Ambush (2 page)
It's strong, too. The titanium hands can grip a steel bar and bend it.
And it's fast. Its wheels can move three times faster than any human can sprint.
As I neared the hills at the end of the valley, I hoped everything the robot could do would be enough.
But that hope ended when I saw the tons of dark red rubble that blocked the cave entrance.
“Dad,” I said into the robot's microphone, knowing my voice would reach my father in the dome.
“Tyce?”
“I am here,” I said, my words drawn out and tinny-sounding through the robot's sound system.
“And?” he asked.
Most of the slope of the rocky hill was dull red, with jumbles of rounded rocks resting where they had been undisturbed for centuries. Directly in front of me, a lopsided heap of rock, twice the height of a man, was a much brighter red. This rock was in a new position, unweathered by the dust storms that covered Mars every spring.
“It does not look good,” I answered. “The entrance to the cave is totally blocked.” I couldn't help thinking,
Every minute that passes is one minute less for Rawling and the other three trapped inside.
“What's your infrared tell you?”
The robot was capable of seeing on infrared wavelengths, which was a really weird way of looking at the world. It could show me temperatures of different objects, so I didn't need light waves.
I switched to infrared. It was minus 50 degrees Fahrenheit, and the side of the hills showed up in my vision as a deep, deep blue. The rubble of the collapsed cave was slightly less blue because some heat had been generated from the kinetic force of the cave-in.
Two incredibly bright pinpoints appeared halfway into the hill, with halos around the pinpoints that went from white to red to orange to blue the farther they were from the pinpoints of heat at the center. To me, it looked like candle flames I'd once seen when testing the infrared spectrum, with the air getting cooler the farther it was from the candle.
I described this to Dad. All I could think of was that the bright heat was the remnant of an explosion. But this expedition hadn't taken explosives.
“Doesn't make sense to me either,” Dad said when I finished telling him about it. “What about the important indicator?”
I knew what he meant because we'd talked about it earlier. The important indicator was 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature of a living human. This should show up as orange somewhere in the deep blue of the ice-cold rocks. If the space suits had been ripped by falling rocks, the orange would look like bleeding air.
“Negative,” I said. “Looks like the space suits are intact.”
“Let's pray that's what it is.”
Dad didn't say what I couldn't help but fear. Either the space suits were holding their body heat, or there was too much rock between them and me for any infrared to make it through. If it was the second option, we might never reach them.
“Can you quickly beam me some video?” Dad said. “That will give the rescue team a good idea of the equipment they'll need. Then go climb the hill and try infrared from a different angle.”
What I really wanted to do was panic. I wanted to roll forward to the edge of the pile of rock rubble and begin pulling rocks off as fast as I could. I wanted to shout for Rawling.
But I knew we'd all have to work togetherâand fastâfor the scientists to survive. So I adjusted the robot's focus to allow its front video lens to survey the site.
I started with a wide angle, sweeping from the top of the hill. In the background there was a flash of the Martian sky. My video picked up the rocks and the small shadows behind the rocks. I zoomed in closer on the cave-in site, confident the robot's computer drive was translating the images in digital form and relaying them back to the computer at the dome.
Just then Dad's voice came through loudly. “What's going on here?” he asked sternly. I'd never heard him so angry.
“I am sending you a video feed,” I said, puzzled. “Is it not clear enough?”
“I demand an explanation for this!” he said as if he hadn't bothered listening to my reply.
Why was he so upset? I was doing exactly what he'd asked. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I thoughtâ”
“This is ridiculous,” he blurted in my audio. “You can't walk in here with weapons andâ”
There was a thud and a low groan.
My audio cut out.
Weapons? Had he been talking to someone in the computer lab? But weapons ⦠?
“Dad!” I shouted. “Dad!”
No answer.
What was happening at the dome? I pictured the computer lab. My body was on the bed, strapped in. I wore a blindfold and headset to keep any noise from distracting me. My wheelchair was beside the bed. If I shouted the mental command to take me away from the robot, I would return to consciousness there in total helplessness, unable to free myself from the straps, unable to see or hear a thing until someone released me. If someone else instead of my dad was now in the lab, armed and willing to do damage â¦
I was just lying there with no way to protect myself. Yet this robot was too far away from the dome. It would take 20 minutes to get it back and another 10 minutes to make it through the air locks at the dome entrance. Even if I made it back in time to protect my body with the robot, all they would have to do in the lab was disconnect the computer, and the robot would be disabled.
And was I willing to take that long gamble and leave the cave-in with four people buried and in desperate need of help?
“Dad?” I tried again. I hoped this had been my imagination. “Dad? Dad?”
“Knock it off, kid,” a strange voice replied.
“Who are you?” I asked. “Where's my dad?” This was totally weird, like being in two places at once and helpless in both. “What's happening there?”
Without warning, it seemed like a bomb exploded in my brain. The red sand of the Martian valley fell away from me as instant and total blackness descended.
I woke with a headache, as if someone had been pounding pieces of glass into my brain. While I was at the cave-in site, one of the goons must have simply clicked the Off switch to bring me back from the robot body.
This, too, had happened once before when I'd been suddenly disconnected from the robot computer. That other time, however, Rawling had been in the computer lab. He'd taken off my headset and blindfold before I woke. Now, though, I was totally cut off from sight and sound. I felt the fabric of the bed against my fingers.
I nearly blurted out the first question that came to me.
Who's there?
I wanted to ask.
Where's my dad?
I wanted to continue.
What have you done? Get me out of the straps and the blindfold and the headset.
But I resisted all of what I wanted to say.
