The Season Of Passage Part 19

Lauren whirled, bringing her laser to bear. Someone had spoken at her back, she could have sworn they had. But her beam of light said there was no one there. She was getting spooked, she thought. She had to relax. She tried taking deep breaths, but they just made her feel lightheaded. Shaking, she moved to enter the control room. However, as she turned, a second glob of gook splashed her faceplate, almost cutting off her vision. Again she wiped with her hands. But this stuff did not come off easily. It was wet and sticky.

It was sticky and dark.

At the back of her mind, a warning bell went off.

'Jim!' Lauren cried in horror.

Her helmet was covered with blood.

Lauren pushed instinctively back, trying to escape. Of course the blood followed her; it was stuck to her helmet. She lost her balance and went into a spin. Her leg smacked a second floating puddle, a much larger one, and suddenly the room was filled with b.l.o.o.d.y spray. The strength went out of her. She dropped her laser, her flashlight. Voices screamed in her head. They screamed for her love.

'Help,' she moaned weakly. 'Please help me.'

She toppled in mad circles, going from no place to nowhere. Nausea swelled in her stomach as her last meal pushed up her throat. Quickly she clamped down on her guts. She knew if she vomited, she would have to pull off her helmet, and then she would have to breathe Carl's air, and drink his blood.

Finally her hand latched onto something solid, and she was able to stop her mad spin. She caught sight of her flashlight; it circled above her head like a broken siren, warning of an emergency that was two years over with. Moments later she had the light in hand. She had almost caught her breath, and was on the verge of responding to the frantic calls of her companions, when things went bad again, so bad it almost cracked her mind in two pieces.

No, no, no, Jesus. Take it away!

Hanging in s.p.a.ce, only inches from her face, was a disembodied eye. A single eye that had been gouged from its socket. It trailed wisps of red muscle and nerves. It sported a pupil that was so dilated it could have been an open window into a h.e.l.l of despair. Naturally, it was staring at her. It liked her. It floated a little closer to have a better look at her. Such a pretty girl, with such warm blood in her veins.

Lauren tried to move away, but her body was like a rubber band that had snapped, and no longer worked. She was in a dream, running from the unseen monster that was getting closer and closer. She was in the nightmare of all nightmares, where the Martians partied on goblets of red wine. A toast to Lori, they said. May her veins fill our gla.s.ses soon.

Soon, Lori.

In what was left of her mind, Lauren realized her doom was certain. The eye had seen her; it knew where to find her. Voices screamed in her headset. They spoke in Russian. They spoke of love. But she was not through for the night, oh no. There was one more ride to go on. It was sure to please.

Bad things always came from bad things. It made sense that the eye had come from somewhere. Lauren b.u.mped into something soft and giving.

Carl Bensk was strapped tightly in his chair, his pale hands locked in a painful clench, his hollow eye sockets holes into madness. Someone had sliced open his neck with a broken piece of mirror, revealing his carotid artery and a mess of gross tissue. The someone had undoubtedly been Carl himself. The piece of cracked mirror was still jammed in his flesh, as if death had come too swiftly for him to remove it. Yet Lauren didn't really believe that. She knew Carl's end had not come quickly, or easily. Engraved in his face were hard lines of insanity. It was as if he had witnessed a horror so unimaginable and overwhelming that even death had been unable to erase the memory.

Yes, Lori, it was bad. It was so bad it got to be good.

Carl was happy now, though. He was very happy. His obscene grin was ample testament to the secret knowledge that had come to him at the expense of his wonderful experience. But what a small expense it was. A scratched throat, a little lost blood. It was nothing to cry about, not when you didn't have any eyes. Carl wanted her to know all about it. He was willing to explain. Yes, Lori, come into my arms, and I will nibble on your ear, and whisper to you stories of love and hate. Of a sweetness so fine that your blood will boil with l.u.s.t. Come Lori. Touch me. Lick me. Suck my wound. Make me come alive.

Lauren vomited, and barely caught the vomit in her mouth. She closed her eyes and tried to swallow, and block out what she was seeing. But Carl continued to watch her, with eyes that pierced through all of s.p.a.ce and time, and left her no place to hide.

Love me, Lori. I am not evil.

EIGHTEEN.

