The Martian Race Read online

  Finally, fresh air had to be pumped inside to save lives. The culprit turned out to be the slow chemical curing of the tons of concrete in the buildings, binding oxygen within the walls of the structure. It was a complete surprise to the mission designers.

  Closed life-support systems were still not practicable. Even on Mars, the crew used the local atmosphere to chemically fabricate their oxygen and water. That's what the ERV's chemical plant had been doing all this time, using hydrogen brought from Earth to produce methane and oxygen. When burned as Rover fuel, it produced waste carbon dioxide and precious water. What had been in most short supply was hydrogen. But since Marc's discovery of the frozen pingos, future missions could use indigenous Mars hydrogen from water.

  Food was still an unsolved problem. Julia was working on a series of trials proposed by NASA and contracted with Axelrod, following on years of research by earnest nutritionists.

  They had long ago established that in the long term, the colonists’ diet would be vegetarian. It made sense to eat plant protein directly, rather than lose 90 percent of its energy by passing it through an animal first. So early on, the Consortium crew had set up an inflated plastic greenhouse next to the hab. They covered it with recycled parachute material, scavenged from their landing, for extra UV protection for the plastic.

  In an inspired move, Raoul had hooked up the air-exhaust vent from the hab to the intake of the greenhouse. Warm air enriched with C02 for photosynthesis, but with enough oxygen for plant respiration, flowed into the greenhouse, displacing the arid CO2 of Mars. The heat helped to keep the plants from freezing overnight.

  After about two months, Julia's plants were growing strongly, and her tests showed that the oxygen content in the greenhouse was more than adequate for humans to breathe.

  The hab's air system provided clean, moisturized air at 1/3 Earth sea level pressure, like living on a mountaintop at 23,000 feet but with plenty of oxygen. So they didn't feel altitude effects, and had lots of energy, but the air tasted flat.

  When Raoul opened up the return path for the air, they clustered around the duct in the hab and waited. That first whiff of greenhouse air proved to be a great morale boost for the crew, their first non-canned air in over eight months. Greenhouse air was processed through plants, and it carried with it the fresh smell of Earth.

  Never much of a gardener at home, Julia came to prize her time in the greenhouse. Inside she could work without helmet or gloves. With just a skin suit on, she could shuck her Marswear insulated outer garments.

  What she enjoyed best was looking through the rows of plants, through the clear side walls to the dusty red landscape beyond. She could imagine then that Mars was a hospitable planet, and that humans would someday come here to stay.

  She'd shared these feelings in a brief missive to the Mars Society, and had been inundated with e-mail from would-be colonists. The idea of growing food on Mars was immensely symbolic as well as practical.

  About three dozen types of plants seemed suitable for colonists’ diets and the hydroponics system, including cultural superfoods like wheat, rice, and potatoes, various beans, and popular vegetables like broccoli and tomatoes. They'd grown some of these in the hab during the flight to Mars, in a prototype tank system called the Garden Machine.

  Once on the surface, Julia established large hydroponic trays, then moved on to tests using Martian soil.

  When she'd first heard of the project, she'd been skeptical. But in the large folder of research reports there had been just enough biology to interest her. No one really knew, for example, what the combination of low gravity and low sunlight would do to the plants. Earth-based agronomists had done their best to gene-engineer them for the light levels, about 43 percent of Earth's, but the gravity effect was a virtual unknown. As with centrifugal gravity, the tests simply hadn't been done.

  So Julia's work was cutting-edge research in its own right. As she'd planted her first seeds, she felt a kinship with ancient hunter-gathers, taking the first tentative steps toward agriculture by poking seeds into the still-mysterious ground. Their experiments had culminated by populating an entire world. Maybe hers would do the same.

  Not as exciting as deciphering Mars life, but it was still satisfying. And they could eat the results.

