The Rhine Page 6

  She stared back at them with wide brown eyes, red rimmed and unfocused. Her head jerked back and forth and she was mumbling something, but they couldn't hear it through their helmets.

  "We've got to get her out of here," Mat said and shoved the pistol in his holster. "How can she even be alive?"

  Haydon reached in with one hand to help Mat pull her out, and she started fighting. Haydon cursed as she jerked free of his grasp, now she was yelling in terror. "There's air in here, but it's thin ... she's probably delusional."

  "She's scared out of her mind," Mat said and tried to wrestle with the woman in zero-g in the middle of the corridor.

  "What's going on?" That was Yuri.

  The woman twisted lose again, shoving both her knees into Mat's gut and sending pain through his chest that the painkillers couldn't manage. She was gasping now.

  "Yuri, we've found someone, I don't have time to explain. What's the oxygen like in the vestibule?"

  "Zero," came the reply.

  The tug's thrust shifted again, throwing all three of them to the bulkhead and pinning them there for almost a minute. A reminder that they were on a timetable. When the tug leveled out again the woman wasn't moving. But Mat swore he saw her try to say something, her lips quivered.

  "Help me cut her loose," he said and started fishing in one of his suit pockets.

  "No," Haydon said. "It's faster this way, and if she wakes up and starts fighting again ... grab the duffel." Then he grabbed her arm and pushed off the bulkhead. As Haydon lined out, moving the woman toward the access tube, Mat grabbed the duffel along with the laundry bag and followed.

  Mat had seen bruises on the woman’s arms, and she was likely to have more from Haydon hurriedly shoving her unmoving body down the access tube. He wasn't deliberately trying to hurt her, it was a matter of time. The tug was dying. When that thruster gave out it would no longer be able to sustain a level flight, then the gravity would shift wildly and it would start tumbling. It was a matter of physics.

  When they made it to the starboard airlock corridor Mat said, "We have to get her in a vac-suit ..."

  "No time for that, boss," Haydon said. Beside the airlock he let her drift, and yanked open the door to another locker in the bulkhead and pulled out an emergency oxygen mask and bottle. He pulled the mask over her head and shoved the bottle between her chest and taped wrists.

  There was a deep groaning sound now, it was the tug. The sound was distorted by the thin air and the helmets, but Mat knew something was breaking loose. The airlock hatch began to visibly vibrate and Mat could feel the pull of false gravity.

  "The vestibule won't stay attached much longer," Yuri was yelling now.

  Haydon opened the hatch and shoved the woman inside and followed, "Let's go boss!"

  Something tore loose in Mat's mind ... or maybe in his heart ... seeing the woman in the oxygen mask and filthy clothes. The bruises ... he snapped out of it and shoved hard toward the hatchway. Haydon caught him and pushed him to the side, then closed the airlock.

  It took twenty seconds to cycle ... twenty seconds that Mat was face to face with the woman. His eyes were as wide as hers had been when they found her. The light turned color and he opened the exterior hatch. He had to do this fast, for her sake. He grabbed her in his arms and shoved hard against the outer lip of the hatchway. The inside of her mask turned white with frost. Ice formed at the edges of her eyes, tears freezing.

  My God, my God, was all Mat could think.

  Ahead the Sadie's exterior door opened. Yuri was watching!

  "Almost there, boss."

  The vestibule was bending, starting to twist. Then he was in the airlock, Haydon slamming him in the back and the woman crushed up against the interior hatch of the airlock by his own body. He struggled to give her some space, turning he saw the exterior hatch began to close as the vestibule bent and sagged.

  "We made it," Haydon said and the airlock began to cycle.

  7 - Shultz

  Gerhard Shultz, the third governor of Mars, stared out of the bay windows of his office high-rise buried five hundred meters beneath Acidalia Planitia in Capital Burrow. The burrows were a collection of tunnels linked to sealed caverns, and to some they were a miracle of engineering and science that allowed humanity to inhabit a dead world. But for Shultz, the spread of the dome-like cavern city below and the arching walls of meters thick concrete and carbon nanotube reinforcement were mundane. Fifty-three years ago Shultz was born on the first colony ship to Mars, and excepting for the occasional state visit to the UN Complex in Paris, on Earth, this was all he had ever known. He considered himself to have been a Martian before there was such a thing.

