Déjà Doomed Page 22

  Yevgeny said, “Climb over and collect a wire sample. And while you are inside, take pictures all around. But be quick. We must be back inside, our vacuum gear stowed, before the Americans stir.”

  Ilya straightened, turned to face Yevgeny, and crossed his arms across his chest. “Poor Nikolay is lying a few meters away, killed by a moment of carelessness in a dangerous environment. Respectfully, I am not about to crawl over a tangle of jagged debris, much less scavenge inside without first bracing what remains of the ceiling.”

  Was that unreasonable? Not really. Never mind that—the lack of proof, or of any plausible suspect, be damned—Yevgeny doubted more than ever that carelessness had had any part in Nikolay’s demise. But neither did they dare undertake another nighttime foray. Not for any mere consolation prize. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  And I will deal at another time with this insubordination.

  Trying not to feel ghoulish, Yevgeny dashed to the next corridor to borrow Nikolay’s tarp/shroud. The tough plastic sheet, draped over the rubble, might spare the fabric of Yevgeny’s pressure suit from torn shins. He scrambled over the barrier, nudged two of the ubiquitous starfish robots out of his way with a boot, snipped a meters-long sample from the nearest presumed magnet, and extended an end of wire to Ilya. “Wind this up on something. A rock, maybe.” He started to climb back over.

  “Pictures?” Ilya reminded. “Also, take a scraping of the wall lining. I expect the passive shielding is iridium, but we should confirm that. And if you should happen upon an intact laser, or a decent-sized segment of the onion shell, bring that.”

  Anything else? Yevgeny deposited scrapings and some onion-shell fragments into two plastic sample bags, stowing them in a tool-belt pocket. He sidled around the rubble and wrecked gear, his helmet camera recording. Each broken laser tube he came upon seemed more fractured than the last. Twice, it was all he could do to squeeze between the wrecked reactor and the wall. Edging behind the reactor, he came upon a wall rip offering him a glimpse into the main corridor. Here, he was beyond the massive roof collapse that had closed off that passage.

  Given his oblique view, he could not decide at first what he was seeing through the tear. A tall metal panel, thrust into the corridor and folded nearly in half. A metal framework of some kind, accordioned beneath more collapsed roof. Beyond that squashed … tube(?), by squatting, he saw more bent and torn metal. At both ends of the tube, or framework, dangling wires and conduits. Past all that, more concrete-lined tunnel.

  An airlock! They would not be fixing it with a fuel cell and a handful of wire jumpers. Nor even, if they had had the equipment, with a hundred-tonne hydraulic jack.

  On Yevgeny’s HUD, clock digits raced toward 4:00 am. They had to get moving. He clambered back the way he had come, wondering what alien secrets remained to be discovered. “I should not need to mention this, but—”

  “Yes, yes. State security. My assumption these days is that anything the Americans do not yet know falls into that category, unless you direct otherwise.”

  “As you should.”

  And then, for an interminable two seconds, a harsh tone keened and echoed in their helmets: Stay where you are.

  “Shit!” Ilya said. “The Americans may be learning stuff real soon.”

  “Stay calm.” Yevgeny spoke to himself as much as to his companion. He had cut things too close. Before long, everyone would be awake and about. They either sneaked back soon, or they got caught—and he really did not want to explain.

  “I guess someone else had trouble sleeping. Join me in some coffee?” How hard could that be? Once Ekatrina had drawn the inopportune someone to the base kitchen, she had only to pat her robe pockets and say, “I seem to have dropped my datasheet while pacing. Fill us a couple of bulbs? I will be right back.”

  And if that someone were not so easily distracted?

  Success or failure: it all came down to Ekatrina.

  Whether as rehearsed or by improvisation, she pulled it off. The next tone they heard, an interminable two minutes later, signaled coast is clear.

  On their way back, in his haste and all the excitement, Yevgeny almost forgot to restore the shroud and to pocket the ultrasound/radio transducer. Just in case one of the Americans should decide to pay final respects to poor Nikolay.

