THE ARRIVALS PORT ATPax is almost depressing enough to make me feel bad about choking off the United Nations’ funding.
I knew they were struggling, but right now I am taking in the grand vista of – and I really could not make this shit up – literally justa room with a desk in it. If I thought Nathan was underwhelming, I should have saved somewhat the hell?for later.
There’s a patch on the wall that looks like it’s sealed with duct tape.
I haven’t been to the GravesUP compound in person yet, but I’ve seen plenty of vid, and my family’s turf is … not like this. It’s all gleaming metal and sleek white lines. There’s a waterfall two stories high in our lobby, with green vines spilling down either side of it to where red and yellow flowers – our company colors – pool at the base of a fountain. Beyond that, a two-storywindow takes in the incredible vista of Arcadia Planitia, rusty plains stretching away into the distance.
This place, on the other hand, is all shabby, no chic – buried underground for cheaper radiation shielding, and apparently held together with spit and good luck.
Thing is, though the flowers at our base might say otherwise, the reality is that every margin here on Mars is razor-thin, and the UN has never made a real case for being here. They’re a world ofnoin a place that needs to be aboutyes.
Mostly they come off like a tired parent who’s going to turn this planet around this minute if these kids – these countries, these corporations – don’t quit pulling their sister’s hair. Except none of the kids are listening.
The locals who came down from Orbital on my shuttle stream past me without a backward glance, disappearing through the door. And then it’s just me and a nervous-looking woman at a compstation.
‘Mr Graves,’ she says, with something vaguely related to a bow. ‘My colleague sent a message ahead of you. I’m all ready to get you logged in to our system and assigned to a room overnight, I just need a handprint from you.’
‘Overnight?’ I shake my head. ‘I was really hoping to message for a lift over to Graves right away. They’ll send a rover – I assume you guys don’t have one to spare.’
She grimaces apologetically. ‘I’m afraid the dust storm’s rolling in pretty fast. It’ll probably be a day or two before it clears enough to drive as far as Graves. I’ve put you in 39 alpha. It’s roomy, as these things go.’
I mentally bid farewell to the bath I’ve been dreaming of ever since I set foot on the freighter. I could be wrong, but I’m guessing room 39 alpha doesn’t have access to spa services. ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but—’
The blare of a siren cuts me off, and we both freeze in place as a calm voice broadcasts in English.
Attention, all personnel. This is not a drill. Life-support contamination detected. Total evacuation must be complete in ten minutes. Report immediately to your assigned station. Repeat: This is not a drill.
The voice starts the announcement again, this time in Arabic, but neither of us waits to hear it.
‘This way!’ she shouts. I’m right on her heels as she books it out the door, swinging around to the left.
The hallways are immediately full of people rushing in the same direction, and I’m caught up in a river of humanity – folks with kids in their arms, with whatever they could grab clutched to their chests.
I’m like a baby giraffe, legs sliding out from under me as the lighter gravity hits, and every movement is overkill. I nearly go sprawling when I try to grab at the wall for support.
The loudspeaker is up to Chinese as I reach the start of the evac section. All around me, people are disappearing through doors that slide shut behind them. Through the viewport windows I can see garage doors opening so all-terrain vehicles can roar off across the Martian landscape, sending up clouds of red dust into air already heavy with it.
I feel like I’m at school again, and it’s time to grab a partner. Except nobody wants to grab me, because what if they screwup and piss me off ? So everyone’s paired up and I’m standing here on my own.
I pick a door at random, stumbling through into a garage that holds a six-person ATV. Five heavily padded seats are already occupied, and I pull off my backpack, shoving it under my seat as I reach for my straps.
‘What are you doing here?’ It’s the boy in the next seat, straining forward in his harness so he can catch a glimpse of me.
‘Evacuating,’ I reply, with a healthy dose ofwhat the hell do you think I’m doing?in my tone.
‘Who’s that?’ comes from a seat in front of us – it’s a woman, her voice high with anxiety. ‘Is that Patrick?’
‘No, can we do introductions later?’ I donothave time for the whole Hunter Graves routine right now – none of us do.
‘That’s Patrick’s seat!’ she replies, and now everyone else around me is joining in on her protest.
I blink at her, heart still pounding, thoughts scattered, no matter how hard I reach for calm. ‘Is this homeroom? Are we saving seats now?’
‘They’re assigned,’ the boy beside me insists, halfway to unbuckling himself. ‘Are you new? This isn’t your pod.’
‘I’m here!’ calls someone from behind me, and I spin around to find myself face to face with … Patrick, I’m guessing. His brown eyes widen. ‘Who are you?’
I don’t have time for this.
