Deeper Into the Void (17 page)

Chapter 18

M
endez inserts tweezers to remove the last stinger from the inside of Cardiff’s nose. Cardiff’s fair complexion is now thoroughly complicated by red blotches where she had been stung. Her recent experience in assisting Doctor Ghent has proven to be quite painful. A syringe filled with anti-histamine lay on the table in the mess hall next to Cardiff. Cardiff’s uncomfortable position on the bench adds to her discomfort, if the assortment of bee stings weren’t enough to make her uncomfortable enough. Doctor Mendez grabs the vial and carefully administers the medication.

Doctor Ghent rushes into the mess hall. He bends over, placing his hands on his knees to prop himself up while he catches his breath. Just as Cardiff opens her mouth to talk, Ghent raises a single finger in a “just one moment” manner. Still out of breath and exhausted, Ghent sits down on the bench, about an arm’s reach away from the women.

Mendez looks on at Ghent; her drawn eyes indicate her depth in thought. Mendez stands up and walks to the other side of the table from where Ghent sits and places her hands together in a sensible manner. After coming to a rest, she leans forward, closer to him.

Mendez removes her intent attention from Ghent to Cardiff at the end of the table. As she listens she withdraws her opened hands from the table to her own lap.

Mendez slowly moves her left hand and grasps her right sleeve between her finger and thumb. Without much deliberation, she pulls it away from herself to cover the burn mark that had been left during her unnerving dream.

Ghent smiles as he turns for the hallway. Just before disappearing down the hallway he pauses, and then turns slowly to face Cardiff.

A simple half-grin is his response to her query as he turns back down the darkened hallway.

Chapter 19

A
large cloud of fine dust swells up off of the plain about 150 kilometers west of the dome. A large plateau, oddly devoid of the customary rocks, is traversed with speed as Doctor Long strays further from base in the heavy rig. With his arms relaxed at his sides in the driver’s seat, Long manipulates the control panel, altering music, speed and direction. The satellite’s camera overhead follows the vehicle as it travels; the satellite feed is relayed to Long’s control panel, and he can see obstacles coming from much farther out than he otherwise could.

As he presses closer to the edge of the Olympian plateau, the impending drop-off comes into clear view, not only on the dash but on the horizon as well. The small-looking sun shines above him in the late-morning sky.

The large metal wheels roll rapidly through the thinning sand. The wheels sound out their arrival on the bare rock surface as he slows to a stop just before driving off of the two thousand meter drop-off onto the Martian plain below. The satellite guidance system, which is installed in the cockpit, signals the arrival at the intended destination. Heavy boots settle decisively on the firm, rust-colored rock, just two meters away from the sheer drop. A harness of yellow nylon weave is wrapped around his legs, shoulders and chest. A heavy metal loop is attached to the back allows for secure attachment to the steel cable. After climbing into the harness, Long climbs back up the side of the rig. He presses the control panel one last time. A large metal boom begins to fold out of the heavy rig, almost as if it were an oversized Swiss-army knife. The long metal boom, which resembles the long arm on a crane now, is anchored surely at the front of the rig. A heavy steel cable is lowered down to Long from the top.

With one hand holding the metal loop on his back awkwardly, and the other hand attaching the heavy metal clasp at the end of kilometers of steel cable, Long prepares for his descent down the face of the cliff. This particular location was selected for its sheer drop, no decline, just a drop-off.

Far beneath his feet, a sea of sand spans out into the distance as far as he can see. The rippling sands look just like frozen waves upon the ocean. The reddish colored sand seems to call for him. He prepares to answer the call.

The winch, mounted on the front of the rover, provides Doctor Long with a remotely-controlled release and retraction of the cable. With the cable firmly in his right hand, toes against the edge of the cliff, Long leans forward. With a simple press on his wrist the winch is released and Long leaps off of the edge. The feeling of weightlessness and acceleration combine to give his stomach an intense realization of free-fall.

The rock face seems to rush past him at an incalculable speed. He dives head first, facing the rock. He pulls his head up toward the ground below him, revealing to him that he is not traveling as fast as he had assumed that he had been. A relatively long distance still lies between him and the bottom.

Long raises his arms above his head, causing him to fall with his back facing the sky above, instead of the headlong manner as he had been before. The winch on the rover begins to slow his descent as Long touches his wrist-mounted remote control with his right hand. The rock towers around him seem to grow taller as the morning sun is obscured completely from his view. As his descent begins to slow, Long reaches up and grabs the cable to right himself.

