by Corey Ostman
“I guess. But it’s not like Mazz does this, anyway.” Nutter gestured to the panel.
“We can do it by ourselves, though.”
“I do hate having that twofer looking over my shoulder,” Nutter mumbled.
That twofer, Grace thought with military ire, is above you in the chain of command. But she said nothing, and watched.
“It’s spooky the way it seems to know before you’re about to make a mistake,” Nutter said.
“Nah, nothing spooky about it,” Quint said. “Just irritating. We wouldn’t make half the mistakes if he weren’t looming.”
“Yeah.” Nutter tapped the keypad and an audible ping came from the comm panel.
“Wait for it,” he said.
Seconds later, two more pings.
“Locked with one-fifty-east.”
“And all without the robot,” Quint said, standing up. “So, is that it?”
Nutter nodded. “Yeah. We just have to button this up.”
Nutter retrieved the panel cover and the two men hoisted it back into place. Grace turned to gaze out the viewport. No ships in sight. It was a vast, empty vista—like home, but more desolate.
“You’re new to Mars, Protector Donner?” Quint asked. The panel lowered with a clang.
“Yes.”
“Where’s your cloister?”
“Just outside Cheyenne, Wyoming.”
“Never been there,” he said. “What’s it like?”
Grace pointed at a shallow mesa a few kilometers distant. “Like that, but with some scrubby trees. The land is tan, with patches of grass where there’s water.” She looked at the hills near the horizon. “And mountains. Snow.”
“Are there robots?”
Grace shook her head.
“Well, you’ve got the PodPooch,” Quint pointed out.
“That doesn’t count. Tim wouldn’t be allowed in cloister. He belongs to Raj, actually. I don’t think I could ever own a robot, myself.”
“You’re better off not,” Quint said. “Best to stand on your own.” He looked thoughtfully at Grace. “That’s what it’s like in a cloister, isn’t it—you’ve got to stand on your own?”
“Yes and no,” said Grace. “There are some who’d like to say so, of course, but it’s more communal than that. If you really wanted to stand on your own, you’d have to leave.” Her gaze returned to the distant hills. “I had to leave.”
The techs left, and Grace was alone with the silence. She didn’t mind. The mesa was beautiful, deep orange on top, with white pancake layers stepping down to the plain. As the ship flew by, she imagined a tent and a campfire and the dazzling stars winking through the golden gauze above.
Chapter 10
The following day, Grace once again sat at the helm and gazed out the main viewport as the Scout alternated between fossae and plains, the sun dazzling but small as it edged closer to the horizon. The sky was mostly clear, but she noted a thin streak of dusty clouds ahead. She glanced at the screen on her right, gesturing for the weather overview. A disturbance to the south. She waited for classification and then saw the display flash: SANDSTORM.
Grace settled into her seat. She watched the clouds grow higher and form a dense, black belt. Would the prevailing winds bring it this way?
She tapped her ptenda.
“Sorry to bother you, Captain, but we have a sandstorm to the south.”
“Mmmm?” Wragg’s normally sonorous voice was muddled. He’d been asleep.
“Will it come this way?”
“Sandstorm could go anywhere. Just put her in sandstorm mode. Panel C3.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I bet that will wake up Raj,” she said to Tim, who lounged in his favorite portside seat.
The PodPooch glanced from the displays and his face flickered from concerned to mischievous.
“Think he’ll run up here to strap in?”
“Two bacon pucks says he’ll stay in his bunk.”
“You’re on.”
“Even though you don’t eat?” grinned Grace.
“For one of those famous bacon pucks? I might learn.”
She chuckled and navigated through the menus on panel C3. She had to admit, she was enjoying this work. Maybe she needed to become a pilot, and leave dealing with people and their problems to someone else.
As the Scout approached the weather front, the serene silence began to give way. It started with a low moan that rumbled across the ship. As the sand grew dense, the deep notes of the wind were joined with pulsating white noise as hissing bands of sand swept across the Scout. On her family ranch, a dust storm was not uncommon. But it paled in ferocity to these Martian gales.
