The Symbionts of Murkor Page 7

  Mention should be made of the planet’s muted color palette, the menacing angles and sharp shapes of lava formations, the pervasive odor of noxious gases, the startling flashes of blue light from magnetic storms, the foreboding “howl” that the wind makes when passing across the mouths of a thousand lava tubes. These and a hundred other observations fail to convey to an outsider what it is like to exist on Murkor, a land of dissolution and doom. Every planet has its own unique environment which, over time, colonizers must adjust to and ultimately accept. It has been impossible to do so on Murkor.

  Even the innate act of breathing created a hazard. Beyond the unpleasantness of inhaling noxious compounds present in the foul-smelling air, no human could long endure Murkor’s low-pressure, oxygen-poor atmosphere. Roughly equivalent to the rarified atmosphere one thousand meters above Mount Everest, loss or malfunction of the prerequisite rebreather unit meant one or two minutes of panicky inhalation followed by hypoxia, unconsciousness, and death.

  An example of this ever-present danger was provided by several IMC techs who, looking for entertainment, devised a contest, a physical trial as it were, that discounted everything science had learned about the human respiratory system in the last two millennia. To prevail, a contestant had to complete a full circuit of Zenith’s two domes “bareback,” a termed coined to describe being on the surface without the aid of a rebreather. The first person to accomplish this dubious feat was to be awarded a two-hundred ml flask of premium twenty-year-old scotch. A rare and much coveted prize.

  The first (and last) contestant turned out to be none other than Ed Anderson. He had studied the terrain, gauged the distance, weighed his own self-proclaimed athletic abilities, factored in the planet’s reduced gravity—and concluded that the last thirty meters he would be hypoxic, but conscious. He was wrong, passing out well short of an entry portal where most of Zenith’s population awaited his arrival. Conspicuously absent was the base’s physician, Captain Stewart. If she had foreknowledge of the contest it would have been prevented. Once alerted, she had little difficulty in reviving her patient and even less difficulty convincing then Commander Trenchon to put an end to the madness before someone else accepted the challenge. Or, a real possibility, Anderson decided to give it a second try.

  Although the contest was foolish, even dangerous, it could also be seen as an unconscious attempt by Zenith’s inhabitants to rail against, and overcome, planetary forces both seen and unseen. In failing, they acquired an even greater appreciation of their vulnerability. Ultimately, they came to regard the planet itself with an odd mix of wariness and unreasoned suspicion.

  This was equally true of the Nadir contingent, whose apprehension often produced creative abstractions, the most innocuous manifestation being how aspects of the planet were, in a fashion, personified. Fumaroles were the easiest target, their bizarre and obnoxious noises earning the designation “los pedos del Diablo” (the Devil’s farts). When that expression caught on, others quickly followed. Lightning was dubbed “tridente de Satanas” (Satan’s pitchfork); a spikey pair of lava peaks “los cachos de Satanas” (Satan’s horn’s); a network of lava tubes “las entrañas del Diablo” (the Devil’s bowels). Sure, there was humor in these descriptions. They also had one other thing in common. They all cast Murkor in a sinister light.

  Feelings of unease greatly intensified when venturing beneath the planet’s surface. Crews began to feel shadowed. There was no accounting for the odd sensation, no tangible evidence or scientific proof to justify it. As such, the sentiment was often kept to oneself or, if expressed openly, ridiculed as the product of an overactive imagination.

  All of this, and more, gave birth to the notion that an unidentified life-form was stalking the planet.

  For the time being, none of this was consciously troubling the only three humans on the entire planet to be out and about. Rather it was their failure, depleting multiple rebreathers in the process, to locate an adequate supply of water. This after having searched the portentous depths of three previously unexplored lava tubes.

  For safety reasons, CAM-Ls always had a minimum crew of three; in this instance, IMC techs Lori Jensen, Bert Imholtz, and Lieutenant Davis. It was no coincidence that Davis had been included on the first of the extended missions. A suitable way, Ellis had said, for the Lieutenant to get his mind straight while setting a more sober example to IMC personnel.

