"Well, then, my dear," answered the ambassador, bowing to allow Martel access to the decompression chamber, "let's go see if we can find some."
The woman picked up the pack bag next to her by its twin handles and then stepped inside. Depressing the black button on the inner door panel as she passed it, she moved next to Hawkes as the heavy door slowly rolled back into place. The two diplomats waited patiently, both of them scanning the meager contents of the chamber while they waited for the hatchway to seal itself again.
Whoever had erected the dome had not left much behind to impress later visitors. A trio of old compression suits hung off to the side, with a few power attachments and oxygen packs scattered at their base. Nothing else. No messages scrawled on the walls, no papers, no clues of any kind to identify the men and women who had worked on that site. Hawkes studied the silent suits, their black faceplates reflecting back his probing eyes.
As he stared, he remembered the severity of Mars's recycling programs. Suddenly he was not wondering why there were not more signs of the past in the chamber, but how even the few there had survived. The ambassador spent the next few moments checking the outer levels, making certain the dome beyond contained a breathable atmosphere. And then the hatchway behind him and Martel finally clicked closed, signaling that they could proceed.
"Well," he said, feeling a strange dread curling through his system, "ready?"
"I guess so," she answered, sensing his apprehension, and sharing it.
"Then," he began, pausing for a second as his hand reached out for the control button to the last door, "let's go take one of those giant steps for mankind."
His finger pushed against the heavy control button. The outer door ground with protest, snapping the hold of inertia. Slowly it rolled back, sliding away into the wall of the bunker. At first glance, all that lay beyond was the ribbed plastic of the extension tunnel leading out to the dome.
At first . . .
"My dear God . . ."
The words came out of Hawkes in one breath. He and Martel moved into the runnel slowly—not out of any lingering trepidation, but from wonder. It was their first view of the Martian surface, and they were as stunned as any other person who had ever seen it.
The first thing that caught their attention, of course, was the sallow cast of the sky. They could not take their eyes off it, craning their heads upward and in every direction.
Yellow, thought Hawkes. Yellow.
He remembered a pair of sunglasses he had been given that had been fitted with yellow-tinted lenses. At first he had been fascinated. They had made everything seem clearer, more sharply in focus. But after a short while, he had begun to realize something else.
The yellow glass leached more than just pinks from the visible spectrum, it took away everything warm—everything human. All around him, everything appeared cold and autumnal, as if the blood had been drained from everything in preparation for a winter that would end all of existence. Even looking at his own hand through those lenses had unnerved him. He knew it was his hand, but still it had appeared foreign—alien—to him.
And now he found himself on a yellow world, an entire world designed by the cosmos to drain everything warm from a scene, to leave things stark, devoid of all humanity . . . foreign . . . alien.
Well, thought Hawkes with a shudder, it's not like this isn't exactly what you expected.
The pair continued to walk through the long, plastic-bag tunnel. They began to pick up their pace after the first few minutes, slowly becoming accustomed to the utter strangeness of their surroundings.
Both of them began to notice little things around them, such as the descending layers of footprints in the sand that showed someone had been coming out into the old dome on a regular basis, no matter what the official reports said. Or that it was warmer inside the tunnel than it had been in the air lock, or that tiny beads of moisture were running along the plastic roof above them—often collecting in a central area to form actual drops.
Ducking the occasional drip, Martel began to unpack some of the equipment she had brought with her, while the ambassador merely looked out through the walls of the tunnel at the barren landscape beyond.
The scene outside was one of ancient, undisturbed desert drift. One boulder in particular, much larger than all the other rocks around it, caught Hawkes's eye. It was coarsely granular, banded in at least two directions. From what he could tell from a distance, it appeared to be a breccia fragment. He thought it might have been the central remains from a meteoroid impact, considering the ring of smaller, similar fragments that seemed to surround it.
