They continued their banter, and before long little Wix’s eyes got droopy and he fell asleep. Frank glanced from one parent to the other. They both looked like they hadn’t slept in days.
“Mr. Bickham, thank you so much for doing this. I have no words...” the mother trailed off.
The father nodded. “I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t here. If there’s ever anything you need, anything at all, please let me know. My father is the vice president of Interplanetary—just one word from me and it happens. Whatever you want.”
A wicked thought crossed his mind. “Can you revoke Jerry Su’s colonist application?”
“What?”
“Just kidding,” Frank said with a wry chuckle.
The father laughed nervously, and yawned. Damn, these people needed sleep.
Frank tapped a finger on his armrest. “I know what you could do for me.”
“Name it.”
“Go to bed. Both you and your wife. Get some sleep—I’ll be here all night.”
They both stared at him.
“No, I mean it. He needs you,” he said, pointing at the sleeping boy, “but he needs you to be awake, alert, and healthy. Go to bed. Don’t make me pull rank,” he added, with a grin.
After another round of profuse thanks, they left.
“Just you and me, kid. And I’ll be damned if you leave before I do.”
An hour passed, and he was dozing off when something jolted him awake.
“Mr. Bickham?”
Dr. Pratt was looking at him through the half-opened door.
“Yes, Doctor?” he croaked.
“Would you mind coming back tomorrow evening? I want to build up a short-term supply of your blood. Just in case... you know.”
Frank nodded. It wasn’t immediately clear to him what you know meant, but it didn’t matter. “Very prudent. In fact, how about we build up a long-term supply? I can come in twice a day for the next two weeks or so, if needed. Let’s make sure we have at least a year’s worth, wouldn’t you say? At least until the next shipment comes in from Earth. I assume they’re going to send over a supply of his blood type?”
Doctor Pratt’s face broke out into a huge smile. “Yes, they will. You never cease to amaze me, Mr. Bickham. Yes, that would be perfect. God bless you.”
Pratt left him alone with the boy, and his thoughts.
Two weeks. Build up enough of a supply, make sure that the boy would live a long, happy life, and then Frank Bickham was heading to the history books.
“Grumpy?”
The boy’s small voice made him jump. “Yeah, Wix?”
“Don’t ever go anywhere.”
Dammit. Kid’s not helping. “I’ll be right here, kid. On Mars. Forever.”
“Good.” The kid’s voice sounded remote and slurred, as if he was sleep-speaking. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too, kid.”
And it was even true.
The urgent call from Dr. Pratt came early in the morning on a Tuesday. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bickham. Your friend went into a coma late last night. He was just in for a regular checkup, and keeled over right in the office.”
“Shit.” Frank had nothing else to say. A hole started opening up in the bottom of his gut. All he could think about was the kid. About his parents—how he could possibly console them. For the kid’s big sister, who now had to deal with not only a sick little brother, but one who was asleep, possibly for good. “I just went to the house yesterday, Doc. He looked fine then. What gives?”
“Frank—can I call you Frank? Look, sometimes people just get to this point, and there’s nothing we can do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Frank yelled into the phone. “I did what you asked, and then some. We’ve saved up the blood. He’s got a six month supply now.” He could hear the doctor try to interrupt, but he steamrolled right over him. “Did you miss something? You missed his condition the first time around—it wasn’t until the habitation module blast that you discovered this thing. Could there be something else? Think, man!”
“Mr. Bickham, please! If you’ll let me speak. I was trying to tell you—it’s not Wixam. He’s fine. I’m talking about Mr. Smith.”
“Ed?”
“Yes, Ed. He came in yesterday. Said he felt a little funny. But we had a nice visit—he mentioned you several times. Said you were a good friend, that you visited at least twice a week. And then... well, he passed out. I couldn’t revive him. I’m sorry.”
Oh. Damn. Ed Smith was in a frickin’ coma.
“Aortic valve?”
“Huh? Oh, well, as his doctor, I can’t discuss his medical history with you. But since you’re, well...” Frank imagined the doctor was about to say, since you’re Frank Bickham. “Since you’re a close friend of his, I’ll say, no. It wasn’t his heart. It was something else. But I’m not at liberty to say, exactly. But his heart is not exactly an asset at the moment.”
“And? How long does he have?”
“Could be months. Could be hours. Or he could wake up tomorrow.”
Frank sighed. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. He was going to lose. He’d forever be known as the second man to set foot on Mars. And the second to die. Or the third. Maybe the fourth, given his terrible luck.
A siren jolted him out of his reverie. Red lights flashed, and the regular lighting dimmed down to auxiliary power levels.
“What the hell?” Those were the emergency evac lights. Every month the colonists of Mariner Valley participated in an emergency readiness drill, but that wasn’t scheduled for another week.
He looked out the window of his penthouse apartment. People were rushing out into the streets, and heading towards Huygens Dome’s emergency shelter. A minute later he’d joined them, shuffling down the street, urging people not to run, but to hurry, giving a hand to a lady that had stumbled over a dropped bag.
“Anyone know what’s up?” asked a man nearby.
An engineer nearby answered, “Must be Hab Mod Twelve. We’ve been having problems down there ever since the explosion. Ain’t surprised something else happened down there.”
Habitation module twelve. He’d read reports about the persistent air leak over there, and now it looked like the situation had deteriorated.
He changed direction, and a minute later he was outside the administration building. The desk operator was gone, so he strolled right into the emergency meeting of the governor and the corporate board, who were grilling the senior engineering staff.
“So you’re saying there’s no oxygen left in Huygen’s tank? None? What the hell happened to it?” said Governor Ladro to an engineer, who looked like he’d rather be fixing something than explaining something.
“That’s correct, sir.”
“How? Oh. Don’t tell me.” He slapped a hand mockingly on his forehead. “Let me guess. It was an engineering shortcut by Interplanetary staff when they set the place up.”
“That about sums it up, sir. It cost far less for habitation module twelve to share the auxiliary oxygen tank with Huygens. And then the explosion last week damaged the sensors in the tank, so that we had no idea it was empty until an hour ago. The persistent leak over in twelve sucked it dry, and we never even knew.”
The governor glared at the corporate board. “Good thing the stock price is up, huh? Sure made this whole adventure worth it.” He turned back to the engineering staff. “Ok, I want a solution. Fast.”
The engineer stammered. “Well, the other problem is that... well, there’s about ten other problems. All video feeds in Twelve are out. Repair drones are inoperative since the main comm package linking Twelve with Huygens was still being repaired. Half of Twelve is still at vacuum, and the other half is steadily losing pressure. I won’t bore you with the details, but we have a solution. All it will take is someone going in, repairing a few valves, pushing a few buttons that we can’t do remotely, and hightailing it back to the airlock just in case we have an explosive mix with the methane leak again.”