‘Let’s let someone else check around the corners for danger,’ she replies. ‘Grab a couple of helmets and pass me a cookie.’
So I grab the helmets for our suits – can’t be too careful about the potential for catastrophic breaches while there are folks running around with guns – and pass her a cookie. Then I follow her into the hallway.
We move quietly, and knowing the drone’s checking the way ahead means we can move a lot quicker too. Cleo keeps it up near the ceiling, where it won’t be in anyone’s line of sight if it buzzes around the corner and into danger. Whatever faint noise it makes is masked by the sound of the fans working in the background.
As we pass the banks of doors, a thought occurs to me. ‘Where are your quarters? Is there anything you want to take with you? There’s no promise this place will still be standing when you come back to it.’
Cleo pauses before she replies and it’s like she’s choosing her words. ‘It’d be out of the way,’ she says after a moment. ‘There’s no need.’
And I’ll be honest, it’s a little weird, the way she says it. Unless you’re in the fancy seats, you don’t get much of a luggage allotment, coming to Mars. An engineering student sure wouldn’t. Whatever she brought would have meant a lot to her. I brought my favorite piece of my dad’s work. It’s a small, delicate sculpture in soapstone, all wistful curves, and it took up a full third of my own luggage allotment.
Why doesn’t she want to go get whatever piece of her heart she brought with her?
Does she think we’re going to die?
We head about a quarter of the way around the circular tunnel that marks the edge of the base, and we don’t speak again until we reach the balcony overlooking the maintenance garage. From up here, we should be able to see the east garage door without being seen.
Cleo calls down the tiny drone, clipping it to her suit.Too quiet in there, she mouths, and I nod. Then she eases the door open with agonizing slowness, her ear pressed to the gap. Once she’s satisfied there’s nobody on the other side, she slides it open just enough to pass through, and carefully sinks down to lie on her stomach. She wriggles forward with all the speed of a heavily sedated snail. She doesn’t make a sound. Feels like she’s being overly cautious, given the absolute silence on the other side of the door, but I don’t argue.
Instead I set down the helmets I’m carrying just inside the door and copy her, the cold metal pressing against my borrowed T-shirt and chilling my skin, my legs protected by the thick fabric of the pressure suit. We ooze across to the edge of the balcony like a couple of perfectly silent assassin slugs and then, incredibly carefully, take a strategic peek over the edge.
The room below is a large quarter circle, with individual garages along the curved edge of the room, and repair equipment packed onto the two straight walls that angle in to meet at the entrance – that part’s out of sight beneath our balcony.
Each of the vehicles is housed in the same kind of garage I saw when I so nearly got a ride out of here.Curse you, Patrick, for showing up to claim your seat.It’s an airlock arrangement, where they can drive in from the outside, a door seals behind them, and then once the chamber has pressurized, the inner door opens to let the passengers walk through into the base itself.
Cleo taps me on the arm and points to a mercenary sitting still and silent against one wall. He’s chewing on what looks like a protein bar as he gazes into space, like he’s idly waiting for something.
I hadn’t even seen him, and a jolt of adrenaline goes through me, bringing with it a flash of nausea as I realize how easily I could have said something and given us away. As I gaze down at him, my breath catches in my throat, as though he might hear even a quiet exhalation. He looks like he’s daydreaming, but I have no doubt he’s alert for exactly the kind of noise I’d have made if Cleo hadn’t slowed me down.
I look across at her, and she holds up both hands, extending her fingers until she’s counted to seven. It takes me a second to understand what she means. Then my gut drops.
This guy isn’t one of the four mercs we saw on the bridge – his skin is a deeper brown than any of theirs, and even though he’s sitting down, I can tell he’s Martian tall, born here and raised in low gravity. The rest of them looked Earthborn to me. He’s not one of the pair we glimpsed in the corridor either.
That means there are at least seven of them. And two of us. I do not like these odds. I wouldverymuch like to steal one of these rovers and run like hell.
Footsteps sound below and a woman comes striding in. Beside me, Cleo flinches, her shoulder pressing against mine. If she’s thinking this is eight, though, she’s wrong – we saw this woman catch a gun back on the bridge. She’s got a tattoo that runs across her forehead like a tiara, and I doubt there are two the same in the crew.
‘Sabrina,’ the man below says, rising to his feet. Sure enough, he’s more than a head taller than her. ‘About damn time.’
‘Shut up,’ she replies lazily, following him over to a large crate and then looking him up and down with a grin. ‘Damn, are you always snacking?’
‘Takes a lot to fuel this,’ he replies, stuffing his bar in his suit pocket and gesturing to his lanky self. ‘What kept you?’
‘I was taking a look at the setup in person. This would be a lot easier at home, you know. They’re kind of obsessive about fire in space.’
‘You try living somewhere without any atmosphere,’ the Martian replies as they hoist the crate together, him stooping to try to match her height. ‘Makes you kind of twitchy. So can you do it?’
‘Oh sure. The environmental-control system has a bunch of redundancies, but it all comes back to just two locations that matter. I can override them, pump the oxygen levels sky-high.’
‘That won’t, you know, brain damage us?’ he asks, trying to sound casual and not really succeeding.
‘We’d need to stick around a lot longer than we plan to, for that to happen. I’ve already rigged the oxygenators to start overproducing. All it’ll take is a spark after that. I’ll be ready in time.’
‘Six and a half hours to go,’ he tells her, with a grin I hate already.
Neither Cleo nor I say a word as Sabrina and the Martian carry the crate out of sight, and we wait a full minute longer, just to be sure they’re gone. To be honest, I think both of us need the minute to recover from what we just heard.
‘Environmental controls,’ Cleo mutters then, dropping her head to rest it on her hands.