While his aide moved on ahead around the curve in the tunnel leading into the dome, Hawkes maintained a slower pace, still fascinated by the view. He had seen all of the great deserts of the Earth, had spent considerable time in the Mojave Desert and the adjoining Death Valley region. But neither of them had struck him as did Mars. Sliding his hands into the side pockets of his old leather vest, he moved at his own pace, unable to break away from his view of the outside world.
It was true, he told himself; the deserts he had known all had their own striking colors and irregular formations, but they could not compare. Even the worst parts of Death Valley had some small traces of life here and there, even if only the remains of long-dead weeds—there were still clues that life was possible. Mars, however, held no such traces. Nowhere in sight, from zero to the horizon, was there the slightest glimmer of anything except sand and rock and lifeless soil.
Nowhere.
Hawkes continued on toward the dome. His pace began to pick up, his strides growing longer and quicker. Beyond him—beyond the relatively thin plastic wall holding in his atmosphere—the Martian landscape lay dully. Unmoving—uninspired—only the wind stirring up ancient layers of dust and desiccated soil. The single thing still of interest to him was the quirky way the browns and yellows outside blended to give the view its strange, orangish tint—what for centuries had granted Mars the distinction of being known as "the red planet."
It was only a mild diversion, however, and quickly forgotten when Martel suddenly called out to him. "Ambassador, there's something here I'm pretty sure you'll want to see."
The tone in his aide's voice caught his ear. Anxious for anything that might break the monotony of the Martian surface, Hawkes hurried his pace. Coming into the domed area, he found what he was looking for.
"Good Lord . . ."
"Maybe," answered the woman, taking soil readings in the center of the dome. "But something tells me he might have had some help here."
The ambassador crossed the sandy, broken floor of the dome, staring at its central point. Martel stood off to the side taking soil readings, but Hawkes barely noticed her. His attention was riveted by the flourishing wealth of life she was studying.
"I don't believe it," he muttered, trying to convince himself that the tangle of plants before him was not just a product of his imagination. A thousand questions flooded his mind: Who had done it? Why hadn't he been told? Why hadn't anyone been told? This was the kind of thing that could have eased a lot of the tension that was tearing the colony apart. Why was it being kept a secret— and who was doing the keeping?
Hawkes studied the mass of intergrown stalks and vines. The dome was roughly a thousand meters across. He estimated that the living circle in its center was somewhere between one hundred and a hundred fifty meters in diameter. Ivy and other creepers had been coaxed up old stanchions. Broad-leafed varieties littered the dome floor around them, surrounded and intergrown with numerous trailers such as aurea and traveling sailor.
"Someone found a use for Sam Waters's leftover fibers," Martel murmured.
"He had started telling us about the problem they had in the old days with disposing of the excess sponge/mush fibers. Someone's been dumping loads of it here, and mixing it with the right chemicals to negate its overly acidic qualities. The Martian soil seems to have something to do with that as well."
"They must have
worked the area, smuggling excess water out here on their own until they got enough of a hothouse effect going to get their own little atmosphere recycling." Pointing toward the ceiling, she said, "Look."
Hawkes stared up, seeing the hundreds of thousands of hanging droplets waiting to grow fat enough for gravity to release them. But before he could comment, a loud "whooshing" sound swept through the air, followed by a violent ripple that shook its way across the dome. Thousands of drops broke free from the ceiling at one time, raining down on the ambassador and his aide.
Rubbing the water from his eyes, Hawkes looked up again. What had happened? he wondered. What was wrong?
It took him only another moment to realize what had happened, and fear made his heart skip a beat. Turning back toward the tunnel, he screamed,
"Run!!"
Even as he charged for the tunnel's entrance himself, he could see the compression door to the chamber beyond sealing shut. Without looking up again, he knew the ceiling was slowly beginning to lower . . . knew that the dome was collapsing.
22
"KEEP RUNNING!!"
Hawkes's boots tore gouges in the Martian soil as he raced back toward the tunnel entrance. He was no more than a few meters from the opening when the much younger Martel caught up to him. As she slowed to pace him, he shouted,
"No! Go on. Go on. Get up there. Get the door open again."