  * * *

  It took Yevgeny hours, but in the end he contrived an innocuous-sounding reason to run out with Ekatrina to their shuttlecraft. Where he would have struggled, she extracted its ground-penetrating radar unit from the instrument console without skinning a knuckle and with hardly a harsh word.

  Taking a meandering path across rocky terrain, cabled together for radio silence, they came to his best guess at the spot above the newfound alien airlock. Before he turned over helmet downloads, of course, vids would show a different, and more direct, return to the base.

  Ekatrina busied herself with the GPR, now running on battery power. “Yevgeny …?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking ….”

  Ominous words, those. “About?”

  “Nikolay’s death. Something is going on that we do not understand. This is a bad time for anyone to keep secrets.”

  As if the Americans had invited Russia here! Were it not for his suspicions, his initiative, everything there was to learn about these aliens would have remained an American secret. And though he still had no proof, nor even a plausible scenario, he knew the Americans had had a part in Nikolay’s death. Somehow.

  He grabbed Ekatrina’s elbow, pulled her around to face him. “Do the words ‘state security’ mean anything to you?”

  She pulled free, her face flushed. “Oh, those words mean a lot. ‘State security’ is why the navy was so slow to react when Father’s submarine went down. ‘State security’ is what kept other, capable, navies at a distance while any survivors might still have been rescued. ‘State security’ is why, for long years after the tragedy, Mother and I knew little about how and why Father died—and nothing about the negligence and incompetence that killed all those men.”

  “State security, Katya, is what your father was sworn to protect. The Kursk sinking in no way diminishes his commitment. If you would honor your father, show respect for his values.”

  “His values? Father joined the navy for one reason only. Desperation. His value was feeding his family.”

  “Did you enjoy Murmansk?” The question, or perhaps the implication, reduced her to sullen silence. Because no one liked Murmansk: an impoverished, provincial, depressing seaport and naval base inside the Artic Circle. “If growing up there was hard, I ask you to imagine growing old in Irkutsk.” An armpit of a town in central Siberia.

  She blinked. “What do you want?”

  “Your skills. Your cooperation. Your good judgment, when it comes to the Americans.”

  Silence stretched.

  “Very well,” he said. “I believe we have an understanding.”

  Fractionally, she nodded.

  Good. She would not have to meet an unfortunate accident. Pain in the ass though she was, her talents remained useful.

  They explored for several minutes in a widening spiral before the radar’s display offered the faint image of a lava tube, deep beneath their boots. He had expected nothing more; from a few hundred meters overhead, as he had first surveyed the area before swooping down to surprise the Americans, little of the underground passage had registered beyond its surface-level entrance.

  They followed the faint image until it widened and brightened. The bulge in the tube—like a ghostly dinner moving through a yet more spectral snake—was the alien base, rebar in the mooncrete and plenty of interior metal yielding the strongest echo.

  Turning, they strode away from the base, still guided by the curve of the lava tube far below. The relatively strong radar return from the underground base faded away. Now all that showed on the dis
play was the faint indication of the lava tube itself, penetrating deeper and deeper beneath the surface. They continued walking above the tube. Until—

  “What’s that?” Ekatrina asked.

  “A state secret.”

  “Big surprise, given that this entire excursion is a lie. But what is it?”

  It was an unexpected dimming, nearly a nullity in the return. As if something absorbed, or oddly deflected, the radar’s transmissions. A big something, too. Ovoid, he judged it. Forty meters long, perhaps a little less. Ten meters across at its widest. He could not be certain, not without laying eyes on the thing. Still, in his heart of hearts, he knew.

  “That,” Yevgeny said softly, “is a stealthy alien spaceship.”

  Chapter 26

  From the entrance to the lava tube, Marcus watched Brad and Yevgeny lope toward the flat expanse where the tractors were parked. High overhead, the waning crescent Earth glowed. Between, just above the horizon, shone the tiny, rapidly receding, exhaust flame of a departing American shuttle.

