"You could have fooled me. You were the one started on lawyers."
"I know. I was just feeling uppity. Must be the ambience. If I could carry a tune, I'd be singing, too. But I wanted to ask if you signed some sort of release document before you started the telomod treatment."
"I certainly did. A release from everything, so far as I could tell. I could be killed, ground up, and sold as cat food and the Institute wouldn't be held responsible."
"The same as mine. But do you remember any particular side effects of the treatment that they warned about?"
"They had a long list of possibles. Plain and fancy cancers, in addition to the one that brought me to the program. Nausea, bleeding, fits, fainting, headaches, seizures, liver failure, kidney problems." Art shrugged. "You name it. The list went on and on. I never had any of them."
"Do you remember anything—" Dana halted on the walkway, so that Art had to stop, too. "Look, Art, don't laugh at me, even if this sounds totally crazy. But did anyone or anything ever mention a side effect that could make you feel totally wonderful?"
"I don't remember one." Art gestured ahead, to where Seth was walking on steadily, farther and farther in front of them. He took her hand and pulled her forward with him. "We were told that if things went well we might have a normal life expectancy, even one beyond the normal. If we were lucky, we might see some rejuvenation effects, too."
"That's my point! I'm not just feeling better, I'm feeling great, the way I haven't felt for thirty years. I'm like a kid. I wake up, and the whole day spreads out before me. Even in the middle of this disaster, I look forward to things. And you, Art. You look ten years younger than the first time I met you. You're acting it, too. Don't you feel younger?"
"I guess I do." It wasn't the time to say that he had been feeling horny a lot, particularly around Dana. "I'm in better shape than I thought I'd be, three days ago. When I left Catoctin Mountain I expected that the drive down to the Institute on the tractor would just about kill me, and it didn't. Yesterday I felt fine. And last night with you was great, the best night I've had in years—I mean, the best night's sleep."
"I assumed you meant that." She gave a coarse, low-pitched laugh that echoed off the tunnel roof and walls. "Don't you think there's a faint chance I would have noticed, if you'd meant anything else? You don't have to tell me you slept well. I would have liked to talk last night, but you told me we ought to go to sleep. Then you went out like a light."
"You're worried about feeling well, are you? You shouldn't be." Art finally released Dana's hand and waved to an invisible Seth. The walkway was straight and they had allowed themselves to fall far behind. Now from in front of them a flashlight had turned in their direction. "I can't think of any bad side effect that makes a person feel good. I don't think there's any such thing."
"I hope you're right. But what do we know?" Dana walked faster. "We have to find Oliver Guest and learn exactly what's going on with us. I hope he can tell us more than the doctors at the Institute. I could never get much out of them."
"Medical caution." Art increased his pace to match hers. "Unless you want to call it medical cowardice. Suppose they predicted our condition, and things turned out some other way? Then they couldn't act like gods anymore."
"Sounds like you feel for doctors the way I feel about lawyers."
"Could be. One of them damn near killed me. That toe-tapping double-talking buckle-shoed charlatan." Art walked faster yet. One nice thing about feeling fitter, you had the energy for righteous indignation. "He was an arrogant little shit. If I hadn't ignored him and gone for a second opinion right away while he was still blathering on about allergies, I wouldn't be talking with you today."
"I sympathize with that feeling. But what can you do? The faith healers and karmic gurus are even worse."
They were almost up to Seth, who turned off his flashlight. Art could see him outlined against a lighter patch of wall. The tunnel made a right angle turn, and a brighter light came from there. He reached in his pocket for his compass. The water flow was southwest.
"Been enjoying yourselves, you two?" Seth sounded cynically amused. "Me, too. So are we ready for stage two? This might be a bit tricky."
The black water flowed on through a dark opening, but the walkway terminated at a wider platform. On the right, away from the water, a rusty iron ladder stood bolted to the wall. It led up to a square vertical metal grating through which weak daylight filtered. A thin layer of snow had found its way through to the platform beneath.