"Okay," she shouted. Moving off, she offered, "It must have closed automatically in response to the drop in pressure."
"Maybe," he shouted after her. "Maybe not. They move so slowly. And that one's already closed. I don't know . . . but . . ." The ambassador went quiet for a minute, trying to catch his breath. Still running, he yelled out, "I don't think this was any accident."
Martel did not answer, save to pick up her pace. As she ran ahead, Hawkes felt himself going slightly dizzy. The tunnel was so long, the bunker so far away. Both of them were trying desperately to run a three-minute mile. Soon they would be running it without oxygen.
The ambassador continued to struggle, making the best time he could across the sandy floor of the tunnel. He saw his aide reach the rent in the passageway's plastic side. Air was being sucked out at a horrifying rate. Hawkes watched as she stumbled, trying to pass by the pull of the outward stream. Then, lowering his head, he narrowed his eyes and pushed forward, telling himself, Move, old man. Move! Keep running. Keep moving. Crawl if you have to, but keep going. Don't let them win. Whoever these goddamned bastards are . . . don't . . . let . . . them . . . win!
Hawkes threw his legs out in front of him, one after another, again and again, forcing energy into every step. Halfway to the end of the tunnel, water splashing down on him with every new shudder of the rippling plastic sheets above him, he had almost reached the hole when Martel shouted, "It's . . . locked!"
"What?" Hawkes puffed in disbelief.
Hanging off the bunker, holding her aching side in exhaustion, the woman sucked down a deep breath and screamed, "It's locked! Someone's locked it from the other side."
The ambassador saw the sabotage point at that moment, and realized what had happened. A small oxi-candle had been triggered near the base of one panel. It must have taken the flame generator at least five minutes to burn even the smallest pinprick through the plastic wall. Once that had been accomplished, however, vacuum pressure had done the rest, and the panel had been split from top to bottom by the explosion of escaping atmosphere.
Hawkes stumbled through the escaping stream. The whipping air whipped the dust and sand of the floor up in violent swirls, filling his eyes, choking him. The current tore at the ambassador, dragging him away, along with all the oxygen. Fighting it all, Hawkes hung on, thinking grimly, Damn you. Damn you, bastards.
He thought of the miracle of the garden behind him, already dying without ever being seen except by him and Dina and its unknown creator. Enraged, he forced himself through the gale. His vision going red, he thought, You're willing to kill every chance this planet has, just to get whatever it is you want. Well . . . you're not killing me. Goddamn you all to hell—you can kill the whole universe . . . you 're not killing me.1
Reaching Martel's side, gasping for air, Hawkes stabbed at the heavy yellow button. There was no click, no noise at all—only the harsh scarlet of the legend SEAL IN PLACE glowing in the readout area of the door controls. He stabbed it again and again, punched in the black button next to it as well—all with the same results.
"What're we going to do?" shouted Martel, panic flooding her eyes. "What can we do?"
"We can think," said the ambassador, gasping. Falling against the door next to her, he reached up, grabbed her shoulders, and said, "We can act. We can try!"
Then, desperately looking around the area for something with which to force the door, trying to purge the sound of the escaping atmosphere from his ears, he asked, "What are you carrying? Do you have anything we can use to get the panel open?" Slapping at his own pockets, checking every lump he felt, he continued, "Maybe we can play with its wiring . . . get it to—"
And then his hand closed over the round shape in the upper left-hand pocket of his vest. The form had been there for so long—so much had happened—he had almost forgotten about it. Praying he had found what he thought he had, he grabbed at the zipper over the pocket, fumbling to get it open. He tore at it in desperation, jamming it halfway.
Roaring in frustration, he grabbed at the half-open pocket and tore it away from his vest. The Graamler 10SA-11 he had carried there since the night his ranch had been attacked fell out into his hand.