  Watching the small figures walk across the plaza below Shultz could concede that a lot was learned from the construction of the domes on the Moon, the burrows were a direct result of that hard earned experience and education— building underground was better and safer— but in the end what he was looking at was a concrete jungle, not the cool, green hills of Earth.

  He wanted that for Mars ... those green hills, oceans, and the forests written about in fantasy books.

  But the reality was that the UN wasn't going to let him have that— a better Mars. It was just too profitable to keep Mars as it was. And unless something changed he would go down in history as a political hopeful that once again could do nothing for his people. Not the legacy he wanted.

  To make matters more delicate, Shultz's election as governor was without the UN Council's consensus— the first in Martian history. The UN charter granted the colony certain autonomy that included the democratic process of selecting state officials ... with the Council's approval. With the rising criticism of the Council's heavy hand in economic deals with the colony— namely the embargo of raw ore which forced Martians to purchase ready made goods from Earth companies— and faced with the grass roots movement known as Free Mars Now, as a show of goodwill the Council passed on its participation in the last general elections. Meaning, that Shultz was placed on high strictly by the people. Thus, he could not be called a UN puppet. Thus, if he failed in his duties it was all on him.

  All on me. Well, there was Jung too. Shultz couldn't pull this job off without him, but in the end he was the man.

  His desk sounded and he turned to check it. "Yes, Patty?"

  "The Lieutenant Governor is here."

  "Send him in. Oh, and Patty, bring some coffee."

  "Yes, sir."

  The door opened and the solid, stocky figure of William Jung walked in. He was a few years younger than Shultz but there was some graying at the temples of his jet black hair. The man had been with him since the beginning. Twenty years ago they met for the first time through a mutual friend and quickly found that they shared the same ideology— the same will. Jung had been associated with Shultz's political career in one form or another since that day. He was not a man of great physical expression, but today Shultz clearly saw displeasure etched across his Asian features.

  "Morning, Bill," Shultz said, pointing to the sofa and chairs in front of his desk. "Patty's bringing coffee." As they sat he continued. "I thought you were taking the kids to the park today?" In fact, he was dressed for it: loafers, tan slacks, a white, casual shirt, and a thin sweater. Not his normal office attire. Jung was impeccable and always dressed to fit the occasion.

  Jung was about to speak but the door opened again and Shultz's slim, all business administrative assistant came in carrying a tray with a coffee kettle and two cups. Patty was one of a growing number of colonists that refused to keep track of their age by an Earth Calendar. She was a Martian ... so that would make her almost eighteen. A faint smile crept across Shultz's face as he watched her pour the coffee. Today's young people did crazy things to assert their non-conformity.

  "Thank you, Patty," he said as she set the kettle down and walked out. Turning to Jung he asked, "So, what's up?"

  "Saddler called. The UN Council will deny the petition for the water mining plant."


  Shultz nodded and took a sip of his coffee, then said, "They're denying our petitions before they officially meet to discuss them." Then he smiled and added, "I think they're on to us."

  "It's Modi," Jung said, flat. "The wind blows the way he points."

  Jung was right, of course. The Secretary-General had that kind of clout, sort of like an ancient Roman emperor— thumbs up or thumbs down— the crowd followed suit. If Saddler called to say the petition for the new plant would be denied, he was saying it was denied. Modi had said 'no' and bringing the petition to the Council was just a formality— i.e. annoyance.

  "Think he'll go for expanding the terraforming research next year?" Shultz asked. It was his baby—the legacy that he wanted to leave when he vacated the big chair— and he had slated the discussion for the formal biennial meeting in Paris next fall. This way he could bring a committee with him and not just file a three hundred page petition on the commlink to the UN Complex and not have it sent back to him because of tittles.

