The Symbionts of Murkor Page 8

  She had a split second to make a decision: Expend her last breath trying to fetch the rebreather (it appeared to be lodged just out of reach) or use her communicator to summon help.

  The mind can deceive itself forever; the body, deprived of oxygen, can be deceived for only so long. Panic and lack of oxygen to the brain clouded Jensen’s judgment. Although it would take only a few seconds to alert Imholtz before passing out, her first impulse was to extricate the rebreather. She was being controlled by the stark realization of what would happen before Imholtz came to resuscitate her: Suffocation and the too-real semblance of dying.

  With her upper body hanging over the edge, she reached into the crevice, her fingertips grazing one of the rebreather’s retaining straps. Stretching (a centimeter more and she’d lose her own precarious balance) she seized hold of the strap and gave a tug. Several frantic pulls proved that she lacked the strength to dislodge the apparatus, the damn thing having jammed itself in place. Trembling, she stood. With any additional exertion she would pass out.

  Starved for oxygen, she began taking long, heaving gasps of air.

  Seeing the cause lost, she spasmodically searched for her belt-mounted communicator. Realizing she had forgotten it in the CAM-L, an intense electric shock of panic shot through her, seizing her muscles in a vise grip. In the throes of mental and physical disintegration, her body convulsed, epileptic-like. Then, in an instinctual flight response, it staggered in the infinite directions it saw as escape until it crashed hard to the lava floor.

  How odd, the hovering

  Closer

  A presence, directly above

  Touching

  How very odd, transferring life into her

  Inseparable

  “Breathe.”

  Vocal

  “Breathe, I said. Dammit, breathe!”

  A voice.

  “Breathe, you crazy fool, breathe!”

  A human voice.

  “You damn crazy, crazy fool!”

  Imholtz’s voice. Expressed as a deep sigh of relief.

  There were signs of life.

  Imholtz, performing the difficult task of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation while alternatively taking hits of air from his rebreather mask.

  It was only when his partner fully returned to consciousness and could breathe unassisted that he could shove his backup mask onto her face.

  It was one more mistake that helped save Jensen’s life. Before passing out, she had lost track of time. When, after twenty minutes had elapsed and she had failed to meet him at the rendezvous point, a concerned Imholtz buzzed her communicator. Having been left in the CAM-L, it was promptly answered by a very angry Davis. Angry because Jensen had left the device behind, more so because he made the logical assumption that both techs had willfully violated protocol by separating. To the shout of “you stupid bastards,” Imholtz had dropped the siphoning hose and began running. In the lower gravity, he was an exceptionally good runner.

  “Who am I?” The inquiry came from Imholtz. “And don’t fuck with me.” He had an imprecise idea of how long his partner had been oxygen-deprived and wanted a quick assessment or her brain function.

  “You—You’re Bert,” Jensen, still flat on her back, replied in a shaky voice.

  “That’s a start.”

  “Is it gone?”

  “Is what gone?” Imholtz asked, his concern about her mental state renewed.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Kneeling, Imholtz shone his light around the chamber. “What the hell happened in here? And where in God’s name is your rebreather?”

  Jensen weakly pointed into the darkness. “There. Fell into a crevice.”

  “How the hell—never mind, that’ll come later. Can it be retrieved?”

  “I don’t know—not by me—by you.”

  “Sit up.” Imholtz ordered. Watching her rise, he opened a line to Davis: “Found her. All’s well.”

  “I expected to hear from you sooner,” an irate Davis returned.

  “Yeah, well,” Imholtz replied, “resuscitation takes a bit of time.”

  After a moment’s silence: “Say again? You’re jerkin’ me, right?”

  “No time for explanation. Can’t say what happened, but I think we can rule out autoerotic asphyxiation.”

  “You’ll both have some explaining to do. Shall I run in with a second rebreather?”

  “Wait on that. Be prepared to do so, pending recovery of my partner’s.”

  Imholtz terminated the connection, then asked Jensen if she could stand. After she replied in the affirmative, they walked together over to the crevice where the rebreather had lodged. With his greater strength and longer reach, Imholtz freed the apparatus.

