He passed the pusher plate and the atomic propulsion module with its tubular shock absorbers. The struts were collapsed into the tubes, clear evidence of the force with which the ship had struck the surface. Then something caught his eye—a hatch was open on the topside of the propulsion section.
He stopped and tried to peer in, but from his current position, spinning slowly, nothing could be seen. It was just a dark hole. The tilt of the ship meant that he was a good five meters from the side. He rocked back and forth to impart some swing, and on his third pass he placed himself momentarily over the hatch. Yes, a big black hole was what it was. It was probably from there that the engine room hand had activated the final blast. He could get in if he was willing to risk it, but inside there would be little to see—the bombs would be in magazine racks, behind lead shielding. On his next pass he shone his lamps into the hole, but he saw nothing except a dusty floor. It was then that he saw the scrape marks on the topside. Something heavy had been dragged across the decking, but after landing, why would the ship's crew have gone in there? To do what? Rescue? Salvage? The right side had been kicked in. Had someone been in there since the crash?
Mars was poor in fissiles. Could the Colony's researchers have scavenged them from here? Did this have something to do with the power plant explosion, or was something more sinister at work? Weapons? Yet another answer was owed him by the late CAO Mr David Fenley. He continued.
At the top of the lift a shallow but wide platform jutted out from the hull. The tilt of the ship caused him to be further out than he would have liked. He lowered himself slowly until he could catch one foot and swung himself onto the dusty plate. Peeking down over the side he saw the Rollagon. It was a long way down. He unhooked the auto-winch and turned to the ship. The massive outer airlock door was open.
The interior was dark and vast. Several centimetres of dust covered the floor. Footprints, many old and some newer, could be seen—from the last of them certainly, but who else, he wondered? Fenley? Perhaps others.
He turned on his helmet lamps and looked about. The powerful twin beams were lost in the depths of an immense room of five meters height and of an unusual shape. Walking away from the opening he paced off the steps: five, ten, twenty, until he was confronted by a closed airlock door that would give access to the remainder of the cargo deck. He strained to peer through the small bubble window into the darkness beyond, seeing nothing but his own distorted helmet and lamps.
He turned away and walked along the interior wall. There were two sets of mounts attached firmly to the floor—the CRVs had been stored here. Secured along the outside wall in layers three deep were green gas bottles labelled 'O2'. He continued along. A tangle of hoses attached pumps to regulators and tanks, a mess of burned electrical cables and piles of damaged electrical equipment littered the floor. Not unexpected, considering. Not really interesting, either.
But near the outer airlock door was a sturdy metal cabinet he had overlooked. The door was stenciled 'small arms,' in red paint. Only the military would bring weapons to a dead planet.
He pulled the door open. There were 4 short barrelled rifles unsecured in a rack intended for 16. C7s. Below, on a shelf, were metal ammunition boxes, some with their lead seals intact, others open and half empty. On the floor in the dust he saw the lock, its shackle broken, and nearby, a prybar, then individual rounds. Unauthorised access. The Authorities always have the keys. Not so orderly as we believed.
He looked back to the inner airlock door. Was the hull still pressurised or had the ship's air leaked away over sixty-plus years? He walked back and examined the door more closely. Without power it could not be operated, unless, yes, there was a small wheel on the door--thank God for back-ups. He examined the door, and read the instructions, in black letters on battleship grey as clear as if painted just yesterday. It was straight forward: pull the lock pin, turn the wheel and keep turning. No warnings or advisories plastered the door in bright red. Nothing warned of the dangers of depressurizing the deck. "No lawyers on this one," Sam snorted.
If there was any significant pressure inside the door would not budge. He pulled the pin and spun the wheel hopefully. After a few turns there was a moment of stiffness when it seemed the wheel had jammed but then, continuing to turn, he saw the door suddenly move inwards. He turned the wheel until the door was fully retracted and had started to climb the track to his right. The gap beyond was dark. He stepped over the sill and, grasping the wheel inside, turned it until the door was fully open.
The airlock door opened onto an even larger room, a single open space occupying the remainder of the deck. He looked around and found again that his helmet lamps were not up to the task. In the center of the room was a spiral staircase, with a long central rod top to bottom. Otherwise it was more of the same: O2 cylinders lined much of the outside wall, large shipping metal containers labelled radio spares, radar spares, rations, a set of large blue tanks on the floor which were probably part of a plumbing system. Interestingly, much of it was bolted to rails that curved up the wall to allow easy access when the ship was set to spinning.
The space was immense. In fact, it was as large as any single room in the old MHM, except perhaps the greenhouse. He climbed the staircase. The hatch was open. Despite the spaciousness of the rest of the room, it was a tight fit in an envirosuit. He tried to imagine a full crew in bulky 'spacesuits' abandoning ship through this portal.
Panning his light he found himself in a much smaller circular room with many oblong hatches leading off. Over each was a sign: Mess Hall, Recreation Facility, Radio Room, Officer's Quarters, the same as any US Air Force base. He felt no desire to explore them. He, who had beaten a few hasty retreats in his time, knew well what he would find: at best things very, very important one moment, useless the next, or worse, impediments, discarded. At its worst it could be a lot worse.