  The trickles of water they managed to wring from the regolith did not begin to make up for recycling inefficiencies, nor for the ongoing air seepage through walls whose pores and microfractures self-repairing alien paint had yet to fully seal. And so, at least one aspect of their situation was simplicity itself: either resupply continued on a scheduled basis, quarantine be damned, or they would pile into their respective vehicles and head for the nearest settlement.

  Even before the tragedy and trauma of Nikolay’s death, Marcus had found himself wistfully anticipating the day when they could leave. After the initial rush of discoveries, after the dashed hopes for information from the not-quite-inert computer in the alien control room, the adventure had faded into dull routine. Photograph everything. Tally and sort everything. Find the most intact examples of this or that item, and package those for shipment. Wait for off-site experts to reach the occasional conclusion.

  Ekatrina was marginally qualified to study the smart paint. Ilya, although grossly overqualified for this assignment, had taken over tracing the concealed alien power-distribution, resistive electrical heating, and comm networks. Donna had resumed spot-testing around the base in a vain quest for any alien biological activity. As for Brad, Yevgeny, and himself? When not—tedious in and of itself—topside to retrieve deliveries or put on a show for satellites, they had become mere remotely operated hands for specialists elsewhere. Ethan and Val’s prospector bot had about as much say in its routine.

  Brad and Yevgeny reached the parking lot and climbed into a tractor. Big guy that Brad was, the little cab was going to be cozy. The vehicle set off at a good clip, its tires throwing tall rooster tails of regolith. “On our way to the supply drop,” Brad radioed.

  “Happy trails, guys,” Marcus responded.

  The tractor-trailer vanished behind a ridge—but for much of this errand, it would remain in view of the “dead” prospecting bot. According to the schedule, Ethan would clandestinely monitor the loading of the trailer. If anything seemed out of the ordinary, Tyler would be the first to know, Marcus the second.

  “On our way back,” Yevgeny announced earlier than Marcus had expected.

  “See you soon.” Because loading and unloading the trailer was easy. Carting cargo down the meandering lava tube, much of its floor uneven? That was difficult.

  The tractor came over the ridge—and stopped.

  “Boss,” Brad said, “Being as how we’re almost there already, I asked Yevgeny to detour us by the old homestead. Some of our water-recycling gear could use an overhaul, and I want to pick up some tools.”

  Marcus was content to know about recycling that it worked. In that willing ignorance he had ample company, a fair share of his fellow engineers among them. Who wanted to dwell upon how a recycler in need of refurbishing might taint its output, much less what material went into the apparatus? “By all means, pick up what you need.”

  The igloos his team had vacated were behind a different hill, invisible from his perspective or Ethan’s. “Yevgeny, I assume you’ll wait there for Brad?”

  “Happy to,” the Russian said.

  The tractor door popped opened and a blue-suited figure jumped out. Brad. “Jeez, Boss, it’s not far. You guys get a start on unloading. I promise, I’ll be right along.”

  Tyler remained adamant on keeping the igloos free from Russian bugs. Apart from caution—“tradecraft,” he called it—he could give no reason. To be fair, Yevgeny was as obstinate about his shuttle being off limits. So, in a Tyler mindset, it was best that Yevgeny not loiter. If Brad were careless about where he stood unlocking the airlock, Yevgeny might see the access code with visor magnification.

  “Okay,” Marcus said. “But no malingering.”

  Melodramatic sigh. “You know me too well, Boss.”

  “And stay on the air.”

  “Will do, Boss.”

  The tractor-trailer trundled toward the lava tube, turned aside, then backed up to the entrance. The flatbed trailer was piled high with water and oh-two tanks, any of which—on Earth—would have been a pain to lift. The next largest part of the haul seemed to be grocery boxes.

  Yevgeny jumped from the cab. “Let’s get this done.”

  They were returning from their second jaunt down the lava tube when Brad said, “Oops.”

  “Oops, what?” Marcus asked.

  “Fall, go splat. I think I caught a boot tip in a hole. Damn shadows. Damn lunar gophers. Otherwise, it was just my big, dumb feet. I … what the—”

  “Brad! Brad, report!” Marcus shouted.

  Crickets.

