Mars Prime (20 page)

Corvan did as he was told and followed the priest through the open door. The reop found himself in what he recognized as an emergency lock. Unlike the rest of the locks it was spotlessly clean, free of graffiti, and well-lit. There were a number of such locks located around the circumference of the habitat and the rules were very strict: Do not use an emergency lock unless it is an actual emergency or a properly authorized drill. He looked at the padre.

"We must have set off every alarm in the place by now."

Simmons shook his head and pointed toward the interior hatch. "Nope, and we won't either. Not unless we mess around with that one. The alarm on the access door was disconnected some time ago."

Corvan wondered how the priest knew but didn't get a chance to ask. Simmons crossed the room, palmed the front of a locker, and pulled it open. Two hard suits stood inside, one had the name "Simmons" stenciled across the upper left-hand side of the chest plate, and the other said "Corvan."

"Wait a minute," Corvan said, "how did you do that? I left my suit back at the com center."

Simmons grinned. "Sneaky huh? That's your backup, fresh out of storage and ready to go."

Corvan looked again. The priest was correct. This suit was brand new. It even smelled new when he stepped inside.

"How do you manage all this stuff anyway?"

Simmons grinned. "There are never as many faithful as one might wish . . . but more than one might fear."

It took five minutes to suit up. They touched helmets. Corvan was the first to speak. "Did someone disconnect the alarm on the exterior hatch, too?"

Simmons shook his head inside the helmet. "No, that would endanger the entire habitat. But they did install a cutout switch. We flick it on prior to going out and flick it off the moment we get outside."

So saying, the padre went over to a junction box, fumbled around one side of it, found what he was looking for and nodded his satisfaction.

After that it was a simple matter to pump the air out of the lock, step out onto the surface, and close the hatch. It was dark outside, though less so thanks to the light provided by carefully spaced spotlights and reflected by the planet's twin moons.

Father Simmons found the second switch hidden down under the door flange, flipped it, and reactivated the alarm. If the lock blew, the command center would know and take to steps to seal the area off.

Corvan memorized the lock number just in case and adjusted the robo cam on his shoulder. He hadn't made much use of it outside of the habitat yet. Tonight might be different.

Father Simmons opened a pocket and withdrew two wads of black cloth. Then he shook them out and offered one to Corvan. Their helmets touched.

"Here. Pull that on over your helmet. Make sure it hangs down over your name."

Corvan shook it out. The cloth had been fashioned into a hood.

"You've got to be kidding."

"Nope. Put it on."

Corvan did as instructed and found that he could look out through a rectangular opening. Another matched his mouth. Or where his mouth would be if his helmet were open. The only problem was the fact that the robo cam got in the way.

Simmons looked at it and shook his head. They touched helmets.

"I should have thought of it earlier. The robo cam is a dead giveaway. Not only that, but it pulls your hood up off your chest as well."

Corvan looked down and realized the other man was right. His name was showing. He activated the interface, launched the robo cam, and watched it disappear in the darkness above. As soon as the device reached an altitude of two hundred feet, he ordered it to circle. The odds of anyone seeing it were extremely slim. The problem was fuel. The robo cam could stay aloft for about two hours. If the outing took longer than that, he'd have to order the device to land then retrieve it later.

He checked the hood. It hung halfway to his waist.
 

Their helmets touched.

"Good. Now we wait. A crawler will come by in ten minutes or so. The moment that the hatch opens climb aboard. Sit down and keep your lip zipped. Questions?"

"Only the ones that you refuse to answer."

The other man laughed. "Fair enough. You won't have those for very much longer."

The next five minutes passed rather slowly. Corvan felt silly standing around in the Martian desert wearing a black hood. What if the whole thing was some sort of practical joke? Or worse, what if Simmons had gone space crazy and was several prayers short of a complete mass? What then?

But the minutes passed, and outside of pacing back and forth, the padre did nothing more suspicious than look at his suit's chronometer from time to time.