  Jensen had been looking furtively about the chamber. When the rebreather was safely placed on her back she simply said, “You saved me.”

  “You’re welcome. Who’s gonna save us?”

  “From Davis?”

  “Him, too. No, I’m thinking Commander Ellis.”

  ***

  Returning to the CAM-L, Jensen was compelled to rest while the other two-thirds of the team saw to the stowage of safety equipment and the rewinding of the siphon hose. During the journey back to Zenith, a much-improved Jensen offered up her story.

  The one facet of the drama that defied an explanation, the presence she felt, was conveniently attributed to a combination of mild heat stroke, exhaustion, and mental fatigue. When that failed to fully satisfy, it became one more addition to the growing lore concerning undiscovered life in the planet’s lava tubes.

  Davis was still angry about the day’s events. “Remind me,” he asked, knowing full well the answer, “how much water did we pick up today?”

  “Twenty-three liters,” a disgusted Imholtz answered.

  “You found nothing in your passage either?” Jensen, dismayed, asked.

  “Not a drop.”

  “So what the hell are we doing out here,” Jensen spit out, “risking our collective asses? And for what? For what?!

  “Not for what,” Imholtz said with disgust. “For whom.”

  Two of the team members were determined to find a scapegoat. And so, there it was, the root cause of the mission’s troubles presented in a nice, tidy package:

  Commander Ellis.

  Davis, for the most part, kept quiet but he did not completely disagree.

  Having his harsh punishment fresh in mind, and wishing to avoid more, a pact was reached between all three crewmates.

  They would not reveal what transpired in Murkor Tube Network Z784C.

  Not that they knew themselves.

  5. Nadir’s Atmosphere

  TWO DREARY MURKORIAN DAYS had elapsed from that early morning when Comandante Andrés Garcia called Carlos Alvarez’s attention to the stagnant atmosphere in Nadir’s diminutive L3 exercise room. Neither considered the problem unusual or particularly worrisome. Carlos’s subsequent report on the matter, therefore, read more like a boilerplate description of Nadir’s outdated Environmental Support System than a definitive cause and solution:

  ESS is a hybrid, partially closed, loop-type system. Internal atmosphere is passed through a canister air scrubber to remove excess carbon dioxide, noxious compounds, and particulates. An auxiliary concentrator replenishes oxygen lost through respiration via the intake and selective filtration of Murkor’s atmosphere.

  At the time of this report the system was determined to be operating within design parameters. Detector readings taken at the primary plenum are as follows: Particulate matter 44 µg/m³ (0-50 µg/m³ norm); Oxygen 20.87% (20.81 - 21.36 norm); carbon dioxide 943 ppm (350 - 950 ppm norm); ambient pressure 99.08 kPa (103.00 - 99.0 kPa norm). Readings have been averaged.

  Note: misalignment of exterior palladium glass panels necessitates that ESS be operated at or near maximum-rated efficiency in order to maintain one atmosphere pressure and to assure gases remain within established parameters.

  The report’s lack of specificity as to the actual caus
e of the annoyance on L3 was overlooked by Garcia because short-lived equipment malfunctions were common and Carlos had inspected the ESS and found it to be in adequate working order.

  During completion of an unusually lethargic workout, however, Garcia once again noticed that L3’s air was of objectionable quality. Intending to question Carlos, he was instead sidetracked by the burden of routine duties, including the neglected chore of evaluating the previous week’s hydrological data submitted by tenientes Roya Allawi and Gustavo Ramírez.

  Hours later he was still at the task, sequestered at one of the designated workstations on L2. Neither the blue bursts intruding from an adjacent viewport (there had been a recent spate of unusually intense magnetic storm activity) nor the audible complaints of nearby fumaroles were sufficient to break his concentration. A welcome distraction from the tedium finally came from Nadir’s physician, Capitán Mariana Perez.

  “Am I interrupting something important, Comandante?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mariana, I could use a break,” Garcia replied, pushing a screen full of numbers and hydrology charts aside.