He continued up the central stairway and through another hatch. This one had been forced; the score marks were plainly visible and bolts had been removed from the mechanism. He looked up and saw the distinctive pockmarks of small arms fire in the ceiling and down, the same on the floor. Hmmmm. Firing weapons in a space craft, even one made of steel, seems desperate. Glancing around the dark room greeted his lamps with returning flashes—computer screens, dials, gauges, the heart of an operations room. The black stains of pooled blood marked the floor, and other marks of a bloody corpse being dragged away were clear on the gray deck.
The positions were arranged in a ring several meters from the outside wall, facing in. He started around. The functions were clearly marked with small placards: Pilot, First Officer, First Engineer, Navigation, 2nd Engineer, Environment Systems. Each had a small computer monitor and keyboard, rows of dials and lights, and swivelling chairs with five-point belts. He stopped at the Communications and Radar Systems position, but not out of professional interest. The console had been smashed by something heavy, probably intentionally, given the lack of other damage. He completed his circle. A solitary chair was located near the Pilot's position—the Commander 's chair, no doubt. Off to one side was the Commander's Ready Room, the door closed. He pushed it open with his foot and entered.
It was small room—sufficient to the need, she would have said. A computer terminal was on a small table with radio communications gear, both smashed. A single chair, a cot, unmade, the pillow still bearing the imprint of a head. On the floor, a service pistol, its action to the rear. Pockmarks in the wall above the chair.. Blood splatters. So this is where it had happened. A story was forming in his head. Why? What could be gained? What had he wanted that they could not do?
Papers on the table. A ballpoint pen. An overturned glass. Glass! He looked them over. A report of O2 consumption with numbers circled in red ink, several pages of dosimeter readings, a blue covered logbook, handwritten. He flipped through it. Many pages had been ripped out. What remained was a
day by day record. The early entries were largely technical, with the inevitable report o
f the joys and pains of weightlessness, then as routine settled in they fell off, with days skipped, it seemed. Near the last were notes of the growing image of Mars looming in the viewscreens, then they again became concerned with technical matters.
The last date was more than two weeks before the landing. Pity. Nothing about the man, the adventure, the experience, the mutiny. Perhaps the Commander had removed them, to exonerate himself, or others had, to remove all traces of the unforgivable. Had it been a choice of stay and make do or return? The official record said nothing of this. All deaths were due to the violence of the landing. What else could it have been?
He went through a moment of indecision—to keep it or not. Who would care? Who would profit? He placed it back on the table. He sat on the cot, feeling the bounce. He got up and went into the Ops room. There was nothing else. No "We'll be back!" scrawled on the wall. No signs of violence, no signs of disorder.
He looked around one last time, and then descended the spiral staircase. He looked at everything with new eyes, seeking some sign of what had gone on, seeing nothing. Whatever had happened had been swiftly and efficiently done.
Arriving on a darkened cargo deck Sam suppressed a moment of panic. The airlock door was closed—closed tight and seated against the jamb. With shaking hands he spun the wheel and was relieved to see the door open. He had failed to open the door to its fullest extent. Closing the inner door securely behind, he returned to the surface.
Somberly, he walked around the base of the ship seeing more signs of other visitors. The tracks of a small wheeled rover could be seen in the lee-side dust. It had been quite some time ago; dust-filled footprints were all around. Something had been painted on the hull in large red letters across the USAF emblem. He had to stand back to read it. 'Bulls shit!' Well, they weren't Americans! He continued on and completed his circumnavigation of Orion.
Reluctant to leave without some keepsake, he picked through the piles of discarded waste. Among a heap of kitchen garbage he found a long metal chain made of beer can pull-tabs. He slung it over his shoulder and continued poking through the piles in search of something unique, something that would perhaps reveal the identity of one of the crew. He found nothing of that sort and settled finally for the lid of a cardboard ration box marked with the faded emblem of the Orion superimposed upon a red disk of Mars.
Alas, there had been only one pair of Orion-class ships. It had been said that mothers everywhere loved Orion, but they didn't like the bombs. It had been both too early and too late, even in a world that had seen the use of tactical devices and fallout from decades of unrestricted testing of atomic weapons. Sam took a last look around and returned to the Rollagon.
Without a mirror or picture frame, he draped the chain around the helmet of one of the envirosuits in the airlock. The box lid he placed with his other mementos.
Exhausted by the efforts of the day, he instructed the AI to proceed to Tempe Terra. He cleaned up and went to bed, skipping his evening meal. He awoke 16 hours later, hundreds of kilometers away, with a massive headache, nausea, and a dry mouth.
Incantations
Periodically as they crested the dunes on the approach from the north he could see the glint of the sun from the derelict Pegasus. There was something distinctly alarming about it, something odd, something wrong, discernible even from a distance, and as he drew near he could see that the ship was on its side—a landing strut had punched through the permafrost crust, then collapsed.
He parked a respectful distance from the site, suited, and walked to the side of the ship. The breach in the ruptured fuel tank that had sealed their fate was dark and jagged. Footprints filled in with dust were all about. The outer hatch was open, the inside dark and dusty.
