A Step Beyond Read online

  “Stay no stay?” Endicott asked.

  “We’re here to stay,” Nelson replied, checking the monitors. “Congratulations, gentlemen,” Endicott said. “How does it feel to be the first humans to land on another planet?”

  “Glorious,” Carter said, ridding himself of his helmet. He smiled up at the camera with white shiny teeth and placed a folded stick of gum between the brilliant rows. “Most glorious indeed.”

  “The Americans have landed,” Vladimir announced.

  “Fuel?” Komarov demanded, unwilling to detach his eyes from the monitor that displayed the Martian surface beneath him.

  “Two minutes and seventeen seconds remaining.”

  “Over there,” Satomura exclaimed, pointing to the west. “A clearing about fifty meters due west.”

  Komarov glanced out the portal, then returned his attention to the instrument panel. His face was expressionless. The muscles in his neck stuck out like rigid bands of steel. He would not get a second chance. If he wasn’t on the ground within less than two minutes and seventeen seconds, he would have to abort the landing. He could see Carter, with his large country-bumpkin grin stretched ear to ear, planting the U.N. flag in the Martian soil.

  “Rotating ninety west,” he said. “Forward fifty. Descending five.”

  “Two minutes,” Vladimir said. “Estimated landing time: fifty-seven seconds. You have one minute to spare.”

  They arrived at the location Satomura had indicated. The high-definition that displayed the ground directly underneath was littered with scattered rocks. The rocks were smaller but packed together tightly. He scanned the surface for something less treacherous.

  “We can’t land here,” Tatiana said.

  “One minute thirty seconds.”

  “Going north twenty.”

  “Forty-five seconds,” Vladimir said. His tone struck Tatiana as odd. He sounded slightly pleased. This surprised her. She didn’t know what to make of it at first. The bastard, she thought. He’s actually hoping we’re going to abort. She looked at Satomura and could see concern in his eyes. She then looked at Komarov. He appeared unusually grave. The unthinkable was closing in on them. It did not seem possible. She pressed hard against her restraint straps as she searched the monitors for a place to land.

  “Forty seconds.”

  “Arm ascent engines,” Vladimir said. “Prepare to abort.” “Over there!” Tatiana shouted, pointing.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “Where?” Komarov demanded.

  “Fifty meters northeast,” she said, jabbing her finger at the spot.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Vladimir said. “You’ll never make it. Initiate abort sequence.”

  “Like hell,” Komarov growled. “We’re going down.”

  The lander was not an airplane, it did not have wings or ailerons or rudders or a tail. It did not float or glide. It was an elon-gated capsule, shaped vaguely like a missile, and was designed to go two directions: straight up and straight down. The descent engines allowed lateral movement, but the movement was limited. The aerodynamics were simple. When the mixture of fluorine/oxygen and methane ran out, 140,000 pounds of thrust would dissipate, gravity would take over, and the craft would drop out of the sky like a lead weight. He was only going as far as the fuel would take him. There was nothing he could do to change that. But he could push the machine. As a test pilot, that had been his job. No pilot worth his salt would do less. He didn’t get to be the best by backing off. There really had never been any doubt in his mind. He was not going to give up until the last drop of fuel was spent.

  “Forward twenty, down ten.” He was surprised at how calm and confident he sounded.

  “Ten seconds.”

  The computer displayed a recommendation to abort. “Forward twenty, down ten.”

  “Five.”

  They had another ten meters to go, Komarov calculated. The remaining five seconds would get them there, but they still would be twenty meters above the surface. A fall from that distance would crumple the landing gear like toothpicks. The rocket nozzles would be crushed, and the lander would probably tip over onto its side. There was a chance the engines would explode. Whatever happened, it was unlikely the lander would be able to take off again. The first of the two plans developed for such a contingency was to fly the dirigible to the American site. The second was to return by the emergency lander docked in the supply ship. He glanced down at the fuel gauge and felt like tapping it, but his hands were full. Experience had taught him there was always more fuel than the gauge indicated.