  Mariana had been enlisted in the military for fifteen years, ten as a medical officer. During that time she had been addressed by rank—teniente, then capitán. During medical emergencies she expected to hear “doctora.” Serving under Garcia quickly changed that. Now “Mariana” had become the norm with the occasional “doctora” used in those rare instances when she was treating a crew member for some minor ailment. At first, the change took some getting used to, but there was a quiet, contagious ease to the Comandante’s manner that made the breach in military etiquette acceptable. Conversely, it was his stately bearing (and, yes, his age—she was sixteen years his junior) that compelled her and the four others in his charge to address him almost exclusively by the title of Comandante, even though he made it well-known that in most situations he had no affinity for the appellation’s formality. In some sense, “Comandante” had, by way of friendly intonation and repeated usage, come to have more the warmth of a first name rather than the coldness of a military title.

  “Crunching numbers, I see,” Mariana commented. “Not quite what you signed on for, is it?”

  “At times I feel more the accountant,” Garcia agreed, rubbing his eyes as Mariana took an adjoining seat. “One can look at this fine detail for only so long.”

  “Your eyes getting tired?” Mariana asked.

  “Now that you say it, they are, a little,” Garcia admitted, then, seeing the satisfied expression his answer produced: “Ahh—that is what you expected to hear, is it not?”

  Mariana nodded. “I doubt the cause is the columns of numbers you’re compelled to stare at. The air quality on L2 has deteriorated. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Until now, he had not. Looking across the open space he detected a subtle alteration in the air, uncertain which of the five senses were being used to evaluate what he was perceiving. Perhaps, he considered, a combination of smell, touch and vision, even though, when taken separately, each appeared to register no change.

  “I have been remiss,” Garcia said, annoyed with himself. “This morning I noticed a similar degradation—slightly more pronounced—on L3. I intended to alert Carlos.”

  “Smacks of dereliction of duty,” Mariana contended, exaggerating a frown. “Which leaves me little choice. I must put you on report.”

  “Under the circumstances,” Garcia said, gesturing at the screen full of hydro data, “would you allow for a verbal reprimand?”

  “Well now—” Mariana replied, as if carefully considering. “In recognition of your prior accomplishments, and with—how many days left?”

  “Seventy Standard Earth Days. Eighty-nine Murkor days.”

  “—and with eighty-nine days remaining in your illustrious military career, I can, in good conscience, make certain allowances.”

  “Appreciated.”

  There was a moment or two of silent contemplation. Mariana softly placed a hand on Garcia’s arm.

  “You will be sorely missed, Comandante. I shall miss you.”

  “And I, you. We have many a shared memory.”

  “That we do.” Mariana’s face brightened as she fixated on one of those memories. “We thought that damn fumarole was dormant when we climbed in.”

  “Los eruptos del Diablo,” Garcia said, laughing. “Sudden and loud, I recall. Scared the living hell out of us. We climbed over each other getting out of there.”

  “You know that’s false. Chivalry, thanks mainly to you, is alive. You made sure I got out first.”

  “I felt responsible for talking you into exploring that stinking hole.”

  “Was it not my crazy idea?”

  “Ha! I remember the opposite,” Garcia protested, looking back in time, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger in the near-universal sign of contemplation. “Ahh, there we have it. The wonder of many a shared experience. Memories may pale with time, the affection they inspire shines steadily on.”

  “I—yes,” Mariana said, reflecting on Garcia’s compassionate words, doing her utmost to repress a warmer show of emotion.

  For his part, Garcia stood, extricating himself from a sensitive conversation by squeezing her lightly on the shoulder and saying, “I must seek out Carlos. With any luck, he’s on L1, working on the ESS as we speak.”

  ***

  The enclosure housing the ESS and the associated Nexus control was large enough to warrant its own door, presently closed. Garcia was surprised to hear Carlos’s voice within. The engineer’s talent for working on arcane equipment often lent itself to working in isolation. Stepping inside, Garcia found this occasion to be no exception.

  “Is it that bad?” Garcia questioned. “Talking to yourself?”

  “I am not.”