"What's that?" asked Martel, already panting from lack of oxygen.
"Hope," answered Hawkes.
Blinking at the stinging dust filling his eyes, he searched the smooth dull black metal for the proper controls, trying to remember everything Tony Celdosso had told him. Praying he had remembered correctly, he slapped the bomb against the lip where the door met the wall and then threw himself against Martel, shouting, "Down!''
The pair had no sooner hit the ground below when the Graamler exploded, blasting the heavy decompression hatch inward. Pulling each other upward, the two struggled against the escaping atmosphere, pushing their way toward the twisted wreckage of the door.
Forcing his way into the air lock, Hawkes threw himself against the far wall. The escaping atmosphere continued to howl in his ears, sucking him backward. His hands aimed at the control box; he caught hold of it, slamming his index finger against the release button.
As Martel struggled to Hawkes's side, the ambassador slumped against the still-locked door. As he did, he revealed the readout panel of the door controls. The woman gasped in horror at the sight of the flashing red words:
SEAL IN PLACE.
The cynical voice in Hawkes's mind sneered at him, Now what do you do?
For once, he had no answer for it.
23
"THE SUITS!" SCREAMED MARTEL, POINTING WILDLY. "The pressure suits."
Hawkes followed the direction of his aide's hand as the woman started across the chamber. He saw the trio of suits flopping against the other wall, straining against their hooks as the dissipating atmosphere tried to suck them out of the ruined air lock.
The ambassador understood her meaning instantly. While she headed for the antique compression suits, Hawkes moved to intercept the pair of oxygen cylinders he saw rolling across the floor. He caught the pair of them, even as the first of the suits tore free from the wall.
"Benton!" Martel screamed in warning, but she was too late. The flying compression unit hit the ambassador square in the back—boots first, then the helmet. The faceplate shattered against the back of his head. The impact staggered him badly. Before he knew it, he had dropped one of the oxygen cylinders he had saved.
Blood sluiced wildly from a deep gash in the side of his head. Scarlet ribbons flew away from his head, disappearing past the compression door, following the lost cylinder into the tunnel—out into the atmosphere.
Han
ging on to the remaining oxygen, Hawkes tried to unwrap himself from the flapping sleeves and leggings banging against him. At the same time, his aide reached the other wall and caught hold of the two remaining suits, holding on to them for dear life.
The ambassador forced his way to her side and immediately began screwing their single canister of air to one of the suits. As he did, he shouted, "Get in. Get in the suit."
"No," she screamed back. "You take the first one. I'll take the other."
"It's empty," he shouted back. "We've only got the one. Now get in."
"No!" As he felt the cylinder click into place, she continued, saying, "You're too important. You have to survive! Too much depends on it."
He wanted to argue, to tell her she was young—a newlywed—that she had her whole life ahead of her. He wanted to admit just how tired of everything he was— how he really would not mind checking out a little ahead of schedule.
But there was no time. All their air would be gone in a few minutes. Maybe in only a minute. The logical side of his brain silenced all argument; it forced him to look into her eyes. He could see her determination . . . could see that if he did not agree, she would simply release her hold and allow herself to be sucked away so that he would have no choice but to live on with more guilt than he could bear.
So what do you do, Hawkes? he asked himself. What do you do this time?
"All right. All right," he shouted. "Help me get in and get it sealed. Hurry!"
A loud, crashing sound tore away their attention. Outside in the tunnel, the loose cylinder had smashed through one of the passageway's support struts, tearing it loose from its mooring. As their atmosphere began to escape at an accelerated rate, the ambassador shoved his legs into the suit, screaming, "Hurry!"
His head pounding, black spots beginning to dance within his field of vision, Hawkes steeled his will, forcing his arms into the compression suit sleeves. Behind him, Martel shoved weakly at the back plates, desperate to align the magnetic seals properly. As she completed the last of them, the ambassador maneuvered his head into the large black glassed helmet.
Man O' War Page 16
