Saving Mars (33 page)

When at last he sent the communication, Jess felt a hollowing in her stomach as though a part of her had accompanied the message of hope and loss. How would her parents respond? She’d promised to take care of her brother, but she’d left him behind. Her throat tightened. She needed to think about something else.

“Well, that oughta shake things up some,” said Crusty, gesturing to the comm panel.

Jess nodded. Tried to count backwards from ninety-eight by sevens to calm herself.
I just want things to be like they used to
.

“
Bells of Hades
,” muttered the mechanic.

Jess’s glance flickered to her brother’s station, where Crusty’s wrinkled face had folded itself into deeper lines of concentration.

“What is it?” she asked.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say your brother sent us some kind of message. Looks like it’s been sittin’ here waiting for us to notice.”

Jess’s heart began beating rapidly. “A message? From Ethan?”

“Durned if I can make it out. Must be code.”

Her heart hammered within her chest. A message. From her brother. In code. He would have chosen an encryption within her ability to translate, wouldn’t he?

Clipping an audio-comm to one ear, Crusty swore and mumbled to himself while typing a series of what, to Jess, resembled end-marks and dashes.

“Morse code,” she murmured after recognizing the ancient form of communication.

“Yup. But it ain’t in no language I recognize,” replied Crusty. He diligently recorded the dots and dashes but shook his head in frustration as he tried to make sense of the odd words. “Something math-based, maybe?”

“No,” murmured Jess. Ethan would know Jess didn’t stand a chance with something like that.

Think
, she told herself. Ethan was on a hostile planet. He’d only send a message if it mattered. But he wouldn’t have risked making it impossible to decode.

She remembered something—how her brother had admired the Navajo soldiers of twentieth-century Earth. Aloud, she said, “Ethan used to tell me about code-talkers. They communicated using a rarely-spoken language so that the enemy couldn’t understand their transmissions. I’ll bet you anything he’s using Marsperanto.”

“Nobody speaks that,” said Crusty.

Marsians, independent-minded, had tried using a language of their own invention during the years of war with Earth, but abandoned the tongue after a series of communication disasters.
Better to be understood and alive than independent and dead,
was the widely held sentiment.

“It’s just repeating now,” said Crusty. “Okay, I reckon I got it all down here. You speak Marsperanto?”

Jess shook her head. “Wait here,” she said. Running down the ship’s central hall, Jess punched open her quarters and retrieved her brother’s wafer-computer from its place of honor upon Harpreet’s bunk. She flew back to the helm and handed the device to Crusty.

“This is Ethan’s computer.” She paused as a wash of sorrow rolled past, pulling her under like breakers upon a Terran ocean shore. “
Was
Ethan’s computer,” she murmured.

“Your brother’s alive,” Crusty said with quiet assurance. “This
is
his wafer.”

She gave a brief nod and held back her tears.

“Well, alright-y, then,” said Crusty, grinning broadly as he found what he was looking for. “Guess who has a translation program for Marsperanto on his computer?”

Working together, they pieced together the encoded message.

When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, Nor will the flame burn you. So says Ethan.

Jessamyn looked at Crusty, her brows drawn closely together. The words conjured for Jessamyn images of consuming flames. Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “They’re making him walk through fire?”

Glancing at Jess and seeing how all color had drained from her face, the mechanic placed a hand upon her shoulder. “Hey. You come back, now. There ain’t no use imagining stuff that never happened. This message don’t say nothin’ about anybody hurting anybody. It’s all about
not
gettin’ hurt.”

She chewed her lower lip, willing herself to believe Crusty was right.

“Maybe it’s his way of tellin’ us he’s fine,” continued Crusty. “Only it just comes out sounding funny in a translation.”

“Maybe,” she whispered. She couldn’t speak her darker fear: that trapped inside someone else’s body, on the run, her brother was losing his mind. Because
this
didn’t sound like the sort of message Ethan would send.

“I’m of the opinion it’s some kind of poetry,” mused Crusty. “It’s got that sort of feel to it.”

“Ethan doesn’t write poetry,” said Jess.

Crusty scratched his two-days’ beard thoughtfully. “He’s a smart one, your brother. He’s not going to shoot off a message any fool can understand. The way I figure, this is him sayin’ as everything’s just fine for him. Nothin’ to fret over.”

Jessamyn nodded, pushing back the images of fiery torture. She found herself thinking of Pavel—his brave farewell, his promise to guard her brother.

“Okay,” she said aloud. “I’m off to bed. Have a good shift.”

But in the privacy of her quarters, Jess wasn’t ready for sleep. She sat down to write the boy from Earth.

Dear Pavel,

Today we received Ethan’s message. Crusty says the message is intended to convey to us that you are both well. I want to believe he’s right, but why the stuff about fire? Crusty thinks the message is poetry of some kind. In that case, why not choose a happier poem to tell us you’re well?

I suppose that’s my answer right there. My brother isn’t the kind of person to store up bits of happy poetry. Or perhaps the words were your idea. All I can say is: next time make it a little less cryptic, okay?

She paused, looking up from her letter. She knew what she really wanted to say.

As each day passes aboard the
Galleon
, I feel myself reaching a conclusion that no one but me will like. I think we should return to Earth right away—drop the food and run back before it’s too late.

There. I’ve said it.

I’m worried, Pavel. I’m afraid that Mars Colonial will argue for waiting two Terran years for any kind of rescue. But in that time—an entire Mars annum—how much might happen? I am sure each day he spends in the body of someone else is a kind of torture for my brother. And if MCC argues for waiting an annum, what is to stop them arguing we should wait two? Or three?

I have to convince MCC that I’m right. That the raiders we left behind deserve nothing less than an immediate rescue. I don’t know how we’ll find a crew. I don’t know if the
Galleon
has it in her to make the journey.

But I know I must plead my brother’s case. And Harpreet’s. And my captain’s. They don’t deserve to be left behind. I won’t let that happen.

Tell my brother I love him.

I miss you.

Your friend,

Jessamyn Jaarda

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