  “No?” Obligingly, for it was clearly impossible for anyone else to have been present, Garcia glanced beyond the confusing labyrinth of ducting, canisters, and wire chases, into the compartment’s deepest recesses. “Can’t see how they got past me, Carlos.”

  “Not they. He. More specifically, B.H. Hommerfel.”

  Garcia played along. “Someone else living on base I should know about?”

  Carlos, exasperated, pointed to the Nexus, the interactive, semitranslucent screen where, taking on a life of its own, ebbed and flowed a colorful diorama of the entire Environmental Support System. “You should become better acquainted with the deceased SOB who engineered this dinosaur,” Carlos said. “He’s here, in one form or another, haunting me. I was letting him know just what I think of him.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  “Reaction?” Carlos said, feigning a worried look. “Seriously? You expect a reaction? You’re scaring me, Comandante.”

  “Apparently, you’re aware of the declining atmospherics on L3 and L2?” Garcia asked.

  “Of course,” Carlos replied, concentrating on the screen in front of him. “And I’ve just about ruled out the ESS being the culprit. That leaves the Nexus.”

  The Nexus had the complex task of regulating Nadir’s internal atmosphere: Carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, oxygen, nitrogen, water vapor, particulates, temperature, duct flow, and pressure being a few of the components for which it had oversight. Capable of limited critical thinking, the Nexus was relied upon to make and carry out informed decisions specific to its operational responsibilities,

  “You’ve abandoned the idea of pressure loss?” Garcia asked.

  “I’ve been giving that more thought. Those palladium panels have been improperly sealed for some time now. The leaks require ESS to work double-time. I doubt that they are the root cause of the malfunction. No, we’re dealing with something new here.”

  “Which air quality parameters are the most affected?”

  “Particulates and carbon dioxide.”

  “Carbon dioxide being the most problematic,” Garcia said. “Give me a number.”

  “At the moment, 1,484 ppm, measured on L3,” Carlos answered. �
�Not ideal. Tolerable.”

  “Not if readings continue to trend higher,” Garcia cautioned, knowing his next statement would inspire a swift reaction. “I’m unaccustomed to hearing equivocation from you, Carlos. Especially when it’s concerning the most critical aspects of Nadir’s environmental support.”

  Carlos turned from the Nexus display screen that had been consuming his attention and faced Garcia. “I’ve only been at this chore a couple of hours,” he declared with a renewal of his customary bravado. “Have a little faith, Comandante.”

  “I do, I do,” Garcia insisted with casual assurance. “You most forgive me, Carlos, if for the present moment only, I saw your understanding of the problem at hand to be as ethereal as your nemesis, the ever-present B.H. Hommerfel.”

  ***

  Before leaving the engineer to his work Garcia obtained assurances of receiving a status report by the end of that day’s afternoon. It troubled him how frequently equipment broke down, each occurrence reinforcing the unhealthy notion that life on base was a tenuous proposition which had to be tolerated. With replacement parts in short supply, and assistance too remote to be practical, there wasn’t much choice in the matter.

  And so, although he was concerned about the working status of the ESS, he had confidence that a solution would soon be found by his resourceful engineer. In that, too, there was little choice.

  Descending to L1 and his austere living quarters, Garcia began to consider a second problem. Weighing on his mind was how to respond if, as expected, he received a hostile message from Zenith’s new CO. What he did not expect, after a tiresome bout of ineffectual contemplation, was to nod off at his desk. A quiet, insistent rap on the door woke him. Unaware of who was there (the door’s “transparency” feature having long ago failed beyond even Carlos’s ability to repair) he simply said, “Enter.”

  In swept Amanda Cruz, suffused with purpose.

  Envisioning what that purpose was, Garcia was immediately roused.

  “May I stay a moment or two?” she asked. “L2 seems a bit stuffy.”

  A transparent ploy, Garcia thought. At the same time he couldn’t help noticing every small detail of what Amanda was wearing: Tight shorts exposing long, smooth legs; a sheer, loose-fitting T-shirt which, backlit, outlined the curves of her breasts. They swayed enticingly as she angled past him to perch on the edge of the small sofa opposite.