  Marcus dashed to the surface. “Yevgeny! With me.” And to whoever inside was listening, he added, “Donna, prep the infirmary.”

  Unhitching the trailer could not have taken Marcus more than a minute, but the task seemed interminable. With Marcus driving, they sped toward the igloos. He sent them airborne, the vacuum be damned, over a low hillcrest. They bounced onto the downward slope, then fishtailed. Jaws clenched, he steered out of the skid, easing up ever so slightly on the throttle pedal.

  Yevgeny, with admirable restraint, said nothing.

  They sped on. Domes blotchy with regolith appeared over the next rise. Marcus took that crest slower, never losing traction. And veered toward the original American igloo, perhaps ten meters away—

  A dark blue figure lay crumpled amid the inky shadows of a cluster of boulders. Unmoving.

  Marcus stomped the brake pedal to the floor, skidding to a stop. He slammed the transmission into park, flung open the door, and bounded the last few meters.

  Brad lay curled on his side. The antenna had snapped off his helmet. Down his left calf, a long, jagged slit was half patched—and half welling with blood. His right calf showed several short rips and many more pinhole punctures; blood seeped and bubbled from those, too. Emergency patches and some torn-open wrappers were scattered on the rocky ground.

  Patch and reflate the suit? Pressurize the tractor cab? Neither. The igloos were already under pressure. He scooped up Brad’s still form, dashed to the nearest igloo, and—at that moment not giving a damn whether Yevgeny were watching—tapped in the unlock code.

  Over the emergency channel, Yevgeny was reporting.

  “Yevgeny,” Marcus called. “Drive back to base. Bring Donna.”

  “Copy that.”

  Marcus smacked the button that began the airlock cycling. Glacially, the outer hatch began to open. He squeezed the two of them inside as soon as he could, then hit the next button. The outer hatch reversed and—finally—closed. As air gushed into the airlock, he grabbed Brad’s helmet. It came off as the inner hatch slid open. He set Brad on the floor, then twisted off his own helmet.

  “Brad!” Marcus shouted at the pale, blue-tinged face. No reaction. He wriggled just enough out of his suit to extract an arm from its sleeve and feel Brad’s
throat for a pulse. None. What to do? Emergency training seemed so long ago! “Brad!”

  Marcus looked around for something, anything, that might help. Defib equipment, of course, was at the base. He began chest compressions, the stiff fabric layers of Brad’s pressure suit resisting, deflecting, redistributing, every push. But how long would it take to wrestle Brad’s limp form even partway out of his suit?

  Brad wheezed! Just once, but it was something. Marcus paused the hands-on CPR to check again for a pulse. For a moment he might have felt a flutter.

  Once more, Brad stirred. His eyes flew open. He hoarsely croaked … something. Perhaps it started with a B. Bo? Bot? But? A reflex, a random syllable, surely. Then his eyes fell closed again.

  Suit AI went into standby when the helmet decoupled from its neck ring, but it would still be listening. Resuming CPR, Marcus shouted, “Suit. Radio on, emergency channel. Anyone listening, I brought Brad into our original igloo. Decompression of unknown duration. Pulse is weak and erratic. I’m doing chest compressions. Yevgeny is on his way with the tractor for Donna. Have her bring the defib.”

  “Copy that,” Ilya said. “She is already suiting up.”

  “Five minutes,” Marcus said, pressing hard and fast on the center of Brad’s chest, sustaining the pace by humming some awful but fast-tempo Lady Gaga thing, a retro ear worm Simon had unleashed months earlier on the family. “Five minutes, big guy, and Donna will be here. Maybe sooner. Hang on.”

  “I’m exiting the lava tube,” Donna called over the emergency channel. “Yevgeny and the tractor are almost here. Any change in the patient?”

  “No.” Marcus continued his rescue efforts, fine-tuning his technique as Donna made suggestions.

  An eternity later, Donna burst through the airlock with their portable defib case and a bag valve mask. Marcus stepped away to stand by helplessly. She popped her helmet, knelt at Brad’s side, and set to work.

  At last, Donna stopped. Looked up at Marcus. And with tears in her eyes, shook her head.