  "Yes," Jung said. "He will applaud the idea, knowing we cannot start it without funds, rare ore, and refineries. Of which he will never allow us to have."

  Shultz frowned. It was just the truth. Modi squeezed Mars for every dime he could get ... making sure 'big business' on Earth prospered, and he remained in office.

  "What do you think? You still behind me on this, or should we just throw in the towel?"

  "I think that in fifty years, when the colonial lease is up, the UN will still find a way to hold on to Mars. But, you and me won't be around then, so we need to make an impact now, and set things in place for the next men that get this office."

  They sipped their coffee in silence for a few minutes, then Jung asked, "Why do you continue to submit petitions for new plants and factories? They will never go through."

  That wasn't strictly true. Anything that didn't promote Martian independence or limit Modi's cash flow had a fifty-fifty chance of passing. Things like burrow ordinances and recycling regulations.

  "Because," Shultz started. "It's submitting useless petitions that keeps me in office. It's something the people can see. It says I'm trying. And as long as I'm in office we can attend to the real work that the people can't see." Freeing Mars. It was the only reason he worked so hard to get in office. Nothing else mattered.

  He poured himself another cup from the kettle and asked, "Speaking of the 'real work', how is that going?"

  "They have their next target. It's set for tonight," Jung told him.

  "Nothing vital, I hope. We can't afford another disaster like that." Last month an entire warehouse of emergency supplies was destroyed ... oxygen plants, portable airlocks, a mobile medbay. On the whole it had been a simple bureaucratic delay that caused it; merchandise and equipment that was supposed to be shipped out the day prior didn't go, and so was blown to bits. It was an accident, pure and simple, but still he had to remind Jung about it.

  Jung frowned, minutely— the smallest of downward turn of the sides of his mouth. "No. That mistake won't happen again. Our intel is better."

  Shultz grunted, then asked, "So, what is it?"

  "Luxury goods. Clothing."

  He eyed the dark liquid in his coffee cup. Luxury goods. Well, he supposed the sacrifice was his to make.

  "Were you aware that Greg Stockerman came to see me?" Jung suddenly asked.

  No. He wasn't. Stockerman was Reinhardt's right hand man at Apex Mining. Shultz was immediately interested. It was no secret that Apex had been making noise about selling raw ore to Mars ... something he himself wanted desperately. So far Modi had resisted all attempts at lifting the embargo, but it was nice to know that they had something like a friend on Earth ... even a greedy one.

  "Oh, what did he want?"

  "He said Mars' future is looking brighter, then asked me to put him in contact with someone that could blow something up."

  8 - Eric

  "Five minutes," Weng said through the open commlink from the rover's pilot cabin.

  Eric Prator, along with the rest of his team, slipped their vac-suit helmets into place. Green letters scrolled across the HUD, reporting on the seals, power, and oxygen flow.

  The rear cabin of the rover was little more than a metal box with benches welded to the floor. There were no windows, so it made it seem as though the five men and women that sat with Eric were all staring at one another while they were really watching the green letters.

  When the rover jerked and bounced and they all bucked in their straps Eric admitted to himself, again, that Weng was not the one that should be driving. Oh well, he thought. In this job you can't always get the right person in the right seat. Besides, they had made it this far— if a bit rattled and bruised. Jeffery, the big guy across from him that had been with his cell for just over a year now, started yelling at Weng across the channel.

  Weng responded with something rude in Vietnamese.

  As the minutes began to draw out Eric thought about linking with the regional weather satellite to get the big view of the area, just to make sure there were no other lights out there other than the target's and his little rover. But no, he didn't want to risk the signal being picked up by UNSEC scans. The chance was remote this far out from any major burrows, but still a possibility. It was just that he was starting to appreciate the length and breadth of the new access codes, and it was tempting to use them even when he didn't necessarily have to.

  The rover slid to a stop, jerking everyone with it.

  Eric didn't need Weng's cue over the commlink, he and everyone else unbuckled and stood. Eric was in the rear of the cabin— always, so he would be the first out— so he tapped the control pad by the hatch and waited while the oxygen drained from the cabin. A warning popped up on his HUD, announcing the loss of pressure and oxygen. He killed it. Twenty seconds passed and the control pad changed color, he tapped it again and when the hatched opened he hoped down on to the sands of the Sytinskaya region.