  “We have time to enter one more tube before heading back,” Jensen said, intent on deciphering an incomplete, and therefore confusing, holographic rendition of the path ahead.

  “And when we get back,” Davis, piloting the vehicle, added, “remind me to thank Anderson.”

  “What the hell for?” Imholtz asked.

  “For modifying this goddam vehicle so we could stay out here all goddam morning and half the goddam afternoon.”

  “Hey, he’s your friend,” Imholtz reminded.

  “Yeah, he is that,” Davis replied, with a hint of doubt in his voice.

  “Can we get this over with?” Jensen interrupted, nerves frayed. She had spent a portion of the last several hours performing the demanding task of terrain association navigation, comparing topographical features to those that floated in front of her on the CAM-L’s holo nav system. “There’s a large network of tubes—relative bearing ninety-two degrees. See that outcropping of lava slag? The one that looks like a pile of crap? It’s on the far side, five kilometers.”

  The terrain was unfamiliar. Avoiding sending the CAM-L into a crevice it couldn’t extricate itself from required a combination of intuition, quick reflexes, and luck. Davis, considered one of the best pilots, was sufficiently proficient in the first two talents to manufacture the third. Still, it had been a very long day. “Nothing closer?” he asked.

  “Closer? Yeah, I’m a lot closer to losing my patience,” Jensen submitted. Having gone through three breathers that morning, she actually meant it.

  “On our way,” Davis hastily replied, wishing to avoid an argument. Getting his ass handed to him by one woman being fresh on his mind.

  Several stressful minutes later the ponderous vehicle’s wide tracks crunched to a halt in front of the yawning mouth of a lava tube.

  Sonar mapping had revealed that the majority of tubes bore passing resemblance to that of an ant colony—a sinuous network of tunnels progressively opening into larger cavities. Water, if found, typically collected in shallow declivities at the bottom those cavities. All you had to do was reach them while tugging a siphoning hose as it slowly unspooled from the side of a CAM-L.

  Most tubes were large enough for a person to walk upright. Most had passable surfaces where, ages ago, lava had solidified to a relatively smooth “ropy” texture. No other aspect was accommodating. Visible proof of the hazard were the massive blocks of lava, each capable of crushing a person, that had dislodged from the ceiling and crashed to the floor. More insidious was the abusive temperature, a sweltering 43° Celsius — five degrees above the planet’s stifling surface. Precaution had to be taken to avoid heat stroke, a difficult proposition when outfitted with a miner’s helmet and the compulsory rebreather unit.

  Exploring a tube network was far more demanding than moving about on the surface. A person unable to cope posed a serious risk to themselves and the members of their team. Although safety equipment and training helped combat the effects of stress and fatigue, they could do little to alleviate anxieties and phobias unrecognized in oneself: Claustrophobia from having a million metric tons of rock amassed above one’s head; taphophobia, the fear of being buried alive by a tube collapse blocking passage to the surface.

  Imagination stirred other, unnamed, fears: That of intruding where no human had ever been or had the right to be; of transgressing into dark passageways where helmet lamps birthed monstrous shadows and footfalls spawned strange echoes, thereby giving life and expression to the unknown.

  The “disconcerting” feeling, as Stewart called it, that something skulked within Murkor’s endless n
etwork of lava tubes.

  Astrobiologists searching a small fraction of the tubes with an array of sophisticated instruments did not admit to having the same reaction. They had anticipated finding niche life-forms and had come away disappointed: No microscopic organisms seeking refuge from the harsh surface where the pathetic remnants of a once flourishing ecosystem struggled to survive. No dormant spores inhabiting a sunless environment waiting for favorable conditions that would never come.

  And so, the scientists left seeking greener pastures. None had been in the lava tubes for any length of time, which goes a long way in explaining the dichotomy between their assurances that the tubes were devoid of life and the prevailing sentiment among the colonists who believed they were haunted. There are still occasions where the ingenuity of science cannot satisfactorily explain the vagaries of the human imagination.