She felt the ship tip slightly to port and then correct itself as the wind continued unabated. Grace looked at the tactical display. Their forward velocity had slowed, though they were still maintaining the heading Wragg had set prior to leaving the bridge.
“I have a memory, Grace,” Tim said.
“A memory?”
“More like a rush of anticipation that’s been satisfied.”
Grace turned from the viewport. Tim lay in his seat, head resting on crossed front paws. She hesitated. When Tim was enigmatic, sometimes it was better to let him talk. He still had trouble absorbing the changed perceptions from when he was human—when he was Eugene Bransen, Jr. She knew that the memory transfer into the PodPooch chassis amounted to Raj’s best approximation, but she also knew that Tim obsessed when he detected discrepancies from his past.
As the pause extended, Grace spoke.
“Is it a Bransen memory?”
“Has to be. Maybe. I think I have been waiting for this. To see. To be on Mars, but—not exactly. It’s like the feeling of doing something that you know can be done, but is also impossible.”
Tim shifted, then sat up, his eyes altering from brown to orange as they fixed on Grace.
“I remember dreaming about the possibilities of Mars. Being there, living there, the terraforming—but I knew it could not really happen in my lifespan.”
“Bransen’s lifespan.”
“Yes. He was too busy with other things.”
Grace thought about it for a moment, searching for patterns in the waves of red in the viewport.
“When I got to Port Casper,” she said, “I bought a ticket to the Pacific. Did you know that? I figured that I was out of cloister: I could go anywhere. But somehow, I knew I’d never use that ticket. If the situation at ITB hadn’t exploded, I’d have stayed in my job. Too much to do.” She reached a hand over and rubbed between Tim’s ears. “Like you.”
Another gust rocked the ship and the thrusters adjusted. The storm’s intensity grew.
“I’ve got two people in my head,” Tim said softly. “Me and Junior. We’re the same person. Only, he’s not a person anymore. I’m the person. He’s the dream.”
Grace looked at the PodPooch. When they’d first met in Port Casper, the thought of his mental issues would have sickened her. But their ordeals had brought them close, and around the time he stopped calling her ‘Ms. Donner’ she’d realized that they were friends.
“I didn’t know Bransen, Tim. But I know you.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t let work get in the way of your dreams.”
“But that’s just it, Grace,” said Tim. “What are my dreams?”
The storm gathered strength throughout the night. For all the noise, Grace was surprised at the smoothness of the ride. As she watched the instruments, she witnessed a complex dance of thrusters that, along with forward momentum, kept the ship stable.
I wonder if this is what an ocean is like, Grace thought. She had met cloisterfolk from the Gulf of Mexico. They had regaled her with stories of fishing trips into the shallow waters and hurricanes that heralded the end of summer. At Red Fox Academy, she had read Moby Dick. She could almost imagine herself at the wheel of an ancient ship with the wind and rain against her face.
As the sandstorm continued, Grace remained at her post, alternating
between the displays and the viewport. No one came to check on her. Was it a mark of their trust, or the commonality of storms that kept them from worrying?
As soon as the first rays of sunlight emerged, Grace scanned for nearby ships. Wragg had explained that it was a Martian tradition after storms: the duty of citizenship on a hostile planet. So she looked for ships or debris. Visibility was still poor: the sun was a pathetic brown disc as curtains of dust and sand settled in the thin air. Intermittently, streaks of light would burst forth, and Grace would have to darken the viewport polarity. During one light burst, Grace thought she saw a glint in the sand.
“Hello there,” Grace murmured.
“What is it?” Tim asked. He’d stayed on the bridge with Grace all night.
“I don’t know. I thought I saw a bit of sparkle, but there’s nothing on the radar.”
Captain Wragg strode onto the bridge. He looked refreshed and held a large mug of what passed for Martian coffee.