  There was something very calming about being surrounded by green leaves and vines, nodding gently in the endless updraft of the air from the hab. The floor level was distinctly cooler, as she and Viktor had experienced, even though it was set on an insulated pad and Raoul had managed some inductive coil heaters. They had taken advantage of the absence of Raoul and Marc, off on a rover trip, to make love amidst the plants. It had been an exciting, though chilly, experience. It'd always been a big turn-on for her to look over the shoulder of a lover into the foliage of a tree. Viktor joked that it showed she was a real primitive.

  They all went to the greenhouse when they were tired of the endless sunset hues of Mars. Or when they longed to see something alive that wouldn't talk. So she wasn't too surprised when Marc slipped in the quick way they'd engineered, to retain the air.

  She smiled to acknowledge him, then turned back to her plants, prepared to ignore him. Privacy was precious, and they'd adopted the Japanese habit of not intruding on one another's space.

  But Marc wanted to talk. He popped his helmet and parka, and came right over.

  “Got some results you might be interested in.”

  “Oh, what's that?”

  “Did the isotopic dating on the pingo ice core, thought you'd want to know.” He looked expectantly at her.

  “Well, of course I want to know. What'd you find?”

  He grinned slyly. “It's not what I expected.”

  “Too old to date?”

  “Nope.”

  She stopped working, turned to look at him. He was drawing this out on purpose. That was Marc's style when he had something important to say. He let you know by making a little drama out of it. Like the discovery of the pingo water.

  “Do I have to guess or are you going to tell me?”

  “Before I do that, do you remember the scenario I described for Gusev in particular, and Mars in general?”

  “Sure. Basically, you said the planet's engine had died, in fact some time ago. The fossils we found were old, belonging to a long-ago wet and warmer time. The fact that they were in two different levels separated by sediments and volcanic layers meant that there had been another warmer, wetter time. Gusev held a lake at least twice, and that's why we found the fossils inside the crater.”

  “Okay, given that scenario, how old would you expect the ice to be?”

  “Pretty old, maybe a billion years or so.”

  “Not a bad guess.”

  “Is that what you got?”

  “Nope.”

  She was beginning to feel exasperated. “Well, then it isn't a good guess.”

  “No, no, it's a good guess. It's just that my scenario was wrong.”

  “How?”

  “Suppose I told you the ice was young—very young, in fact, for Mars.”

  “How young, or do I have to guess again?”

  “Say, ten million years old.”

  “But that's—”

  “Way young, right.” He rushed on. “Not only that, the ice seems to be all about the same age, within the limits of dating error. So it all came up at once.”

  “Wow. So what's the bottom line?”

  “The planet's not quite dead. There's probably volcanic activity still going on in that big cone, Apollinaris Patera, about two hundred klicks north of here.”

  “Wait a minute, that means—”

  He grinned. “Yep, your vent could be nice and warm down below, probably always has been. A comfy place for life.”

  They were both grinning, like two schoolkids with a common dream.

  They didn't wait for dinner to call up the satellite downloads. As usual there were routine situation analyses—“sit-als”—done Earthside, from the raw data thei
r hab systems shipped out automatically. The satellite web above kept Mission Control in constant touch, which could be a pain. Now that they were in trouble, it was a comfort.

  Marc insisted on going through the sit-als first, but there were no red flags. When every breath you take is brought to you by a complex set of overlapping functions, chemical and hydraulic and electrical, you pay attention to early warning signs.

  Then Marc palmed the console to General Messages and there was Axelrod, as they had hoped. Gray trousers pressed to razor-sharp, blue yachting jacket, yellow shirt, matching gray tie; a color treat. Julia tried to read his mood and failed. Probably pointless, given the face filters.

  “Hope you-all had a good day. Ever'body here's awaiting your update on the repairs. I know it's slow work, but you're the best. I've got every confidence in you.”

  “Quick compliments,” Raoul said, “always a bad sign.”

  “I've been negotiating hot and heavy with Airbus, just like I said I would. Offered them a lot, I got to say. If their nuke is so powerful, you'd figure they could take some of you back, right?” He blinked. “Not that I'm thinkin’ you'll need it, of course. This is just for backup. Only …”

  Unusually, his eyes drifted off camera. “Uh-oh,” Marc said.