Helpless as I was, I had only two weapons. The first was surprise. So I didn't move. I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
While I waited, I used my most important weapon. I prayed. With the crises I'd been through lately on Marsâfirst an oxygen leak; then a techie attacked by unknown creatures; the opening of some strange black boxes; and most recently, the discovery that my virtual-reality Hammerhead torpedo was realâI'd come to believe in God. I had discovered that gave me a lot of unexpected peace, even when things looked really bad.
As they did for me and my dad.
The suspense in my total silence and darkness was horrible. Someone could be standing directly above me with one of the weapons I'd heard my dad mention. Someone could have that weapon pointed at me, finger on the trigger, about to squeeze. Or it could be a knife ⦠or â¦
I waited, heartbeat by heartbeat, with my head throbbing in agony.
When it happened, I nearly jerked my body a couple of inches off the bed.
It was a hand on my shoulder. Shaking me.
I managed not to flinch. I pretended I was a rag doll.
The hand shook me again and again and again.
I concentrated on staying relaxed. It wasn't easy. The shaking grew rougher and rougher, until it disconnected my neck plug from the jumpsuit plug. My head hurt so bad from the sudden disconnection from the robot that I wanted to throw up.
When the shaking finally stopped, I felt hands at my head. The headset was jerked from my ears.
“Stupid kid,” I heard someone mutter. I knew I'd heard that voice before, but I couldn't remember who it belonged to.
“You can't blame it on him, you idiot,” another vaguely familiar voice said. “Jordan warned us there could be brain damage if you shut the program down without giving warning.”
Jordan!
Dr. Jordan was a new scientist, just arrived from Earth. He'd designed the Hammerhead space torpedo that I'd refused to test because I believed it would be used as a weapon against Earth. Was Jordan behind this? But how could he be? He'd been locked up for five days, awaiting deportation back to Earth on the next shuttle.
“Well, if the kid's old man had listened to us ⦠,” the first voice grumbled.
“It seems you did plenty of damage to the kid. Jordan's going to be mad about that too.”
What had they done to Dad? And who were they? I clenched my teeth to keep from yelling.
Fingers plucked at my blindfold. I kept my eyes shut as the slight pressure of it left my cheek and forehead.
The hand shook me again. I played the rag doll. I didn't know if it would help for them to think I was unconscious, but it seemed the best chance I had, no matter how small.
“Help me lift him into the wheelchair,” voice one said. “He's out like a clubbed fish.”
“I don't want to bring him to Jordan like this, though,” voice two answered. “Then we'll have too much to explain.”
“We might not have any choice. If the kid's brain circuits are scrambled, he'll never come out of this. Jordan's going to kill us for it.”
“If Jordan's going to go nuts on us anyway, what will five minutes hurt?” voice two said.
I strained to place a face with the voice. It came to me. One of the security force. I'd been with him on the platform buggy during the dome's oxygen crisis.
That familiar voice continued. “Give the kid a chance to wake up. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, and he won't be able to say anything about this to Jordan.”
“Five minutes, then,” voice one said. “We wait any longerâ”
“I know. I know. In the meantime, let's drag the kid's old man out of here.”
Drag Dad out? What had they done to him?
I heard scuffling. I told myself there was nothing I could do from my wheelchair. I told myself the best thing I could do for Dad was wait for an opportunity to help somehow.
It didn't work. I had to open my eyes.
I peeked and saw the backsides of two large men who were lifting Dad by his arms and shoulders. They hauled him toward the door, with Dad's feet trailing.
It had been the operation to put the plug in my neck that caused damage to my spine. The freedom of being able to control an incredible robot body had cost me the freedom of being able to move the legs of my own body.
I'd learned a long time ago not to feel sorry for myself because of my wheelchair. I'd learned to stop wishing that I could walk like most everyone else. But in this moment, with every nerve telling me to get up and run after the two men and attack them for what they'd done to Dad, I hated my wheelchair all over again.
The door closed behind them.
That left me alone. And totally, totally unsure of what was happening.
Five minutes.
Fortunately I didn't need more than 20 seconds, because it looked like faking unconsciousness had worked. All I needed to do was wait those 20 seconds, go to the door, throw it open, and yell for help.
The area of the Mars Dome was about the same as four of the Earth football fields that I've read about. The main dome covered minidomesâsmall, dark, plastic huts where each scientist and techie lived in privacy from the othersâand experimental labs and open areas where equipment was maintained. The dome was only two stories tall. The main level held the minidomes and laboratories. One level up, a walkway about 10 feet wide circled the inside of the dome walls. Altogether, about 200 people lived beneath the dome.
I knew it would take only one good long yell for nearly everyone to hear me. Probably 50 of them would come running. When they did, not only would I be safe, but they'd see the two goons who were dragging away my dad. Then we'd get to the bottom of this, and I'd be able to work with the robot again on the rescue attempt at the cave-in site.
I counted to 20. Then, to be sure, I counted to 10.
Slowly I rolled forward and opened the door. In front of me were minidomes arranged neatly in lines. I looked down the corridors between them. I stared long and hard, trying to make sense of what I saw.
I shut the door again and rolled back to where I'd been.
Outside the computer lab, more members of the security force were herding dozens and dozens of protesting scientists and techies into groups in the main open area of the dome. Yelling would do me no good. Not when it looked like the security guards each carried a neuron gun.
What was going on? For a project like the Mars Dome, it was necessary to have a police force as protection for everyone. But regular weapons were too dangerous. Not only could stray bullets do serious damage to equipment and the dome, but guns that fired bullets could be stolen and used by the wrong person.
Neuron guns solved both problems. They worked by firing electrical impulses that disabled nerves and neurons. No damage to skin or muscle or bone. Nor would they work for someone who stole one. The guns were linked by satellite beam to the dome's main computer. A security code had to be entered before the guns were operative. Each gun was programmed by fingerprint recognition to a specific member of the security force. Even after a neuron gun was operative, it wouldn't work in the hands of the wrong person.