Rescue Mode - eARC (41 page)

The latter was better news than the former.

The image of Ted’s personal physician, Pat Church, filled the screen. Normally Church looked cool and confident, but now his lean face was clearly tense, strained.

“Ted’s burns are going to be painful,” he said, utterly professional, “but they don’t look as if there’s going to be any serious risk of infection. From what we can tell, the burns on his face are second degree. The one on his right hand might be a third-degree burn and that’s the one you’ll have to watch. You’re doing the right thing by covering it with gauze and feeding him painkillers. Let him rest and hopefully you’ll be able to uncover his eyes by tomorrow. I wouldn’t let him do much of anything for the next several days. We’ll reassess his need for painkillers then.”

The camera panned to Nathan Brice and another man, with the dark complexion and big liquid eyes of a Hindu, in a white open-necked shirt.

“I am sorry to tell you that I have bad news about the pump,” he began, in a lilting, rhythmic accent. “Dr. Clermont is correct, unfortunately. The problem is clearly with the cracked blade, and sadly your 3D printer cannot make a replacement blade that could survive the harsh environment within the pump.”

McPherson felt his insides go hollow. He glanced at Catherine, who seemed to be holding herself together. Amanda looked . . . angry, almost.

The engineer went on without hesitation. “Those blades are made in a complex process that cannot be duplicated in a 3D printer. There is no way to do it. It is not like making a hammer or a wrench or even a circuit board. Any blade you make with the 3D printer would fly apart once the pump began operating again.”

None of them said a word.

Brice took over again. “Guys, we’ve got our best engineers on this and I’m sure we’ll come up with something, but time is our enemy. You’ve only got, by our best estimate, another hour before the sun sets, and then six hours of battery power. It’s going to get pretty rough out there. I suggest you get into your excursion suits. That’ll give you a few more hours. We’ll be in touch.”

The screen went blank.

Hiram, Catherine and Amanda stared at the screen for at least fifteen seconds after the image of Brice and the Indian engineer vanished.

“That’s it?” Amanda burst. “That’s all they can come up with? That’s bullshit!” She was clearly near her breaking point.

“Take it easy,” McPherson said to her. “You and Catherine get into your suits, then come back here with Ted’s and help me get him into it.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll get into mine after we’ve got Ted buttoned up.”

“But—”

“Don’t waste time arguing,” McPherson said tightly. “I’m going to power down everything we don’t absolutely need to get through the night. We might need some of whatever power remains to pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

“If Houston can find us a rabbit,” Catherine muttered.

“Or a hat,” groused Amanda.

Twenty minutes later they were all in their excursion suits. Connover was lying inert in his hammock and McPherson had powered down the life-support system. All that remained on full power was the communications system, which they needed to get any bright ideas that Houston might cook up to enable them to survive the night.

Hi looked fondly at Catherine and realized how beautiful she was, even with the bulky suit hiding her curves. This was his wife, and he felt the responsibility of doing all that he could to take care of her and save her life. He was looking forward to being a father someday and this was the woman he wanted to be the mother of his children.

He reached out and clasped her gloved hand.

Catherine looked up at him smiled through the visor of her helmet. “We’ll get through this,” she murmured.

Waiting was the hardest part. For the better part of an hour, Hiram, Catherine, and Amanda moved aimlessly about the compartment, which seemed to grow colder with each passing second. Occasionally one of them would look out the window at the darkening Martian plain. Nothing out there but sand and rocks, and stars dotting the sky. One of those dots was Earth, McPherson told himself. A pale blue dot, so far away.

He trudged into the workshop area, where the pump stood on the workbench, useless. Then he came back into the central area. Nothing had changed, except the thermometer. They were on a countdown clock, but the time seemed to be crawling by interminably slowly. He looked at Ted, still in a drug-induced sleep, and wondered if they should all inject themselves with narcotics when their life expectancies could be measured in minutes. More peaceful way to go, he thought. Suffocating inside a spacesuit was not his idea of a good time.