Boots of metal and rubber once again make contact steadfastly with terra firma; his descent was slowed to a safe speed at the last moment of descent. Long sinks quickly into the deep sands that mark the beginning of the vast Martian dunes. One short kilometer to the west and Long will reach the mineral deposits identified by the satellite overhead. His hands reach awkwardly behind him to release his attached clasp as he surveys the best path to take.

A task made incredibly easier by the reduced gravity, the hike across the sand dunes does not seem easy at all. His boots sink in the soft sand at every step. Heavy breathing in his helmet begins to fog his visor, despite the fan in his helmet that is meant to prevent that problem.

Sweat runs down his forehead and into his eye, causing a short, yet intense burning sensation. Both eyes clinch shut tightly; a long groan is uttered to relieve his pain as he has no way to rub the sweat out of his eye. He holds his helmet in his hands, as if the proximity of his hands would offer some relief to his burning eyes.

Doctor Long sits down on the sand where he had been standing in agony. His position along the crest of a sharp dune is almost identical in appearance with the rest in this vast and endless sea of sand. Several moments later, Long reopens his eyes again after the stinging has subsided. A small mountain of broken rock lay just at the bottom of the dune below him, “Finally”.

After several minutes of careful descent, Long rests his left hand upon the rock face and drops his head. He takes an extended break, drawing much needed air. With the oxygen cylinder running low on pressure, Long realizes that it is almost again time to switch his oxygen cylinder out. Before swapping out his air, Long decides to grab his hammer from his gear bag. He selects an ideal spot to sample, after examining the rock face for a few moments. As he surveys the surrounding dunes, the breeze-driven sands dance along the crests of these dunes, a peaceful scene.

A bright spark is thrown from the metallic vein within the rock as the hammer strikes it swiftly. A shard of reflective rock falls into the hand that awaits it below. “Into the vial you go”. After collecting several similar samples, he drops his gear bag to the deck and reaches for his spare oxygen. A piercing announcement from the computer startles him before he has a chance to pull it out of the bag. The satellite above detects a fierce windstorm blowing sand at a speed that makes a gale force wind seem like a stiff breeze.

The vial is quickly attached firmly to his belt, along with his hammer. Gloves of thick rubber grip whatever hand-holds exist on the wall of stone. Long turns his head quickly to the east, in the direction of the towering cliffs, and his rover. Even after walking this distance from the cliff, it is twice as high as it is away from him. A thick rust cloud rises over the edge of the cliff, yet again obscuring the light of the sun from him. A raging flood of sand and wind a kilometer high blows over the edge of the cliff. The sand falling down the face is driven down with the intense fury of an unpredictable wind. A cascading waterfall of wind-driven sand appears to his right, and also to his left as far as he can see.

Long intently grasps the rock face, scrambling to ascend higher in an attempt to avoid being buried under the falling sand that will arrive within seconds. Shimmying around the pile of jagged rocks, Long attempts to make it to the other side of the rock to avoid the killer winds that will be arriving in less than a few seconds.

An iron grip on the rock face is as a single thread of silk holding Long to the rock. Impassioned and consuming winds strike the small oasis of rock in a grand desert of meandering sand. A sharp and focused bolt of light drops from the unseen heights above him, it ferociously strikes the rock just above him. The large pieces of the smitten rock begin to fall but disappear out of sight, swallowed up in the tempest of sand.

Under a dark backdrop of sand and wind, lightning strikes illuminate the rock face. The howling of the wind nearly obscures the thunderous sound of the lightening. Sand and wind fade into the distance, after what seems like an hour of clinging to the boulder for dear life. Sand and dust continue to rain down around him in the absence of the furious wind. His visor becomes completely obscured with sand and dust, all goes dark within his helmet.

Long tentatively releases his hold on the rock, and reaches to clear his visor of dust. Exhausted, Doctor Long sits on a smaller boulder at the base of the mound of rock. He sits with sand covering his feet, and a sky free of it above him. A garden of small rocks lies in the sand in front of him; small jagged rocks litter the ground around him where there weren’t any before. The large sand dune he had climbed across a while ago has moved, and another has taken its place. Long takes a brief moment to regain his strength and resolve. The water-filled tube at the edge of his mouth beckons to resolve his thirst. He presses it between his lips and draws water through the small tube.