  The helmet face shield rendered the landscape in tones of gray under the Martian night. Off to the north was the actual crater this area was named after, thin lines of yellow appearing on the HUD highlighting its leading edge. Eric turned to the west, the direction of their target, and the HUD immediately found the faint glow of the dome, almost three kilometers away. Again he turned, watching his team file out of the rover and spread out from the hatch. He smiled. The assault armor over their vac-suits, the rifles, and the amazing helmets— all the latest and greatest. Their benefactor's money and equipment made them real terrorists, not campus activists and vandals. The military training and intel that followed made them a real resistance. Two years ago Eric was arrested for participating in a violent protest, and it had been the best thing to ever happen for the Free Mars Now movement. That day local police had gassed them, beat them, and he was shoved along with several others into the back of a police van. It was easy to guess what came next, except, he didn't make it to the police station.

  "Alright," he said in to the helmet's mic. "Let's get to it." And almost as one they began jogging west across sands, the headlamps from their helmets bobbing in the darkness as they went.

  Ahead, the dome that served as a warehouse for Sol-X grew from a faint arch of light to a curved bubble. It was a little grainy but Eric thought he could even see individual lights shining through the dome's outer surface. It was just the maintenance lights, solar powered, and left on for no other reason than to mark the footprint of humanity on a world hostile to human life.

  Sixty years ago the dome was part of Settlement Base, the strategic center for the colonization of Mars. It housed scientists, engineers, served as a drop-off point for equipment, that sort of thing. Then, as the years passed and the burrows were dug in better suited locations the dome fell in to disuse. Technically it was still owned by the UN, and Eric wasn't sure how Sol-X ended up housing their merchandise there. But according to his benefactor's intelligence, that's exactly what it was being used for now. It was stuffed from floor to ceiling
with clothing, toys, electronic gadgets, and the like. Nothing critical to Martian survival, but a whole lot of money for Sol-X. Of course, as of today it was standard operating procedure to check that first, before actually blowing anything up. It was what William Jung— the man he was taken to meet two years ago instead of the police station— wanted. And Jung was someone Eric deeply appreciated. It was going to take men like him to free Mars from the UN's strangle hold. So, he himself would check what was inside the dome before blowing it up. After what happened in the last op ... destroying all that emergency equipment ... it was a sound policy.

  "Check five," Eric said, for Weng's benefit.

  "All quiet," came the response. "No signals, no movement."

  Weng was monitoring radio traffic and the sky for drones. The UNSEC armor and equipment that they were given was good, it could pick up dozens of frequencies across the EM spectrum, and enhance their vision, but the rover simply had more power to pump into its scanners. Eric didn't mind taking risks, but he had no wish to be caught flat footed. Hopefully what Weng was doing would give them a little more warning if things suddenly turned south.

  Eric was starting to feel the effects of running across shifting sand. During the early days of the movement the people in his cell were mostly the academic types, except for the occasional jock or health nut they exercised their brain more than their bodies, but since Jung offered them a shot at something real they had regular physical training. Nevertheless, the sand was making it difficult for all of them, not just him. Well, except for Jeffery. In addition to the armor and his rifle, he was carrying a pistol, a sawed-off shotgun, and knife with a thirty centimeter blade— Eric had forbidden him taking the bandolier of plasma grenades— and according to his HUD the man's heart rate wasn't even elevated.

  They were half way to the target when all six of their HUDs marked a trough buried beneath the sand and dust. This was why the rover couldn't risk getting closer to the dome from an approach across the dunes. The dome itself sat on a large, flat shelf of bedrock surrounded by giant ditches that were carved out of the surface of the plain over thousands of years and then filled in with loose sand— time and time again. Eric's team could cross them on foot, but the rover was too heavy. There was a single road going in, coming up from the south, but when this op was planned taking it had never been on the table because of the risk of being monitored.