Seth went to the foot of the ladder and stared up. "If that sucker has a lock on the outside, we're in trouble."
"It shouldn't have. Service staff need to be able to get in and out of any access point." Art moved past Seth and climbed three rungs or the ladder. He held on with his left hand and reached up to the grating with his right. "The real question is, has it been used recently? There's a layer of snow behind the cover. That won't help."
He gripped the grating and pushed one-handed, as hard as he could.
"Is it moving?" Seth asked from below.
"Not an inch. I think it's frozen. It's hinged on the upper side. Dana, lend me your wrench, would you?"
He took the long tool and thrust it as hard as he could. The result was a loud clang and a shower of snow in his eyes. Art tried again. Snow again fell, more than the first time.
"I think it moved a bit." Seth was peering up from the foot of the ladder. "Come down, and let's try something different."
He took the wrench from Art, climbed the ladder, and halted on the second rung.
"The two of you hold me at the legs and waist. This needs a two-handed swing."
Dana gripped Seth's waist. Art reached higher, to support his lower back.
"Hold tight and try to catch me if I fall off. I'm not gonna hold anythin' back." Seth, turning sideways, gave an explosive grunt and rammed the wrench against the bottom of the grating.
"Any good?" Art again had a face full of snow.
"Nah. Nothing. Move, you mother, move." The wrench thrust out, again and again, while Seth grunted and cursed. At the fifth effort he moved higher on the ladder and said, "Watch out below. I'm dropping the wrench."
Art and Dana stepped quickly out of the way. A moment later came Seth's gasp of triumph. "Yeah, baby. Here we go."
He was pushing the grating, turning it upward on its hinges and climbing higher on the ladder. Finally he could scramble out through the square opening. He peered down at them.
"Come join me. Let's see if we know where we are and where we go from here."
Holding the heavy wrench in one hand, Art climbed awkwardly after Dana. Outside, he peered at the world through half-closed eyes. Daylight was blindingly bright after the gloom of the storm drains. He did not know how long they had been underground, but judging from the position of the sun in the cloudy sky it was early afternoon. The snow had tailed away to nothing.
Art surveyed the cold, still, and silent landscape. He stood at the foot of a bank covered with shrubs and small trees. Directly in front, in what he judged was roughly south, he saw a gleam of dull gray. Beyond that lay taller trees and, farther off, another and larger body of water.
"Well?" Dana said. She and Seth were staring expectantly at Art. "This is your stamping ground, not ours. What do you make of it, stout Cortez? Where are we?"
Art was pulling out a map with fingers that still trembled from the effort to open the storm drain cover.
"I'm pretty sure we are right here." He unfolded the map and placed his finger at a point on the bottom left quadrant. "Near a place called Cabin John. The water you see right in front of us is the C&O Canal—the Chesapeake and Ohio. We're at a spillway into it. You can't see the towpath on the other side because of the snow, but it runs all the way down into Georgetown. We couldn't use the canal, though, even if we had a boat, because it has locks all the way down, and you can't operate them without power. Beyond the evergreens is the Potomac River. Downstream is to the left. Ther
e are rapids, but the bad ones are upriver toward Great Falls."
"Boats?" Seth asked.
"I don't know if we'll find any close to here. There's a big boathouse downstream, on this side of the river. But it's about three miles away. And they rent boats that you row, not boats with motors."
"Renting ain't what we got in mind today. We'll borrow. But, boy, you weren't kidding. You really know this area."
"I guess I do." As Art replied he was taken by a memory, thirty and more years old, of a warm afternoon when he and Mary had walked the towpath together, gathering wild hollyhocks and sweet-smelling phlox from close to the water's edge. Two small boys were ahead of them, uncomfortably close to the quiet canal. Mary, worried not at all about Art teetering on the steep bank and in need of a steadying hand, had rushed off after the children. The summer memory was so piercing and so bittersweet that his eyes rejected today's snow and its leaden reflection in the canal.