December 19, 2035

21:48 Universal Time

Mars Landing Plus 44 Days

Fermi
Habitat

When the communications system chimed, McPherson was dozing, drifting in that halfway place between true sleep and daydreaming reverie as, encased in his excursion suit, he sat in the command chair.

His eyes snapped open and he automatically activated the comm link on his suit so that he could hear the incoming message without removing his helmet. Half turning in the seat, he saw Catherine and Amanda doing the same.

Now for the news from Houston, he thought, hoping that it wasn’t some sort of last rites.

Brice’s face looked stubbled, his hair mussed, but he was smiling.

“One of our engineers has an idea that’s worth trying,” he said, with an eagerness in his voice. “You ever hear of a Tesla Turbine? It’s a simple pump that Nikola Tesla built back in—” He glanced over his shoulder and Hi heard a muffled voice.

“Yeah, right,” Brice resumed. “Nineteen-thirteen. It’s a pump that doesn’t have any blades. Rotating disks literally drag liquids using the boundry layer effect. The specs for those discs, are well within the tolerances of what your 3D printer can do. Tesla originally designed it with geothermal energy in mind: you know, geysers. It’s relatively simple and you should be able to cannibalize parts from the broken pump and use its outer housing. We’re uploading plans so you can feed it to your 3D printer and get started.”

Brice motioned for someone else to come on camera, and a young, soft-looking kid with long blond hair, pop eyes and a quizzical smile on his round face came up beside him, holding what looked like a replica of their broken pump. One of its access covers had been removed so that Hi could see its innards.

“Okay,” Brice resumed, “as you can see, the Tesla Turbine will mostly replace what’s inside the pump’s current housing. We’re not going to ask you to build a full, high-capacity pump in the few hours you’ve got remaining. But you can build one that runs at fifty percent capacity and get it installed, if you hurry. Once it’s in place, we can work with you to build a more capable pump. With luck, you can get back up to seventy percent power. Not the best, but good enough to survive.”

The younger engineer carried the pump back off-camera as Brice leaned in closer.

“Given the communications lag, we won’t have time to answer specific questions that might come up as you build the turbine. So we’ve got three separate teams making replacement pumps using the same equipment you have. As they uncover problems or process improvements, we’ll just shoot the information straight to you.”

McPherson glanced at the computer screen and saw that it had indeed received the drawings and instructions for the 3D printer. He motioned Amanda and Catherine to get busy, then noted that the habitat had only about four more hours of battery power.

It was well past midnight when McPherson and Amanda toted their newly constructed pump to the idle reactor. Even in the gentle Martian gravity it had been a chore, especially since they had to walk slowly and avoid stumbling in the dark.

“Just a stroll in the starlight,” Amanda said, puffing slightly, as they rested the pump on the ground.

McPherson thought it might indeed be romantic to take a starlit stroll with Catherine. But not until they got the reactor working again.

“No moonlight on Mars,” Amanda added, disparagingly. “The planet’s got two fucking moons and neither one of them is big enough to shed any light on us.”

“But the view of Earth is tremendous,” McPherson replied, trying to sound positive.

They had almost depleted the habitat’s battery power by running the 3D printer and keeping the lights on as they worked. Now, on the dark Martian plain, they worked by the blue-white light of their helmet LED’s to install the renovated pump back in its place. They hardly spoke at all, grunting with exertion as they worked. McPherson even began to sweat inside his thermally-insulated suit. Better than freezing, he told himself, knowing that just outside the fabric of his suit, the thin Martian air was close to one hundred degrees below zero.

As he replaced the pump’s last mounting bolt, he spoke into his helmet microphone.

“Catherine, restart the system and bring her up to five percent power. Let’s go slow and see if this thing really works.”

Catherine’s voice replied, “You and Amanda need to get away from the reactor, Hi. Once it starts up the radiation level will climb.”

“We won’t be here long. I just need to replace the outer panel so dust won’t get inside and muck up things even more. We can’t afford to have anything else go wrong.”

“But the radiation . . .”

“We need to get the heat back in the habitat, and get the air circulating again. Start her up. Now!”