  Jensen and Imholtz were within Murkor Tube Network Z784C, focused on finding life-giving water for Zenith. They were following stringent safety protocols by maintaining constant visual contact. The third team member, in this instance Davis, was required to remain with the vehicle. Communication between parties was enabled via belt-worn ultralow frequency devices. For redundancy, a wired communication link ran the length of the lightweight water-siphoning hose being tugged into the tube.

  Standard equipment included roping, mining helmet, water canisters, and a handheld instrument dubbed the “sniffer,” used to detect the relative abundance of water molecules in air. Notwithstanding an annoying tendency to give false positives, the sniffer was effective in sourcing water evaporating from the surface of shallow pools where it collected.

  The single most important piece of equipment was the rebreather unit, vital everywhere outside the controlled atmospheres of Zenith, Nadir, and the two base’s pressurized vehicles.

  Understanding how a rebreather functions requires a fundamental understanding of the biology of breathing. During respiration a person utilizes one-quarter of the oxygen available in air, exhaling the unused portion with carbon dioxide, which in concentration, can be toxic to humans. Unlike scuba apparatus, a rebreather utilizes a closed system by which the wearer’s exhalation, still relatively rich in oxygen, passes through a scrubber to remove excess carbon dioxide and returns it via hose and mask for rebreathing. Because the recycling process occurs multiple times, a small, “make-up” cylinder contributes oxygen to the mix. Built smaller and lighter for use in the blistering temperatures of the lava tubes, the rebreathers were the size and weight (accounting for Murkor’s lower gravity) of a hiker’s backpack. The scaled-down size came at an expense, a fully recharged unit supplying, under normal operating conditions, a mere two hours of oxygen. Hoses connect the unit to a streamlined mask affixed to the wearer’s face. Microtech embedded in the mask enhances and corrects muffled speech, facilitating normal conversation. A spare “backup” mask provides an additional measure of safety.

  The best equipment and procedures can be thwarted through a series of intentional actions and unconscious mental lapses. A well-trained person, when under considerable physical and mental strain, can make poor decisions—putting oneself in harm’s way.

  It had been an especially long and trying day for Jensen. A few hundred meters into Tube Network Z784C, she and Imholtz reached an expansive where the ceiling dramatically arched and widened to form a large dome. Tunnels branched off in three separate directions.

  “Screw this,” uttered a weary Jensen, pausing long enough to look up. Her clothes were soaked with sweat and every square centimeter of her person was covered in a layer of irritating grit.

  “Yeah, screw this,” echoed Imholtz. He was in no better mood, having dragged the CAM-L’s suction hose most of the way into the tunnel. Staring meaningfully at Jensen, he spoke into his personal communication link. “Hey, Davis, you comfortable back there in that nice air-conditioned vehicle?”

  “I don’t know. It’s getting a little chilly.”

  “You know, Davis, if I thought I could whip your ass I would. What’s in the hump?”

  “Twenty-three liters.”

  “Total?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Hell, the three—excuse me—the two of us have sweat more than that today.”

  “Can’t say we didn’t give it a good try,” Davis replied.

  “Maybe your new girlfriend will,” Imholtz snickered.

  Davis immediately understood that he was referring to Ellis. The entire base was aware of his punishment. He ignored the taunt. “Give it twenty more minutes, then head back,” he ordered. “Before I get frostbite.”

  “Right,” Imholtz confirmed, terminating the com link.

  “We’ll be coming back empty,” Jensen said, frustrated. While her partner was speaking to Davis she had drifted over to one of the side passages leading off the main chamber. “I don’t want to come back empty.”

  “Shit happens. We didn’t get lucky.”

  Jensen stared back at Imholtz, then gestured toward the dark tunnel she was peering down. “My sniffer is upticking a few counts per million. Shall we make our own luck?”

  “Split up?” Imholtz asked. “Not one of your brighter ideas.”

  “I didn’t hear a ‘no,’” Jensen persisted. “It doubles our chances if you explore the other passageway.”

  Imholtz hesitated. “Violates safety regs big time. You better damn well meet me back here in less than twenty minutes.”