Mission Control was an orchestra of tension. Red lights were flas.h.i.+ng, angry people were shouting, and the stink of perspiration was as thick as in a shower room after a Super Bowl. Just outside the main room, Terry paced nervously. Lauren was supposed to land on Mars for the second time in two minutes. But there was a problem. On account of the thick clouds wrapping Olympus Mons, Gary had overshot their destination, which just happened to be the only plateau around for two hundred miles. At present they were backtracking, consuming valuable fuel. Commander Brent was screaming at Gary to set down. But Gary couldn't find the right place.

'I don't see the Russians,' Gary said. 'Where are those Russians? Where is that d.a.m.n place?'

[Horizontal vector - 80 miles per hour.]

'Friend, how long to the Russian landers?' Commander Brent asked.

[Sixty-one seconds, Bill. Fifty-nine seconds.]

'We can't do it,' Commander Brent said. 'Come in on the far side of that wall, Major.'

'No good,' Gary said. 'Too rough. We could topple. A minute more.'

[Horizontal vector - 81 miles per hour.]

'We must take the chance, Gary,' Commander Brent said. 'Go down!'

Terry closed his eyes and tried to pray, but only ended up swearing at G.o.d to help them. Only four days ago a sandstorm of unexpected fury had arisen in the Utopia Planitia region and almost buried the expedition. Then the docking with the orbiting Gorbachev had followed, which had been even more nerve-wracking, what with the cloak of secrecy NASA had thrown over it. Despite promises to the contrary, the rendezvous had not been broadcast live. Terry knew from experience that the delayed transmission the public received had been doctored. The docking had gone just fine, according to the brave astronauts. Yet their voices and that included Gary and Jim, as well as Commander Brent - sounded awfully shaken after visiting the Gorbachev. Plus they couldn't hide the fact that Carl Bensk was dead. The word was that his s.h.i.+p had suffered an internal explosion and lost all its air. Sure, Terry thought. He had received a private taped message from Lauren after the rendezvous and she had been white as a ghost. She hadn't said a word about Carl or the Gorbachev, only asked about Jennifer. I wish I could hear her voice, Terry. Where is she?

Jennifer did not answer the phone at his cabin. She was not at Daniel's. They said she was 'out.'

'We are caught!' Gary cried from two hundred million miles away. 'The ground's caving in! Curse this b.a.s.t.a.r.d planet!'

A black hand of despair squeezed down on Terry's heart, its folds tipped with sharp silver nails. He fell into a chair. The message was twenty minutes old. Lauren could be dead already.

'Full power!' Commander Brent called. 'Blast us out of here!'

'Wait!' Gary said. 'I've got to...' The radio went dead.

'What happened?' Dean Ramsey, head of NASA, shouted. 'We've lost communications,' someone said.

Like a pebble on a lake they skimmed on the Martian atmosphere, racing at three thousand miles an hour. In front loomed Olympus Mons, three times as high as Everest, its ma.s.sive caldera barreling above the clouds, waiting to swallow them. It was evening. They had chosen that time because the clouds that wreathed Olympus Mons formed in the morning. But even this late in the day the clouds remained, blocking their vision. Mark had said they could sit in orbit a month and still face the clouds. They were taking a chance. They wanted to be done with their program and get the h.e.l.l away from Mars. Carl had shot their morale. Even stoic Bill had seemed shocked after visiting the Gorbachev. Why had Carl committed suicide? After studying the log tapes, all Jim would say was that when a person gouged out his eyes, he was usually trying to go blind. Yes, Jim, but why?

Outside the porthole on Lauren's right, it looked as if they were going to ram the tip of Olympus Mons. However, only moments later, their aerodynamic lift decreased as their speed was reduced by building friction. They began to fall again, into whirling clouds. The mountain vanished and the Hawk shook as trillions of ice crystals splintered against her hull. Gary opened their parachute and ejected their reinstalled heat s.h.i.+eld. They fell and fell. Finally, the ground appeared.

'Oh, no,' Gary moaned.

'Alt.i.tude, Friend?' Bill asked. He looked at Gary.

[6,052 feet, Bill.]

'What's the matter?' Lauren asked. They could have been flying over the Himalayas, only the scale was grander, the color different. Mars was usually more orange than red. Yet, to her eyes, it was looking more red all the time. She'd washed Carl's blood off her pressure suit all by herself.

'We have overshot ourselves,' Bill said.

