 liters of fresh, filtered water in storage. At our current rate of use that gives us a fifteen-day reserve. For that to last forty-five days, as you directed me to calculate, consumption must be reduced by two-thirds. In essence, that means restricting each person to 8.6 liters per day.”
“And that can be accomplished, Mr. Schulman?”
“Oh, it can—with a concerted effort and, how to say this politely—toleration for the expected affront to one’s olfactory sense.”
“Explain,” Ellis requested.
“Well, you see, each person requires a bare minimum of three liters of water for hydration. That doesn’t leave a helluva lot for food preparation, waste processing and personal hygiene. You know. Washing-up and the like.”
“Hey, Schulman, did you count on extra savings from Johnson in those numbers? He never bathes,” somebody shouted to general laughter.
Not everyone was amused. “Why forty-five days?” asked Chuck Kreechum, the IMC foreman. “You had something specific in mind?”
“I do,” Ellis said. “It is the time necessary for a transmission, if I choose to sen
d it, to arrive at Varian, added to the time it takes a Class B transport ship to travel from Varian to Murkor.”
“And the purpose of that vessel?” Kreechum asked, his temper rising along with his voice. He damn well knew the answer.
“The emergency evacuation, if and when it becomes necessary, of all non-service personnel.”
“You mean to abandon Zenith?!” Kreechum declared over several shouts of protest.
“As I said, if it becomes necessary,” Ellis replied. “For the present, I’m hoping the situation allows leaving behind the minimum number mandated to keep the base in compliance with the provisions of Section 107.16.3.”
“What you’re suggesting,” Kreechum stated, barely managing to maintain self-control, “is the permanent shutdown of mining operations on this planet. Absurd when all we need to prevent that from happening is fifty kilometers away.”
“You’ve voiced that opinion before, Mr. Kreechum,” Ellis said. “Forty-five days from now would you rather have a Coalition transport ship in orbit or a Unión T4 Battlecruiser?”
While Kreechum was thinking of a suitable reply, Mechanic Ed Anderson decided to join in. “Water and testosterone seems to be in short supply around here,” he said, whispering loudly to the person he assumed would be the most receptive, a weakly smiling Lieutenant Davis.
Ellis’s retort, half-premeditated and half-gut reaction, was swift. “I can barely tolerate ignorance, Mr. Anderson, never disrespect, either to me or the other women in this room. Interrupt me again and I’ll have Lieutenant Davis escort you to your quarters. Is that clear?”
The warning was aimed at accomplishing two goals, reining in a rebellious tech and, more importantly, forcing Davis’s active cooperation, vital if she was to keep a firm hold on command. He would be compelled to make a choice between supporting her or his friend, openly demonstrating allegiance in front of the entire base.
It took a long three seconds of silence for her “all or nothing” gambit to play out.
Sitting rock-still, both men stared hard at her—Anderson full of resentment, Davis uncertain, sizing her up. Anderson was determined to escalate the confrontation when Davis, saying nothing, reached across and firmly placed his hand on his friend’s forearm. There was no misinterpreting what he meant.
The Symbionts of Murkor Page 11