McPherson knew that their suits were down to their final half-hour of oxygen, and it would take most of that time to walk back to the habitat. But he had to make certain that the pump would work properly. A slight dose of radiation was a price he was willing to pay, to make sure that their jury-rigged repair would do the job.

Still, he jerked a gloved thumb at Amanda. “You start back, kid. I’ve got it from here.”

“No way,” she said, defiantly. “I’m staying with you in case we need to pull that contraption out of there again. It’s too bulky for you to manhandle it by yourself.”

He knew she was right. “Okay. But let’s step back a ways before Catherine fires her up. I’m not a big fan of gamma rays and stray neutrons. I feel like I should be wearing lead-lined underwear.”

With a smirk in her voice Amanda rejoined, “I’m sure Catherine will be more than happy to check out your functionality once we get this behind us.”

Hiram fell speechless. If Amanda was trying to put him at his ease she’d failed miserably.

They backed off about twenty feet, probably not enough to make much difference, but it made them feel better. McPherson stared at the reactor, looking for some sign that it was functioning. But all it did was sit there, gleaming faintly in the light from the stars.

Then Catherine’s voice in his helmet speakers, sounding excited: “Hi, we’re at five percent power and all the indicators are showing green. The pump appears to be working!”

He let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I’m ramping up to ten percent,” Catherine continued. “You two should start back. There’s not yet enough power to turn the heat back on, but I’m starting the air circulation fans. The air in here should be breathable by the time you get back. Cold, but breathable. Like Antarctica. Amanda, you should feel at home.”

Grinning inside his helmet, McPherson gestured for Amanda to start back.

“Not without you,” she said.

“Ramp it up, Catherine,” he called. “We’ll stay here until you get to the ten percent level without problems.”

“I’m throttling it up, but I want you back here with me. Don’t be stubborn. If you don’t start now, you might not have enough air in your suits to make it, and I refuse to spend the next year or more without you.”

Grinning to himself, McPherson said softly, “Just tell us when you’re at ten percent.”

Another minute passed—slowly. Then Catherine announced, “Ten percent! Now get back here!”

December 20, 2035

01:00 Universal Time

Mars Landing Plus 45 Days

New York City

It was eight p.m. in Manhattan, and Steven Treadway was desperately trying to piece together all the information that was coming in from the Johnson Space Center in Houston and NASA Headquarters in Washington D.C.

Standing in one corner of the big news desk set, away from the lights and cameras focused on the man and woman at the anchor spots on the other side of the cavernous room, Treadway scanned a report fresh from the computer while listening to the high-speed chatter of Houston’s public affairs director in his ear bud.

He nodded as the assistant floor director hurried up to him and held up three fingers.
Three minutes,
Treadway understood.
No time to write anything for the teleprompter. I’m going to have to wing it.

The makeup woman dabbed his face with a miniature brush, and his two assistants backed away from him. Treadway stepped to his spot in front of the blank green screen as the male anchorperson said in his crack-of-doom voice:

“There’s been more trouble at the
Fermi
habitat on Mars, where four men and women are struggling to survive in that bitter, hostile environment. Steven Treadway has the latest.”

Treadway was suddenly bathed in light. A glance at the TV monitor showed that he appeared to be standing in front of the
Fermi
habitat, alone and alien-looking on the plain of Elysium.

“Yes, Roger,” he said, keeping his face solemn, “astronaut Ted Connover was seriously injured when the nuclear reactor that provides much of the Mars habitat’s electrical power suffered a shutdown a few hours ago.”

Treadway gave a sketchy account of the reactor problem, then went into the ugly details about Connover’s burns.

“But,” he went on, breaking into a tentative smile, “Connover’s competent teammates have repaired the reactor and doctored the astronaut.”

For another two minutes, Treadway outlined what had happened, stressing that there was no leak of radioactivity and Connover’s burns were expected to heal in a week or so. When the floor director signaled he had thirty seconds remaining before they cut to a commercial, Treadway looked directly into the camera and spoke extemporaneously: