It’s chickenshit,” Trevor Whitman said. “Chickenshit! How the hell can the tanks be empty?”
They sat or stood around the tiny fold-out tray that served the Quijote as a conference table. “Does it matter?” Ryan said. He was sitting on the arm of the pilot’s station, leaning back with his eyes closed. He hadn’t been sleeping, and his face showed it.
“They were full when we took off, they were full when we came in for a landing. How the hell could you have screwed them up so that they’re empty?”
“I explained that,” Ryan Martin said. “I’m not going to explain it again.”
“Why is irrelevant,” Commander Radkowski said curtly. “What I’m looking for right now is suggestions as to what we do about it.”
“Perhaps Mars is cursed,” Estrela said. “The first expedition, the American expedition—they all died. Everybody who comes here dies. Now we’re going to die.”
“What does the mission contingency plan say?” Tana asked. “Is this covered?”
“The contingency plan,” Radkowski said, “says that we restart the propellant manufacturing plant on Dulcinea and make new propellant.”
“So what’s the problem?” Tana asked. “We replace the corroded seals, we weld the broken lines, and we run. Yeah, maybe, we miss the original launch window, but we’re okay. Right?”
“The problem,” Ryan said, still with his eyes shut, “is that we can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“What a propellant manufacturing plant does is to convert the reactor heat into rocket fuel,” Ryan said. “You need energy.”
“Yeah?”
“The energy came from a little Brayton-cycle nuker that was landed with the Dulcinea. The nuke uses a turbine to convert the reactor heat into electrical energy. That means moving parts. The degradation mechanism is for dust to get into the hearings.”
“The bearings are shot?” Tana said.
“Bearings corrode, then they freeze up. The engine seizes, welds the parts together.”
“So then you’re saying that we have to replace—”
Ryan raised a finger. “No coolant flow, thermal overpressure bursts the pipes. When the coolant’s gone, the reactant core overheats. The fuel rods expand and break out of their sleeves. End result, the reactor is a useless chunk of hot metal. Repair it? We can’t even get near it.”
“Chernobyl?” Trevor asked. “You’re saying we’re sitting next to a meltdown?”
“Not so extreme.” Ryan raised both hands, palm up. “We’re not getting sprayed with radioactive smoke, if that’s what you’re asking. But the bottom line is, propellant manufacture is majorly dorked. It’s out of commission. For good.”
“So, you’re saying that the contingency plan is fucked.”
“Nobody really thought we’d still need the nuke.” Ryan shrugged. “I guess nobody really thought at all.”
Everybody was silent.
“So what do we do?” Trevor said. “Are we stuck here? How long will it take for the rescue expedition to get here?”
John Radkowski shook his head. “There won’t be a rescue expedition,” he said.
“But there has to be one,” Trevor said. “When Earth finds out, they’ll—”
“We’ve already reported the situation to Earth,” Radkowski said. “We’re on our own. You know the political situation back in America. Hell, the only reason the expedition was approved at all was that the politicians thought it might take attention away from the worldwide economic depression. Two pairs of ships for the original Mars expedition. Two. That’s all that they ever built. What are they going to rescue us with? Quijote was the last ship we had. You were at the preflight briefing, you know that.”
“The Brazilians?”
Estrela shook her head. “We are a poor country, you know, not like you rich North Americans. We could only build one ship. We couldn’t even afford to send a ship to bury our own astronauts. We have nothing.”
“So what do we do?” Trevor said.
Radkowski nodded his head. “That’s the question, isn’t it. That’s the question.”
Nobody had anything more to say.
After a while, Radkowski said, “Okay, I can see we’re not getting anything done here. Hack to your duties, everybody. Ryan, Tana, think it over and come up with some options.”
“You’re saying that we’re dead, aren’t you?” Trevor said. “We’re dead. We just haven’t fallen over yet.”
Nobody replied.
19
The Sacrament of Confession
His mother was Catholic, but John Radkowski could barely remember going to church. He had not gone since he had been what, in second grade? Before they’d moved to the projects, anyway. The church had seemed huge to him, and the people inside solemn and stiff. The voice of the priest had echoed across the vast interior like a huge cave.
It had been years since he had been back to New York. The neighborhood was like an alien landscape, dirtier and more broken down and, yes, even a little frightening. There was nothing for him here now anyway. The only person he had really cared about was his brother, and Karl had died in prison. His mother was still here, still living in the same dingy little apartment in the housing project, but she had refused to see him. A neighbor told him to go away, that she didn’t want to ever talk to him again.
The church was gray stone, and looked as if it was built to last for millennia—it probably had been. He was slightly ashamed for visiting a Catholic church. Catholicism was for immigrants, Italians, and Mexicans. It’s lower class, he thought. Not something for a college graduate.
Friday afternoon. The confessional was at the back of the church, and the dim indicator light above the carved wooden door showed that it was in use. Outside, a few older women were waiting quietly, kneeling. When they left the confessional, they went directly to the altar rail. He loitered inconspicuously until he saw nobody else waiting.
Stained glass saints looked down. Their faces were glowing, but their expressions were cold and unforgiving.
He entered quickly, knelt, and crossed himself. He was surprised to realize that he still knew how to do it. The booth was dark and smelled of velvet and of the perfume of the previous occupant. He felt grateful for the dark, and the anonymity.
When he heard the dry whisper of the window sliding open, he said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” When there was no response, he remembered the rest, and added, “It has been, ah, twelve years since I have been to confession.”
“Your voice is unfamiliar,” the priest said. The priest’s voice was ordinary, conversational. “I don’t think I’ve heard you before.” The priest sounded young, perhaps not much older than Radkowski. It wasn’t something that Radkowski had expected. He wondered if the priest was new.
“No, Father.”
“That’s okay. Welcome to our church. You are Catholic?”
“Yes, Father.”
“How have you sinned?”
“I—” Radkowski had never told anyone his secret, and suddenly he realized that he couldn’t. His tongue was paralyzed. “I can’t say it, Father.”
“Ah. More than just not going to Mass, I take it?” The priest chuckled, as if sharing a joke, but at Radkowski’s silence, he added in a more serious voice, “Well, then, can you be a little more specific? One of the ten commandments?”
“A mortal sin, Father.”
“Can you tell me about it? Don’t be afraid, nothing you say will shock me. I am here to listen, not to judge you.”
Radkowski shook his head without saying anything.
“It would be best if you told me, my son. Do you need advice? Do you need to talk to the police?” After a moment of silence, the priest asked softly, “What did you come here for?”