  The screens started flashing red.

  “Three,” Vladimir counted, unable to disguise the doubt in his voice.

  The sand on the surface kicked up and mushroomed into a red maelstrom that engulfed the craft. The landing site disappeared behind the rising cloud of dust. There had been a few rocks, but they were small and far apart. They could land here as long as they had enough fuel. The gauge read empty.

  “I want you to hit the abort switch on my command,” Komarov ordered Satomura. The computer was constantly calculating escape velocities and escape trajectories, allowing for an abort at any moment in the descent, even at the final moment when the lander was within centimeters of the ground.

  “One.”

  The engines continued to roar defiantly. The distant bashing of drums in the final crescendo of a symphony. Komarov knew as long as he heard that sound the lander still had power.

  “OK,” Komarov said, “we need to make every second count. Down ten.”

  “Twenty meters from the surface,” Satomura said.

  “Down ten.”

  “Ten meters from the surface.”

  A violent storm of red dust was beating at the lander’s portals. “We’re almost there.”

  The first eight meters was a textbook descent. The engines blared gloriously. They were beginning to think they would make it. Then there was silence. They were two meters above the ground. An eerie stillness swept through the ship. The last drops of fluorine/oxygen and methane had combined and combusted. For a brief moment the lander hung suspended. Then it fell.

  “Hold on.” Komarov fingers tightened on the controls. “Abort!” Vladimir shouted.

  “No!” Komarov shouted.

  Satomura reached out toward the abort switch but Komarov knocked his hand away.

  “Gagarin, this is Shepard, do you copy? Over.” Carter waited a few seconds, then repeated the query. He released a deep breath. “We’re not picking them up.”

  “I fear the worst,” Vladimir said from the monitor. He was running his hand through his hair.

  “You say they ran out of fuel and did not abort?” Nelson asked with disbelief.

  “They were two meters from the ground.”

  “Only Komarov,” Carter said.

  “They may be alive,” Nelson said. “Are you certain they did not abort? Perhaps the ascent engines misfired.”

  “They did not abort, I tell you. I will send you the transmission. There is much I must do. I must go now.”

  “How can we help?”

  “Keep on trying to raise them. I will contact you as soon as I have something.”

  “Roger,” Nelson replied. “Over and out.”

  “I’ll say one thing for Dmitri, he’s one determined son of a bitch,” Carter said. “I suspect they’re OK. The Gagarin must have been damn close to the ground for him not to have aborted.”

  “What do you think happened?” Nelson asked.

  “The way I see it, Dmitri was running her on vapors. The gauge read empty but there was still some fuel in the tanks. So he wagers he can put her down before she runs out of gas. He knows he can abort even within centimeters of the ground. So there’s really no danger. He can hit the abort switch the second the engines cut out. But he doesn’t. Why? Because he feels he’s a safe distance from the ground. Chances are they’re all right. Just a bit shaken up.”

  “He was rushed,” Nelson said. “He may not have had time
to pick out a level site. He could have struck a boulder or landed in a ditch.”

  “And pierced the hull?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I don’t buy it. Dmitri’s too good for that.” His eye was caught by a blinking message indicating a download from the Druzhba was completed. “Maybe the tape will tell us something.”

  The screen filled with the helmets of two of the crew. Glare from the visors made it difficult to discern the faces behind them, but as the one of the helmets turned they were able to make out the deep pits and wrinkled lines of Satomura’s face. Another helmet was jerking erratically back and forth behind the first two. It had to be Tatiana’s. She seemed to be pointing at something and was speaking rapidly in Russian, almost shouting.

  “Computer translate,” Nelson ordered.

  “Fifteen seconds.” They recognized the voice as Vladimir’s. The program that translated Russian into English was not sophisticated enough to capture the emotion in a voice, so Vladimir’s “fifteen seconds” sounded as if it were being read from a dictionary. Which in fact it was. “You’ll never make it. Initiate abort sequence.”