  “Or what? You can’t whip my ass either.”

  “You got that right. I have this policy of refusing to beat up on women half my size, though I might make an exception in your case. There’s to be no mention of this to Davis. He’d flip.”

  Separating from her partner was not Jensen’s first mistake. Inattention to detail, brought about by fatigue, had caused her to leave her personal communicator in the CAM-L. The oversight was missed by her teammates because they, too, were exhausted, and contact with Davis had consistently been made through Imholtz’s personal communicator.

  Traveling deep into the side passage, Jensen, feeling unsettled, sought a small measure of reassurance. Dimming her helmet light, she stared back in the direction she had come. It was the opposite of what she was hoping to see: The last vestiges of Imholtz’s light had vanished; the only sound was that of her labored breathing. She had never been alone in a tube before. Had anyone? The insufferable heat failed to prevent a sudden chill from overtaking her. To beat back the overwhelming feeling of isolation, she began talking out loud.

  No reason to turn back. Sniffer picking up a few more water molecules. Wonder how it excludes perspiration and exhalation. Probably what gives the false positives. Walls are closing in. Won’t find water if this tube doesn’t open up soon. Blah, blah… BLAH! Thank you, Commander Ellis. Thank you. Thank you. THANK YOU. Wouldn’t be enjoying myself so damn much if it wasn’t for—

  Not sure why, she halted in mid-stride. Looking ahead, she continued her soliloquy—OK, self, stop screwing around—then took two more half-steps and stopped once again.

  Hello? Note to self: I said stop screwing—

  Jensen, certain that something was hovering nearby, violently jerked her body around, the motion slicing an arc of light through the darkness as her helmet beam matched her head’s direction.

  Now her back was vulnerable, exposed to the void that had been in front of her. Toward the unknown. Fearful, she turned again. This time cautiously. Reluctantly.

  Nothing, she declared aloud. Of course, nothing.

  Making a conscious effort to steady her nerves, the troubling sensation partly abated. Ahead, at the furthest throws of her light beam, the lava tube appeared to be widening. A better chance to find water.

  This is foolishness. Hey! Do you hear me! I said foolishness. I’m absolutely alone. That can only mean what’s trying to frighten me—is me. Well, guess what—I choose not to be frightened of myself.

  Jensen continued onward until the tunnel terminated at the entrance to a huge cavern. Sta
nding at the chamber’s leading edge, she gazed downward, her helmet beam bringing into relief a fractured lava “lake” that had formed eons ago when the top layer of a molten lava pool solidified into a thick, smooth crust. Subsequent lava flows had hollowed a space beneath the lake’s surface into which sections of crust had sunk to create a concave basin. It was there that Jensen’s light reflected off a sheen of water. An amount insufficient to siphon. Succumbing to disappointment and exhaustion, she collapsed on the edge of one of the large wedges of crust ringing the declivity.

  To understand why Jensen made her third mistake it is important to know that the rebreather is the most vital piece of equipment—and the most detested. Several kilograms of excess weight and the irritation caused by a pinching shoulder harness and tight-fitting facemask lose their appeal after toiling several hours in an abusively hot and gritty environment. It was common to seek temporary relief from the weight and make adjustments for fit.

  Jensen unclasped a set of retaining straps and shrugged the rebreather off her shoulders. The regulator hose that supplied air to the facemask was of sufficient length for her to deposit the rebreather on the ledge immediately beside her while still breathing recycled air. A day’s accumulation of sweat and grime where silicone contacted skin, had begun to make her facemask chafe. Taking a deep breath, she removed the mask and began wiping her face with a sweaty hand.

  It is possible to take a few labored breaths of Murkor’s low-oxygen, low-pressure, atmosphere. On Jensen’s second breath the strange sensation that had plagued her minutes before unexpectedly returned, and with greater force. Impulsively reacting, she twisted her body to look behind, one leg striking the rebreather lying beside her, pushing it downslope to the rim of a small crevice. A frantic grab at the apparatus sent it propelling over the edge.