“Anything to report?” he asked.
“Right before you walked in, Captain. I thought I saw something near the horizon.” She pointed out the viewport.
Wragg sighted along her arm. He moved to the controls and a red dot appeared on the viewport.
“There?” he said.
Grace nodded. She watched as he manipulated the displays. A fuzzy image appeared on the screen. It flickered into what looked like a small ship.
“Could be an old wreck,” Wragg said. “I’m getting no signals.” He rubbed his face and frowned. “Still, Mr. Archdale has standing orders to give aid to any and all who need it.”
He fingered the controls and the ship altered course.
“We’ll get closer and check it out.”
Grace knew she was technically off-duty now, but she couldn’t sleep yet. She leaned forward as a small cruiser emerged on the viewscreen, half-buried in the sand.
“No power signature,” Wragg said. “But we’ll be upon her before Elysium could send us a missing craft report.”
“Does this happen often?” Grace asked.
“Too often.”
“But surely humans should care more?”
“We artificials are more dependable.” Tim’s voice rippled in her dermal dot.
“People should care, Donner. But they can be lazy.”
They watched in silence as the Scout drew nearer.
“Looks like it’s mostly buried,” said Grace.
“And look at the hull. It’s not this storm that wrecked her. She’s been that way for a while,” Wragg added.
The Scout came to a stop two hundred meters from the ship.
“Do you think there’s anybody aboard?” Grace asked.
“I hope not,” Wragg said, “That ship will probably be buried by settling sand inside of an hour.”
He turned away from the viewport and glanced at the nav display. And that’s when Grace saw it. A rippling of blue and white against the sand-covered hull.
Grace rubbed her eyes and stared out the viewport. “Wait!”
“What is it?”
“Look at the ship’s viewport. I thought I saw something move in there.”
Richard and Raj walked onto the bridge as Grace and the captain peered out the viewport.
“Something?” Richard asked.
“Ah, you’re right, Donner. I see it now,” Wragg said. He turned to Richard. “There’s somebody aboard her.”
“Can we send someone over?” Richard asked.
The captain glanced at the displays and shook his head.
“Not possible right now. A pressure suit would be scooped up by the sandstorm—even as weak as it is—and blown away. If we lay low for a couple of hours we might have better luck. Meanwhile, though, that dune might just cover her up for good. Not to mention us, if we land.”
Wragg maneuvered the Scout closer, turning on forward lights to fully illuminate the broken ship. The energy of their engines whipped up the dust and sand. A massive orange dune that had built up on one side of the ship continued to spill over it.
Grace peered at the hull. It looked intact, but was scorched, and two port thrusters were missing. Given their own recent collision, Grace wondered if another ship might have inflicted the damage.
The person inside had noticed them now. He pressed against the viewport, gesturing erratically. Probably scared. Grace waved her hand, indicating she’d seen him. He seemed to relax.
“Normally, I’d send a message to Elysium to get a digger out here,” Wragg said. “Still, I think we should hail—”
As if in a last effort, the sandstorm wind gusted, and a large avalanche of sand struck the broken vessel. Their view of the stranded person was obscured by meters of sand. Only a small section near the top of the craft remained visible.
Grace looked at Wragg. He shook his head.
“Does that mean—?” Raj began.
“He’s gone,” Richard said. “We can’t get him out.” He quickly glanced behind. She knew. Richard expected to see Yvette there. Luckily, she hadn’t come up yet.
“What about Mazz?” Raj asked.
“Digging on that scale is one thing Mazz can’t do.”
“How long could he live in there, with a pressure suit?” Grace asked.
“Assuming no other life support,” Wragg said, “couple of days, max. And who knows how long he’s already been there?”
“We also don’t know if he’s the only one in there,” murmured Grace.
“We could send out a probe,” Richard said. “We have a squawker aboard that would keep transmitting. Someone with digging capabilities would spot the signal eventually.”
Raj rushed toward the viewport.