'The cloud decreased our vertical vector far more than we antic.i.p.ated,' Gary said. 'We bounced too far.' He activated the Hawk's main engines and jettisoned the parachutes.

[4,501 feet.]

'What are you going to do?' Lauren asked.

'Waste our fuel,' Bill said.

Gary shrugged. 'We can't land here. We'll have to angle back to the Russian plateau.'

'How far off are we?' Jim asked.

'Eighty miles,' Gary growled, studying the terrain below.

'Are we in danger, William?' Jessica asked.

'Extreme,' her husband said flatly.

Five minutes and many miles later, Gary said, 'I don't see the Russians. Where are those Russians? Where is that d.a.m.n place?'

[Horizontal vector - 80 miles per hour.]

'Friend, how long to the Russian landers?' Bill asked.

[Sixty-one seconds, Bill. Fifty-nine seconds.]

'We can't do it,' Bill said. 'Come in on the far side of that wall, Major.'

'No good,' Gary said. 'Too rough. We could topple. A minute more.'

[Horizontal vector- 81 miles per hour.]

'We must take the chance, Gary,' Bill insisted. 'Go down.'

Their fuel gauges were sinking.

'Where for Christ's sake?' Gary asked.

'Aim for that ridge,' Bill said. 'If we do not land in twenty seconds we will be trapped here forever.'

Gary shook his head. 'Too uneven.'

[273 feet. 250 feet. 200 feet.]

'What does that matter now?' Bill asked. 'Just do it, Gary!'

[108 feet. 50 feet. 18 feet.]

They settled toward the edge of a cliff. Down. Down.

'To the right,' Bill barked.

'You said the ridge!' Gary yelled.

'To the right!' Bill said: 'We are caught!' Gary screamed. 'The ground's caving in! Curse this b.a.s.t.a.r.d planet!'

'Full power!' Bill shouted. 'Blast us out of here!'

Wait!' Gary said. 'I've got to..:'

Something exploded in the lower decks.

'Go up!' Bill ordered.

'I've got to straighten her!' Gary said.

Love you, Jenny, Lauren thought. She closed her eyes. A second wrenching jolt kicked her through the seat. The Hawk was skidding on her landing pads, down an icy slope, her auxiliary thrusters barely keeping them from toppling. Apparently the moment they had contacted the surface, the ground had given way. Bill wanted to use their main engines to throw them back into s.p.a.ce. But Gary was trying to straighten the Hawk first.

Suddenly the crumbling ground slipped away, and they were falling like a huge boulder into a steep valley. Lauren's eyes popped open. Gary reacted instantly. He tilted the nose of the Hawk skyward and brought their main rockets to full power. Lauren was flattened back into her chair.

[100 feet. 200 feet. 850 feet.]

But rather than continuing their upward ascent, Gary eased up on the rockets, which allowed them to hover for a moment while he glanced out the window. For an instant, watching Gary's face, Lauren thought time could have been suspended. His expression contained so many emotions at one time: confusion, revulsion, desire. Then decision locked on his face, a certainty so sudden it could have been thrust upon him from the outside. Once again they started down. Snow whipped at their hot windows and vaporized into steam. A hard thud shook the floor of their craft, and then a soft sigh seemed to echo through the control room. They were down, and the ground was firm.

[Touchdown.]

'We are down, Mark,' Bill said.

There was no response.

'Mark? Mark?' Nothing. 'Damages, Friend?' Bill asked.

[Generators A and C have failed, Bill. Communications are out. The bas.e.m.e.nt is ruptured and open to the Martian environment. The laboratory is severely damaged. I am suffering minor power fluctuations.]

'Is deck two still sealed?' Bill asked.

[Yes, Bill.]

'Is our loss of communications due to the failure of the two generators?'

[Yes, Bill.]

'Why don't you go to backup?'

[I am unable to, Bill - possibly because of my own damage.]

'They'll think we exploded,' Jim said.

'I'm surprised we didn't,' Bill muttered.

Gary's face flushed inside his helmet. He exploded. 'You're the one who wanted me to set down on that foam-rubber ridge! And if I'd fired the main engines when you said, we'd have joined our Russian friends. Sir!'

Bill unfastened his belts and stood slowly, towering over Gary. 'You're right, Major,' he said casually.

'What?' Gary said.