"Art?" Dana tugged at his sleeve. More sensitive than Seth, she had caught something new in his expression. "Do you need to rest?"
"No." Art took a deep breath. No summer flowery perfume now, but the clean, cool smell of pine. "I'm doing all right. Where do we go from here?"
"We need a boat," Seth said. "Any sort of boat to carry us downriver. If we can get as far as Washington, I'll find us a power craft."
"How?"
"Don't know yet. We eat a bit, then we head for the houses close to the river. There's a good chance somebody with riverfront property has some sort of canoe or rowboat." Seth stared up at the sky. "I figure we got four hours, maybe five, to sunset. Unless you want to sleep in the storm drains, by then we need to be afloat and cruisin' downriver to Maryland Point."
18
From the secret diary of Oliver Guest.
The lead prosecutor told the jury at my trial that I was "a sick parasite, preying on society."
Parasite on society; this, mind you, from a lawyer.
It was, furthermore, inaccurate. Biology admits three forms of interdependence in living organisms. First there is symbiosis or mutualism, in which each of the participants benefits from and may indeed be dependent for survival upon the presence of the other. The mitochondria that serve as energy centers in each of our cells are a good example. We need each other. Then there is commensalism, where two organisms coexist but provide neither harm nor obvious benefit. Into this category I would place many of the protozoa in our alimentary canals. And finally there is true parasitism, where one organism does nothing but damage to the other. The Ichneumonidae, those wasps that both fascinated and repulsed Charles Darwin and led him toward atheism, are a fine example. The wasps lay their eggs in the living but paralyzed bodies of caterpillars and cicadas. It is difficult to discern any possible benefits for the reluctant hosts.
The prosecutor's accusation was also unfair. I am not, and was not, a parasite, even stretching the meaning to accommodate popular usage.
I do not particularly blame the man. It is one of the unfortunate aspects of the legal profession that excess carries no penalty. There is never, for a lawyer, such a thing as too much. Consider the oxymoron, a "legal brief." The prosecutor must have known that the evidence against me was overwhelming, regardless of questions of character. Had he made a speech testifying to my unhappy childhood, noble nature, and kindness to animals, it would not have affected the verdict. He could have served as a de facto defense attorney, and made no difference to the outcome.
Actually, I might have preferred his worst accusations to the efforts of the defense counsel appointed by the state. She, with the best will in the world, decided that I had no chance if my plea for clemency depended on the physical evidence alone. Instead, she would prove that I was an asset to society rather than a parasite. Because of the value of my work, I ought not to be placed into long-term judicial sleep. She referred to my groundbreaking researches on telomod therapy, which she said was "even now being applied to a group of human experimental subjects." The jury stared at me. "Human experimental subjects" has a certain ring to it. Their eyes said, "Next stop, the gas chambers."
She then told them I was a world's leading authority on cloning, a subject that happens to be regarded by the general public with strong suspicion. Finally she emphasized what a genius I was, and showed how my career had been marked since early childhood by an outstanding brilliance.
You could see the wheels working inside jury heads.
Question: "Who do you want out on the streets even less than an insane mass murderer of teenagers?"
Answer: "An outstandingly brilliant and cunning insane mass murderer of teenagers."
I knew at that point what my defense attorney apparently did not: my fate, in spite of or because of her best efforts, was sealed.
19
The lesson had been driven home every day for a thousand days, from pre-mission selection to Earth orbit departure: the first Mars expedition faces more unknowns than anyone can guess. There will be injuries, there may be fatalities. No matter what happens you must regroup and assess your remaining resources; and you must continue.
Continue until you reach Mars; continue to descend to and explore Mars; continue until you return to Earth from Mars.
Celine raised her head and stared around the control room of the Schiaparelli. They had held together and worked together. They had overcome every obstacle. They had come so close to success, so agonizingly close; and they had failed.