  “Like Hades.” The voice belonged to Komarov. “We’re going down.”

  Nelson and Carter took time to look at each other to register the other’s reaction. Both were openmouthed with amazement, with a hint of amusement at the awkward translation. Their eyes shot back at the screen.

  “Jesus,” Carter said, “that man has balls.”

  “He had no other choice,” Endicott said.

  “How’s that?” Carter asked.

  “The Russian government places a great deal of significance on this mission. It reaffirms their status as a superpower. He had to do it for the New Republic.”

  “Not Dmitri,” Carter said. “He wasn’t thinking about Russia when he landed that bird, he was thinking about himself. The son of a bitch has an ego the size of Siberia.”

  “Quiet,” Nelson interrupted.

  “. . . hit the abort switch on my command.” It was Komarov. “One.”

  They could hear the descent engines roaring in the background. They seemed louder now.

  “. . . we need to make every second count.” The voice belonged to Komarov.

  “That’s a fuckin’ understatement,” said Carter as he reached in his shirt pocket for more gum. The package was empty.

  “Ten meters from the surface.” It sounded like Satomura. “We’re almost there.” Komarov again.

  “He’s run out of time,” Carter said.

  The constant noise that had been rumbling in the background stopped. The screen froze like a snapshot. They heard someone yell “abort” and someone else yell “no.” Seconds later the monitor went blank.

  “Holy shit,” Carter said.

  Komarov could feel the craft falling. His chair dropped away, and his restraint straps tugged at his shoulders. He felt lighter as blood rushed to his head. He was floating. There was a loud crashing noise, and his chair came charging up and slammed hard against his lower back. His head snapped forward. His arms flew past his eyes. The restraint straps pulled him back into his chair. Something fell from the ceiling. He shook his head to clear his vision and thought he could see smoke. The power went out. The only light came from the pink-tinted rays that passed through the portal.

  He heard metal screeching and a long drawn-out howl as the lander swayed to one side. It felt as though it was going to tip over. After what seemed an unnaturally long time it rocked back and settled on its landing gear. The overhead emergency lights turned on. The flight panel remained dark.

  “Emergency power activated,” Komarov said, shaking his head to clear the fuzziness.

  “Do we stay?” Satomura shouted, his hand hovering over the abort switch.

  “We have no choice,” Komarov responded. “We must first determine the extent of the damage.”

  “Communications link is down,” Tatiana said. She, too, was shouting. “We’ve lost the main power supply. Emergency power to the computer has been severed. The computer is down.”

  “Probably a short in the electrical subsystem,” Komarov said. He was not ready to admit that he had made the wrong decision by landing. No one had said anything yet, but he knew it must have been on their minds. It certainly was on his. “Everybody keep their suits on. We must first restore power. Tatiana, I want you to go below and check the generator. See if it’s still running. Take a laptop for diagnostics. Takashi, come with me. We need to find the source of that smoke. Let’s move.”

  He released his restraint straps and stood up. His knees felt weak. He held on to his chair to steady himself. He looked over at Satomura and saw that he was bent over and moving slowly.

  “You all right?” Komarov asked.

  “Nothing fatal.” Satomura was unable to stand perfectly straight. “Must have sprained something.”

  The emergency lighting cast murky shadows through which they walked with their hands extended. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the smoke was getting thicker. They must be heading in the right direction. He pulled a fire extinguisher from the wall. The smoke started to raise doubts. Two meters was a long drop. They were lucky the craft was standing upright. Why had he slapped Satomura’s hand away? The gravitational pull was one-third that of Earth’s. So two meters was actually less than one meter. Two-thirds of a meter or sixty-six centimeters. He placed his hand approximately two-thirds of a meter from the floor and stopped to consider the distance. It did not seem that far. The drop was well within the tolerance of the landing gear. He could visualize the black-and-white diagram of the shock-absorption system. The manual was on-line. He would bring it up as soon as he had the chance.