  Axelrod's eyes swept back and Julia could tell he was suppressing very real anger, eyebrows pressing toward each other. “They turned me down flat. Just not interested, they said. No deal possible, this Chinese guy says to me, smooth as a swindle.”

  Axelrod had enough sense to sigh, look down at the floor, give them time to absorb this. Julia could feel the rising rage around her, laced with suddenly tightened mouths, downcast eyes.

  “They launched hoping we couldn't fix the ERV,” Marc said. “Damn! They must be celebrating now.”

  “A calculated risk,” Raoul agreed. “Betting against me.”

  “Against us,” Viktor insisted. “We are a team.”

  “Vultures,” said Julia. She could feel her mind racing, searching for an angle, a new plan, a way out.

  Axelrod gazed at them forlornly. “Wouldn't even discuss options. Like talking to a man who holds all the cards. They just smiled and ‘expressed concern’ “—here his eyebrows rose, then crashed down again—”and said they did not want to deal with us at all. At all.”

  “They just brushed us aside?” Julia asked incredulously. All our hopes, our plans, our hard work here … what will it all add up to if we can't get home? She felt a thin tendril of despair.

  Viktor scowled. “Me, if I were Airbus, I would worry about us later. After I am on the ground.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Julia.

  “They must be approaching fast,” Viktor said crisply. “They will be worrying about aerobraking. Their trajectory, if they land soon, maybe two weeks from now, it brings them in with higher delta vee than we had. Maybe seven, eight kilometers per second. That is a lot of energy to burn up.”

  “It's only possible if they're a smaller ship than ours,” said Raoul.

  “They can't have much room on board, then,” Julia said, groaning inwardly.

  “No, this isn't coming from the Airbus crew,” Marc said. “The goddamned suits are calling these shots.”

  “Do they wear suits in China?” Julia asked. “More like uniforms.”

  “Meaning this is essentially decision of government?” Viktor said calmly, plainly trying to keep the discussion focused and professional.

  “Airbus is a collaboration of businesses that might as well be state bureaucracies,” Julia said. “Who knows how they think?”

  “Or if,” Raoul added.

  “Look at it positively,” Julia said, though she certainly wasn't feeling that way. “Maybe they are just counting on Raoul's fixes working, once we get that repair kit they're delivering.”

  Marc said sourly, “Yeah, the hundred-million-dollar kit.”

  “Somehow I don't think that's it,” Raoul said somberly.

  Axelrod had continued speaking through their discussion. The words “… your fuel?” came clearly across as Raoul stopped speaking.

  “Hey,” Julia said. “What's he saying? Are we recording this?”

  “Sure thing,” said Marc, sitting down again. “In fact, this is a recording. The squirt came in while we were doing sit-als.”

  “Back it up. Let's hear what he said about fuel.”

  “Keying search on words ‘at all,’ okay.”

  A brief pause. Axelrod again stared at them from the screen, eyebrows lowered. “At all,” he said. He shook his head in disbelief. “I'd even put the fuel in the ERV on the table to get the discussion going.” His voice lowered. Quietly he said, “Bottom line is, they don't think they need us to win. Now, my info is that their nuke is too small to be carrying fuel for the round-trip. Maybe you have some ideas about what they could use, besides our methane/oxy? I'd love to hear them.” He suddenly looked squarely into the vid pickup. “I have no idea what they're planning, but just to make sure, have you thought about protecting your fuel?”

  A shocked silence descended on the crew.

  Axelrod looked apologetic as he continued. “Now, my lawyers tell me the Law of the Sea defines a derelict as an unmanned vessel, so as long as someone is aboard the ERV it can't be salvaged by someone else.”

  “What's he talking about?” Julia yelled. “Airbus is going to steal our fuel? Oh, God, the man's mad.”

  “Maybe not,” said Viktor amiably. “Why pay when can just take?”