The outside temperature was still falling and ice crystals were forming on the surface of their suits. They glittered like pixie dust and reminded Corvan how cold it was. He turned his heater up a notch and felt the priest's helmet touch his.

"Look."

Corvan looked in the direction of a pointing finger and saw quad headlights coming their way. And not from the direction of Mars Prime, as he would have thought, but from the wastelands beyond.

The headlights tilted up as the crawler climbed a rise, then down as it descended the other side, and disappeared entirely as it entered a gully. However, not more than a minute had passed before it reemerged and came their way.

Simmons reestablished contact with Corvan's helmet. "Switch your radio to frequency fifteen, keep the power low, and take your cues from me."

"Roger."

Corvan did as he was told. The crawler, one of the large crew-sized models, was almost there. It came straight at them like some sort of huge four-eyed monster. The headlights were extremely bright but Simmons stood his ground. Finally, just as the reop was getting ready to run, the machine stopped.

A voice, female from the sound of it, came over channel fifteen. "Peace ..."

"... finds those who seek it," Simmons finished.

"There are two of you, but I hear only one."

"I bring Brother Sharma a seeker of truth, that he might be warmed by the eternal flame of knowledge and thus enriched."

"The brother will be pleased. You may enter."

A hatch opened and light speared the night. Steps unfolded to touch the ground. Simmons climbed aboard. Corvan followed.

The inside of the crawler was dimly lit. There were no windows and the control compartment was invisible behind closed doors. Bench seats ran the length of both bulkheads. They were half-filled with a scattering of bulky space-suited figures. Corvan imagined that they were looking at him but couldn't be sure. Black hoods hid their helmets and upper bodies while black rectangles marked where their eyes should be. It was spooky and more than a little disconcerting. This was not a practical joke, that was for sure.

So what were they up to? Simmons had hinted at some sort of conspiracy, complete with "monitors" and robotic listening devices. And it seemed increasingly likely. It could be something less ominous though, a fraternal organization or a club of some sort. Time would tell.

Simmons chose a seat along the port side, nodded affably to those around him, and remained silent. Corvan did likewise.

The crawler jerked into motion, tilted right as the left track mounted a rock formation, then leveled out as it crashed to the ground. The bench seats had no give and Corvan's head hit the side of his helmet. There was padding but it still hurt. He found himself hoping that the trip would be an extremely short one.

It was. The crawler jerked to a halt three more times, boarded seven additional passengers, and took off cross-country. The vehicle came to a stop fifteen minutes later. The same voice he'd heard before ordered them to disembark. Corvan estimated that they had traveled no more than ten or fifteen miles. A real pain on foot, but doable in a pinch, and something to keep in mind if things got sticky. His suit included all sorts of electronic gadgetry so navigation would be a snap. Assuming he had sufficient air to make it worthwhile, that is.

Simmons rose, shuffled along behind the person in front of him, and the reporter did likewise.

There were a number of momentary pauses as people descended the short ladder and moved away from the crawler.

Corvan's turn came eventually and was somewhat anticlimactic. He saw Phobos and Deimos, the star-scattered night sky, and the now abandoned dome known as "Zone One."

The name stemmed from the fact that the first survey team had put down there and set up housekeeping. The resulting habitat had been used for a number of years then abandoned when the first half of Mars Prime was completed. That's the way it was
supposed
to be anyway, but the line of space-suited bodies passing through the dome's main lock made it clear that the habitat was still in use.

Corvan checked to make sure the robo cam was still airborne, found that it was, and positioned it for a wide shot. Though not designed for night work, it still managed to provide an acceptable shot.

With that accomplished he gave the device permission to land half a mile away, placed it on standby to conserve fuel, and opened a channel to Kim. Nothing. His implant lacked the power to reach across the intervening distance on its own, and while they were supposed to have a com sat, the technoids had yet to provide one. Like everything else he wanted, the satellite was rather low on the executive council's list of priorities. The robo cam had the capacity to act as a line-of-sight relay, but that would mean launching it again and burning a lot of fuel. He let the idea slide and followed Simmons into the dome.