A few dozen meters beyond the craft were three crudely made graves. There were no markers. They were a luxury no amount of time could have provided, and an eventuality forbidden to foresight. Rocks and dirt had been painstakingly scraped and piled over the suited figures. You could clearly see the scrape marks, as if they had been made yesterday, now filled in by dark dust. The wind had exposed their boots, toes upturned.
He looked away to the south, where, a hundred meters or so further along, was a fourth grave, that of a crewman who had walked unsuited to his death. The body was partially exposed and a makeshift digging tool lay nearby. Upon seeing the bleached and weathered bones he turned away, unwilling to look further.
From that spot he could see the Elephant, the Capitol, and the Bishop, the oddly shaped rock formations that had intrigued Evans, the last surviving member of the Clarke-sponsored Richmond Expedition surface team. The tracks of the Mars 'car' led down into the Chaos. He started down the trail between the tracks, then stopped. By official reports, Evans had had at least three hours oxygen when he had completed his recordings and set off into the dark on some unknown last mission. He could have covered a long distance. It was too far to walk.
Carefully skirting the crash site, he returned to the Rollagon and drove from the flying bridge, setting out on a course parallel to Evans's. The tracks were arrow straight for a kilometer, then turned abruptly to the left, climbing back up towards the Capitol. In a few moments, behind the first of the rock formations he saw the car. He stopped and got down. The door was open, but there was no one inside. A single set of dust-filled footprints led between two column-like rock formations.
Evans was seated on a boulder with his back towards Sam, folded at the waist as if examining the ground at his feet.
He knew what he would find. Beyond was a cave-like opening in the rocks. He approached Evans from the right side. Bending down, he saw that the faceplate was open. He looked no further. He considered taking photographs, but then thought better of it. He stood beside the explorer and gently placed his hand on his back. Too late. Too late.
He thought about the last moments of Evans, who had been the last of his team, and then about himself, the other Colonists, and all of the others who had or ever were going to die here. It was a profoundly human moment, experienced in an alien and inhuman place. Evans had had only a few agonizing hours left to him as his oxygen supply dwindled. His decision had been seen as heroic, but what of the others who had provided it at such a high price? How do we rank our heroes? And why?
He returned to the Rollagon, unsuited, and sat down in the command chair, looking out at the tiny Mars car. The AI was silent.
"Do you believe in God?”
She did not respond immediately and Sam did not expect an answer. He had always thought the question beyond any AI's power to comprehend.
"I have heard it said, 'Sometimes, to make sacrifice is all we can do. It is the ultimate gift." The words were oddly familiar to Sam, but not familiar enough.
15.0N 70W
A Mystery in Isidis Planum
They had not spoken to each other for many, many days.
"There is something ahead, something not anticipated." Sam's words seemingly brought the AI out of a deep slumber.
"What is it?" The voice seemed harsh and garbled.
"You don't have to shout! I've been reviewing images of our course. There are several big metallic objects just ahead. They have been previously imaged but never investigated. They look artificial."
"As in?"
"As in human made. Take us there." Sam had lost many things over the past few years but not his interest in the early planetary missions. He knew that whatever it was they were about to find was unlikely to be anything of significance. The remains of failed manned missions and landers were too small to create much of a splash, and in any event, the location of most was known to a high degree of precision.
Within the hour they crested the last of a series of small embankments that paralleled an ancient river valley, and while still a klick away he could see the shine of bright metal from multiple sources. As they approached, the glints resolved themselves into several rows of piled metal. They stopped in front of the nearest pile.
From the command cha
ir Sam could see that the pieces were not wreckage, at least not in the classical sense of the word. The cuts were precise and, judging from the types of materials he could see, had been made with a torch of great power. A quick check showed that the area was safe as far as radiation was concerned. He suited quickly and exited.
From outside, the piles were even more substantial than at first glance. Landing gear oleos, fuel and oxygen tanks, bulkheads, exterior plates, rocket nozzles, and rocket engines were piled separately, as if disassembled with a purpose in mind. He walked among the heaps looking for identifying markings and came upon one composed of electronic assemblies—probably from the control station.
He brushed a thin layer of dust from a panel indented with analog-style gauges and thumb switches with red protective covers. The technology was old, probably mid-50s or 60s. The label could be easily read: "O2 Pressure Lb/Sq In." This placed the stuff as American.
He searched the pile of exterior plating looking for markings that might indicate an agency or a mission. The heavy slabs had been stacked like pancakes and it was beyond his power to move them.
At Sam's request the AI plucked the topmost piece from the stack and held it in front of him for examination, turning it as easily as if it were a thin sheet of plastek. Only a couple of pieces had been pulled off the pile before he saw an American flag and the single word "Mars" painted onto the surface of a flat panel. The match did not reveal itself in the next dozen pieces.
"It could be anywhere. You should be able to place this without all this poking around. What do the archives say? There are many references from the 1950s and 60s to missions that were planned but were never carried out, at least not officially. It's possible that this is from the Black mission, American. They reported landing safely and of being met by humans who were familiar to them. They were never heard from again. For me, I think they had a serious environmental system defect that went undetected until too late."