  “That's a ridiculous idea,” said Julia. “What kind of mind would dream up something like that? This isn't ‘Terry and the Pirates,’ this is real life. We know the Airbus crew. They're like us. Astronauts! Civilized people! They don't act like that.”

  “Do, and did,” said Viktor. “Mutinies aboard ships not uncommon in ‘civilized’ British Navy.”

  “I take his point,” said Raoul. “Thirty billion dollars is a lot of money. People have killed for a lot less.”

  Julia looked around. “Marc? Do you agree, too? Am I the only one who thinks this is crazy?”

  Marc shrugged. “I dunno. It seems far-fetched, but there's no harm being prepared. Maybe one of us should sleep in the ERV.”

  He looked at Viktor.

  Viktor shrugged. “We wait until Airbus arrives, or until we get better information about situation.”

  “My repair shop's already there. I can go,” said Raoul.

  “Good. Is settled.” Viktor stood up. “I go cook dinner.”

  That's all it takes, thought Julia sourly. They're blithely preparing for an invasion from Earth! From planetary mission to action film in the space of a few minutes.

  She felt her anger welling up. Out there, just a few tens of meters below the ground, was Mars's greatest secret, and she would never get there at this rate. Not while her crewmates played their ridiculous little boys’ games.

  She stomped her way back to her cabin.

  15

  JANUARY 17, 2018

  THE NEXT DAY SHE GOFERED AGAIN, BUT THERE WASN'T MUCH BUSINESS.

  Raoul spent most of his time in his ERV workshop, carefully fashioning collars around the plumbing he had repaired. A lot of the wrecked metal he had to melt, recast, and rework on a lathe or hot-press foundry. These tools were little miracles of lightweight design, hauled from Earth at his insistence.

  His judgment had paid off in spades. Without these beautifully engineered instruments they would have been doomed from their first day here, unable even to begin repairing the damage the ERV had suffered on its landing. But now Raoul complained, when he was tired and down at the end of every day, about how little he had brought. Every evening he found a new variant on “If I'd just brought a …”

  So Julia gave him—and Viktor, who with his bum ankle labored as well as he could at detail work in the ERV shop—all the help she could. But a machinist she wasn't. After a few mistakes Raoul discouraged them from even coming into the ERV bay where he worked.

  Gett
ing in and out of anything—ERV, habitat, the pressured rover—was so laborious, they kept the “lock-pass-throughs” (a NASA term) to a minimum. And with every one they brought red dust fines into the ERV, even with the two-shower system designed to wash them away.

  So by midmorning she was out of work. She was getting away with a nonprotocol method, running errands for Raoul and Viktor in a skin-suit instead of the bulky, full-pressure lobster shell she should have used. The skinsuits were highly elastic jobs that sealed the wearer up at high enough pressure to work, without using the pressure joints and elaborate infrastructure of the big suits. Of course, even with a battery pack and electrical wiring to heat it, the skinsuit demanded an outer layer of arctic-style jacket and leggings. She felt like the Pillsbury dough boy, but better off than she would in the full pressure, tin can suit.

  And nobody had ever mastered the cycle in a lobster suit, either. She pedaled the tricycle around on her errands, the movements far easier in her skinsuit, and relished the almost nostalgic feel of it.

  Biking on Mars! Even with three balloon tires to keep her gliding over the sand, it felt like a bike ride. Cruising along summer avenues, or cross-country, had been a childhood pleasure. She could not help but cast her mind a mere half year ahead, when she would be biking down to the shimmering beach with her parents, a warm wind sending her hair streaming, Viktor laughing beside her …

  Maybe, she reminded herself sternly.

  After two years, the crew functioned smoothly together, anticipating one another's needs wordlessly. The efficiency of true teamwork bore fruit: now they were ahead of schedule for the next engine test.

  Still, she could not let go of her own itchy ideas. The night before, she had lain beside Viktor in the cool darkness and let her thoughts run. Or rather, spin pointlessly, with no traction to guide them.