The lock was almost entirely dark but still operational. Corvan found himself jammed shoulder to shoulder with ten or twelve others, staring directly into a face he couldn't see. What was the other person thinking anyway? There was no way to tell.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only five minutes, the lock cycled open. Corvan saw Simmons and followed him into the dome. It too was dark with nothing but some smoky torches to light the way. Torches? On Mars? In a modern if somewhat neglected habitat. It was ludicrous but strangely effective nonetheless. The orange-red glow, the flickering light, all added to the feeling of mystery. It was part of a calculated effort to create a certain kind of mood. Why?

Simmons made contact with his helmet.

"You can vent your suit. Keep the helmet on, though. They have leaks from time to time."

Corvan did as he was told. The outside air was thick with some sort of incense. There were two, maybe three hundred people around him, all in a circle. At the center of the circle, within a ring of torches, stood an old cargo module. Why they were looking at that, much less venerating it, Corvan couldn't understand.

Beyond that piles of junked equipment were stacked up along the side of the dome, shadows danced on inward curving walls, and moonlight poured down through the habitat's transparent top.

Someone made a monotonous droning sound and the others joined in, adding their voices in ones, twos, and threes until the entire dome vibrated to their chant. The sound had a rhythmic quality, as primal as the fear that rose to fill Corvan's throat, and very threatening. But it was seductive, too, welcoming the reporter into its embrace, inviting him to become part of the throbbing whole.

And that was the part that scared Corvan more than anything else. The thought that all the stage-managed hype could effect him, that he could be drawn into whatever it was, that he was just as vulnerable as those around him.

The chant gradually grew in intensity, building towards some sort of climax, pulling Corvan along with it. The reop fought it by activating his eye cam and wishing he were somewhere else.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

 

Holes had been drilled through the cargo module's sides. Barbu Sharma used one of them to count the house. The nickering light and tightly packed bodies made it difficult to see, but there were at least two hundred people gathered inside the habitat. Not bad. Not bad at all. The old adage was correct. There really
is
a sucker born every minute.

He knew without checking that a large proportion of these suckers were desert rats like himself, men and women who considered themselves a cut above the more sedentary "domies," and saw him as a kindred spirit. They too had driven across endless wastelands, dealt with fatigue, and dropped a few pills to prop themselves up. They were a natural and latently powerful constituency.

A space-suited form materialized out of the darkness and waited to be recognized. It belonged to a computer tech and small-time hustler named Dubie Long. Though not a man of vision, Long was reasonably efficient, and that made him useful. His small munchkin-style face was only dimly visible in the darkness of the cargo module. Sharma turned away from the peep hole and gave him a nod.

"We're all set, boss. The last load of suckers joined the crowd five minutes ago."

Sharma frowned. "Don't refer to the faithful like that. This scam requires that you at least appear to be sincere at all times."

Long shrugged. "Sorry, boss."

"Good. Don't make that mistake again."

Long tried to look contrite and move the conversation along at the same time.

"The drivers want a raise. Two berries per trip or they walk."

Sharma felt his temper start to slip. "Tell them to go ahead! Tell them to try
no
berries and see how they like that! Besides, the last thing we need is a bunch of stoned drivers roaming around the wastelands."

Sharma saw the irony in his statement but didn't choose to share it with his subordinate.

Long nodded. "Okay, boss. Whatever you say."

"How about security? Is everything okay?"

"The priest is back again . . . and he brought the one-eyed reporter with him."

"Rex Corvan? How did you track them?"

"We put a tracer on his robo cam. A cute little jobber that remained dormant until we triggered it. Worked like a charm."

"Interesting."

"Yeah, they're over towards the main lock, trying to hide in the crowd. Should we grease them? They could run out of oxygen ... or fall off a ledge."