The other three were ignoring each other, locked into private worlds of grief or guilt. Reza Armani had moved to one of the control chairs. He was working through the command telemetry as it had been received from Lewis until the final seconds of radio silence. With its help he was reconstructing every action that Zoe Nash had made, mimicking her exact sequence of movements at the ship's controls. He was muttering to himself, and his features twitched constantly. When the Lewis became a cloud of hot gas he appeared to lose touch with reality.
Wilmer Oldfield was also staring blank-eyed at nothing and apparently doing nothing. He had vanished inside his head, to a place beyond Celine's access or imagining. That didn't worry her. Wilmer did that all the time.
She turned to Jenny Kopal. She could understand what Jenny was doing, and sympathize with it. Somehow, the transfer of chips and library programs from the Schiaparelli to the Lewis had been botched. Since that responsibility was Jenny's, she felt she had killed Zoe, Ludwig, and Alta as directly as if she had driven knives into their hearts. She was poring, white-faced, over displays and transfer protocols.
And Celine's own failure? She knew it now, when it was too late. Zoe had made the decision to return to Earth two days after their arrival at ISS-2. She did so before they knew the extent of the work before them, before the orbiters were fully inspected, before Zoe or anyone else had a rational basis for setting a schedule.
Celine had been deeply worried by the impulsiveness of Zoe's action. But what had she done? Had she pointed out her reservations, knowing that her warning would be listened to and taken seriously—that this Cassandra was never ignored?
No. She had done nothing, overwhelmed by Zoe's personality and confidence and strength of purpose. Or—place the blame where it belonged—overwhelmed by Celine's own desperate longing to be home again on Earth.
She glanced around the cabin again, and found everyone's eyes on her. What now?
"We saw what happened to the Lewis." Celine found herself speaking, in a voice surprisingly level and controlled. "We probably all have our own ideas as to what caused the disaster. At some point we will have to decide what to do about our own return to Earth. But not yet. Right now it is time for a group discussion."
That's right. Speak of the fate of the Lewis, rather than of Zoe, Ludwig, and Alta. Keep the discussion as impersonal and unemotional as possible. Don't allow anyone to indulge in breast-beating.
But at the same time a voice inside her was asking other questions: Why am I doing this? Isn't this a job for someone like Zoe, a natur
al leader? Why me?
And an answering voice: Their deaths have changed all of us. Jenny is more human, Wilmer is more alert, and Reza is closer to the borderline between normal and psychotic.
The other three didn't seem to find Celine's assumption of leadership as odd as she did. Jenny was rubbing her eyes, as though she had been secretly weeping, but she said quietly, "I think it is obvious what happened. I downloaded software modules for orbiter control from the program library onto spare chips available on the Schiaparelli. I installed those chips in the Lewis, replacing dead elements there. I believed that I had done everything correctly. But when Zoe tried to change the orbiter's pitch, the software module gave a command that drove the correction the wrong way. The orbiter was entering the atmosphere more steeply after the correction, instead of less steeply. Drag forces and frictional heating on the Lewis increased, rather than decreasing, until temperatures went past hull material limits. If only I had been more careful, and checked—"
"We don't know that's what happened." Celine cut Jenny off smoothly but firmly. "Did you find a software error that could produce an effect like that?"
"No. But I'm still looking. It's the only thing that could possibly—"
"Not proven. We need to hear from everyone before we attempt an analysis." Celine turned away from Jenny. "Reza?"
"Well, we may never know exactly what sequence of actions Zoe took." Reza's voice was higher than usual, but he picked up before Jenny could speak again. "There was no telemetry for the crucial period, because of ionization radio blackout. But the controls of the orbiters are quite a bit different from the controls of the Schiaparelli or of the Mars landers."
Speech seemed to have stabilized him, because his voice was more normal when he went on, "I know that, because I've had more practice sessions than anyone except Zoe herself. It would be easy, in the heat of the moment, to invert a control command and increase the angle of attack rather than decreasing it."
"If Zoe had done something like that she would have realized it in a split second," Jenny said. "She would have made the correction. She didn't." Her voice wobbled and rose in pitch. "I tell you, Reza, it's in the software routines."
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