Sand fills in the space between each of the smaller rocks around him; an unsure footing would surely cause Long pain if he were to fall while walking through them. An impression in the sand about one meter in front of Long draws his attention. Five toe imprints complete the easily recognizable impression. Such a perfectly shaped impression could not be possible; it appears exactly as a footprint in the wet sand at the beach would.

As if there was a foot in the print, it shifts under a change in weight or position, just like someone were standing in it. Another impression slightly in front of it and to the left appears as the sand is pressed down by another unseen foot. Long closes his eyes and stops the sound of his breathing for a moment, the sound of sand moving is all that he can hear through his helmet.

A hallucination is the simple explanation for what Long is seeing, he thinks to himself. A long and slow inhalation of air calms Long enough for him to slowly open his eyes. Footprints in the sand race away from Long into the expansive sea of sand. A feeling of overall relief surges across his body, until he realizes that his next oxygen tank is not fastened onto his belt any longer. His hands move frantically around him, the tank is nowhere around him. He kneels in the sand where he had stood before the storm. He frantically digs in the sand, searching for the smooth cylinder of oxygen.

Frustrated and frantic, he takes a quick glance into the distance. This glance reveals his thin lifeline that would sustain him long enough to return; a gleaming metal canister sits atop the ridge of sand. The canister is accompanied by footsteps in the sand; a trail of steps lead from him to his canister.

Long stands up, with some assistance from his rock bound hand pulling him up. The air in his helmet is proving to be growing staler by the second. The carbon dioxide scrubber in his suit is likely just about filled to capacity, and his tank is almost completely empty. Long feels the need to breathe more and more, he stumbles around the smaller rocks in this treacherous garden of rock and sand.

A relatively short walk to the top of the sandy ridge seems too far to walk; there is no chance for survival at this point without the extra air. Pain and discomfort accompany the cramps building in Long’s legs as he struggles through the eager sand. This sand eagerly calls to him, to swallow him into the soft bed of defeat.

One final knee, sinking into the sand, finds him resting half-way up the dune of sand. Rapid and shallow breaths are no longer sufficient to provide him strength. On his hands and knees, Long sprawls out into the sand, completely defeated. His gloves, rushing forward in this descent of surrender, strike a hard object, a rock perhaps. He looks up with his last breaths. Long gasps for fresh air, the same air that he had taken for granted with each breath back home. The collision of his hand against a hard object surprises him; his eyes rise to his hand.

The same gleaming canister that had driven him up the mountain of sand now lay in the sand within his reach. His hand stumbles around the canister, trying to grasp it firmly. Difficulties in coordination are no longer sufficient to prevail against his will of iron. He rolls onto his back to more easily change his air canisters. With a burst of cold and satisfying air rushing into his helmet, he lays down, savoring each sweet breath.

After several minutes of recovery, his headache is a reminder of what he had almost succumbed to. Long turns his attention again to the perilous task of returning to his rover; once there, an abundance of fresh air would sustain him. Rising to his feet, he ponders how the canister could have met him halfway without any wind. What could cause the metal canister to roll down the dune when it had been planted so firmly in the sand?

The next singular thought that crosses his mind causes him to flash his focus to the top of the cliff, where his rover had been left earlier. Distance and a cloudy mental state deny Long any confirmation about the security of his rover. He can only hope that it is still atop the cliff. Confidence in his own safety wanes, yet again; a resolved will to live at whatever the cost drives him. Long sprints along the dune ridge toward the cliff face, with his gear bag firmly attached at his side.

The early afternoon sun illuminates jagged rock features along the cliff face. Millions of shadows on the incline in front of him place the scale of his upcoming ascent into sharp relief. After a short sprint, Long discovers that he is not in as good of shape as he once was. This is probably a bi-product of the months asleep in space and the low-gravity here. He comes to rest atop the crest of the long sand dune, which appears as a long snake in a sea of snakes from above.

The laughter of a child causes Long to look around frantically, no direction of the source can be made as his helmet obscures most sound. Long holds his hand up over his eyes, as if to create a visor to shield them from the sun. Hundreds of meters away, Long can see a small child standing atop the next dune over. The tiny figure is almost indistinguishable from a rock. That is, until it moves along the crest of the dune.