  Satomura tapped his shoulder from behind and pointed to his left. Wisps of smoke were slipping through the edges of a panel. Four screws held it in place, one in each corner. Komarov took a deep breath. He was still shaken from the landing. Handing the fire extinguisher to Satomura, he went down on all fours. His eyes were level with the panel.

  “Screwdriver,” he said. He watched over his shoulder as Satomura placed the fire extinguisher on the floor and departed through the corridor with his hand pressed against his lower back. Komarov took another deep breath. There would be an inquiry. They would demand an explanation. The computer had recommended an abort with ten seconds of fuel remaining. He had ignored the recommendation and continued with the descent. He continued when the fuel gauge read empty. He continued after the fuel had run out and after Vladimir had yelled abort. He continued until the Gagarin crashed into the ground. He certainly could not claim it was a miscalculation on his part. He had acted deliberately. He countermanded Vladimir. He struck Satomura’s hand away. He had endangered his life and those of his crew. He closed his eyes to clear his mind and felt as if he were about to fall. Darkness was swirling around him. He opened his eyes. Shades of white and gray burst into view. He took several deep breaths. He decided it would be best to keep his eyes open. He looked up at a clock. Less than three minutes had passed since they had landed. He focused on the smoke. It was dissipating. That was hopeful. If the damage was minimal, he could justify his actions. He would actually become something of a hero. But if the damage was so great the Gagarin would be unable to lift off, he would have to fly the dirigible to the American site. He did not relish the thought. He took another deep breath. The air in his suit was getting thin. Where the hell was Satomura?

  A screwdriver appeared over his shoulder. A bead of perspiration slipped into the corner of his eye, and the salt started to sting. The visor on his helmet prevented him from rubbing his eye. He tapped the visor with his fist. The screwdriver disappeared behind a haze of water. He shook his head back and forth.

  “A little warm,” he said as he adjusted the valve that controlled the temperature of the coolant circulating through his suit. With his vision still misty, he inserted the power tool into the screw and pressed the switch that sent the Phillips head twirling. The mechanical whir was muffled by his
helmet. Within seconds the screw was dangling, magnetically, at the end of the screwdriver. He removed it and proceeded with the next one. All four screws were rolling in blurred semicircles on the floor as he took one last deep breath and pried the panel from the wall. Satomura was standing behind him with the fire extinguisher readied. A puff of smoke emerged and floated over their heads. He waved his hand to clear the remaining smoke. The circuitry was discolored. Several of the wires had been severed by a sheet of metal. He could feel Satomura pressing down on him and waved him away with the back of his hand. There was no need for the fire extinguisher.

  “RTG checks out.” Tatiana’s voice startled him. The speaker in his helmet made it sound as if she were standing next to him. “The power grid indicates a break in the line somewhere between the lower and upper decks.”

  “I’m looking right at it,” Komarov responded. “A piece of sheet metal has sliced through several of the wires. We might want to shut off the power feeding into these lines. They look like they’re live. Come on up.”

  “I’ll be there in a second.”

  “What do you think?” Komarov asked as he stood up to face Satomura.

  “Superficial.”

  Komarov was relieved, but noticed that Satomura still held on to the extinguisher. The damage did appear to be superficial. A couple of severed wires should be simple enough to fix. He could have them spliced back together within seconds. Of course, it might not be as easy as that. There could be additional damage. They would have to spend the first several days, perhaps weeks, checking and rechecking the various subsystems. The ascent engine would be their primary concern. Without it, the lander would not leave Mars. The engine would be difficult to inspect. Many of the parts were inaccessible. There were only a few tests they could perform, and none of them guaranteed that the engine would fire properly when they threw the switch.

  “You did the right thing,” Satomura said, having read the doubt in his commander’s mind. He attempted to smile. The grim lines that etched his face were unable to settle into a pleasing pattern. But it was the best he could manage. Komarov’s grin was large and broad and fell naturally into place.