“Look!” he said, and pointed to the top of the cruiser.
A person in a pressure suit had emerged from the top of the ship. The sand whipped the protective fabric.
Grace nodded to herself. Her next action was clear.
“I’ll go get him,” Grace said. “Where can I safely exit the Scout?”
“Donner—” began Wragg.
“You sure you want to do this?” Richard asked.
Grace looked at the lone figure, balanced precariously on a mountain of moving sand. “No, but I’m going to do it anyway.”
To her surprise, there was no further disagreement. “The closest airlock is in the crews’ quarters,” Wragg said.
“You haven’t got much time,” Richard added. “I’ll message the engine room that you need a suit. Go!”
“Good luck, Grace,” said Raj.
Grace raced down the hall and ladder toward the hatch. Waiting for her was Quint, wide-eyed.
“Grace, I want to come with you—to help,” Quint said. He was already in a pressure suit, and holding hers.
Grace took the suit. “It’s too dangerous, Quint. We don’t need half the ship out there in that storm.”
“I can help, Grace. I know how the storms work—you’re an offworlder. You’ll need a hand. And that person could be dangerous. Maybe a pirate.”
Grace almost laughed. Was this teenage gallantry? “All the more reason for you to hang back. Not this time, buddy. Get back to your station, ok? I’ll be fine. This is what I do.”
She suited up, and Quint helped. To his credit, he said nothing more. When she was done, he punched the airlock controls as Grace grabbed a tether.
“I’m ready, bridge,” Grace signaled.
“Keep yourself tied at all times,” said Wragg over the comm. “The wind is still nasty.”
Grace grabbed the tether and entered the airlock.
Chapter 11
The indicator pulsed green. Grace took a deep breath, exhaled slowly through her nose and opened the exterior hatch. One foot out, one foot still inside. Sand swirled around her, buffeting the pressure suit. The sun tinted the air the color of carrots, though directly overhead Grace could see a paler, butterscotch sky as wispy clouds rushed past.
She looked up the dune submerging the ship. Her helmet display showed t
he dune angled at nearly twenty degrees. The shifting sand would be treacherous. Already part of it was snaking toward the Scout. The lost soul was near the top, his body hunched over and partially covered with swirling sand. Grace felt a surge of adrenaline. He had left the safety of his ship, trusting in the promise of rescue. She would not fail him.
Hooking her arm around an exterior grab, Grace clamped on the tether and let the spool drop, billowing her lifeline out in front of the Scout. The wind slammed her suit as she took her first steps, but she expected it and remained steady.
Step by step she climbed. She found that if she trod slowly, she lost less ground than when she moved rapidly. Part of her trek was aided by a seemingly solid escarpment hiding beneath the sand.
“We’ll be waiting for you just beyond the inner door, Grace.” Raj’s voice was clear in her helmet, even with the background noise of wind.
“I may have to carry him,” she breathed into her visor. “He hasn’t moved since I left the Scout.”
“With that wind, I wouldn’t blame him.”
But it was as she feared. When she reached the top of the dune, she found the man in the pressure suit face down, unmoving. She decided to drag the body back to the Scout rather than carry it. A lower center of gravity was helpful in the wind, and she was already going downhill.
Unfortunately, she forgot about Martian gravity, and pulled too hard. The wind caught her body and she began to spin and slide awkwardly down the cone.
“No.” Grace gritted her teeth. She kicked one boot out, twisted her body, and screwed out the other foot, digging them both into the sand. After a few seconds, she stopped sliding.
The Scout was a quarter submerged in sand when she reached the foot of the dune. She kicked sand away from the airlock and hooked the heel of one of her boots inside. Then she removed the tether and hopped back in, dragging the man with her and sealing the exterior door.
The lock began to pressurize. Grace rested against the wall and let her breathing return to normal. She could see Raj’s face on the other side, and gave him a thumbs-up. Beneath her, she felt the engines come to life as the Scout shook free of the encroaching sand.
