Death Trap (9 page)
“I just talked to Director Steven about it,” I said. Which was true.
I leaned forward and spoke clearly into the radio microphone. “Platform buggy one to home base. Tell Rawling McTigre to talk to Tyce. Platform buggy one to home base. Tell Rawling McTigre to talk to Tyce. Platform buggy one to home base. Tell Rawlingâ”
“Grab that kid!” It was Director Steven shouting into the speaker of his platform buggy, his voice echoing in ours. “Shut him up! Now!”
The security guard pulled me away so quickly that I almost fell out of my wheelchair.
Director Steven stood at the glass wall of his platform buggy, glaring at me. All other eyes in both platform buggies stared at me.
“Sit him in a corner and make sure he doesn't move.” Director Steven's voice was thick with rage. “If he tries anything else, put him outside. Without a space suit.”
It took five minutes for the scientists in our platform buggy to forget about me and Director Steven's threat.
Mom drew up a chair beside my wheelchair. “What was all that about?”
“I wish I had time to explain,” I said, “but I need to go to sleep as fast as possible.”
“Tyce?”
“Can you trust me on this? I need to sit here with my eyes closed. Turn my wheelchair around so no one can see my face. Make sure nobody comes by and disturbs me. That's all I ask.”
“For how long?”
“Until I wake up,” I said. “Please?”
Mom sighed. “This is so strange.”
“So is letting all those people die.”
Without a word, she turned me away from the other people in the buggy. My view was of the back side of the hill. Rock and sand in all colors of brown and red and black.
I closed my eyes and waited in the wired jumpsuit I was still wearing from when I left the dome. I hoped that someone at the dome had heard my short message. I hoped that Rawling would understand what I meant. I hoped that very soon, in the darkness of my mind, I would fall off the edge of a high, invisible cliff into a deep, invisible hole.
“Tyce?”
“Took you long enough,” I said to Rawling.
I tilted my video head and peered into his face. His skin was gray, and he was sweating badly. I clicked around the roomâslowly, to keep from getting dizzyâwith my other three video lenses to see if anyone else was with us.
“Someone heard your broadcast and called me in my minidome,” he said. “I tried to radio the platform buggy, but I didn't get an answer. If you wanted me to turn on the robot, why not say so instead of making me figure it out?”
“Because,” I answered, spinning my robot wheels back and forth, warming up, “then Director Steven would have known how I intended to talk to you. And he would have stopped me.”
Rawling wiped his face. His jumpsuit was blotched with sweat. “You guys are supposed to be dead.”
“Long story.” I looked around the lab and found the tools I needed. I handed them to Rawling. “I will tell you after. But we need to get to the solar panels.”
“Sure,” he said, “but I don't feel so good. Maybe we can get someone else to help you.”
I reached across and pinched his shinbone with my titanium fingers.
“Ouch!” Rawling said, shocked.
“You have got to stay awake. The lack of oxygen is starting to get to you.”
“Lack of oxygen? Butâ”
“You do not have much time. Follow me.” I wheeled to the door of the lab. I tried twisting the knob with my fingers. I twisted too hard. It fell off in my hand. “Oops. I do not know my own strength.”
I wheeled back, picked up a chair with both hands, and held it in front of me. I crashed into the door with it. The door popped open. Checking behind me with my rear lens, I made sure Rawling was following me. He staggered slightly as he tried to keep up.
“It is the wheels of the solar panels,” I explained quickly. “The panels work fine. But if the railing wheels are stuck even slightly, the panels cannot track the sun's movement as they slide along the roof of the dome. They do not have the right angle to catch enough sunlight to produce power.”
I noticed no one was walking around the dome. “Where is everybody?” I asked.
“I think sleeping,” he said. “Which is what I want to do.”
Continuing forward, I reached back with one arm. I grabbed Rawling's hand.
“Ouch,” he said again.
I didn't let go. “You are coming with me.” I led him up the ramp to the second-floor walkway, then along the walkway. Soon we were at the ladders that reached up to the solar panels.
“You will have to climb,” I said. “I cannot. All you need to do is disconnect two or three wheels from the solar panel railing. Bring them back down.”
Rawling nodded slowly.
As I waited below, I scanned the dome. No movement anywhere. Were people already dying?
I switched to infrared and scanned the nearest minidome. The minidome itself was a light red, showing that it held slightly more heat than the cool air of the dome. Inside, a deep glowing red in the form of a body showed me where someone rested on the bed. I watched carefully and saw a slight rising and falling of the form. The person was still breathing.
Switching off infrared, I went to the visual light spectrum, seeing colors as normally viewed by human eyes. I changed video lenses to see Rawling. He was nearly finished taking off a couple of wheels.
I hoped I was right in my guess.
If I was wrong, I'd be in my robot body, helpless to prevent all these people from dying over the next few hours.
I opened my eyes in the platform buggy.
There was noise and excitement behind me.
I spun in my wheelchair.
Everyone was gathered at the far window, staring down from the platform buggy at the desert floor.
I smiled. I knew what had their attention.
I wheeled up beside them. “It's a robot,” I said loudly.
My words quieted them down.
One of the scientists frowned at me. “Of course it's a robot. We aren't stupid. We want to know what it's doing here. Five minutes ago, I saw it coming here at a speed I estimated to be 24 miles an hour. Then suddenly it stopped in front of our platform buggies. And what's that in its hands?”
“Solar panel wheels,” I said. “Damaged solar panel wheels. I'm not totally sure it's from microscopic particles of Martian sand, but that's my best guess. I think over the years, the sand has seeped into the dome. My wheelchair can hardly move because the ball bearings have been ground down, and the only reason I can come up with is sand.”
I had everyone's attention.
“The solar panels follow the sun,” I said. “If the wheels on the solar panel railings have the tiniest bit of drag, the solar panels will always be a few degrees behind the best angle to catch maximum sun. I think that's what's been happening. Slowly, the generators have been dying. Not because anything is wrong with the panels. But because something's wrong with the wheels.”
“What's the discussion in there?” Director Steven asked from the other platform buggy.
“Mom, could you turn the speaker down and let me finish? Then all of you can decide what to do.”
“I'll turn it down,” another scientist volunteered. “This is all so crazy. There must be some truth in it.”
“Thank you,” I said. It hurt my head to look up at everybody from my wheelchair. “That robot brought back a few of the wheels from the dome to prove that's the problem. We need to return to the dome. We can replace the wheels and begin generating electricity within hours. The people in there don't have to die.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Director Steven waving, trying to get our attention.
I ignored him and explained more. “The oxygen levels in the dome are so low that everyone has passed out. They need oxygen from the platform buggy reserves to survive until the generators kick in again. It'll take about an hour to return. That's just enough time to save them.”
“And if you're wrong,” another scientist said, “we'll have given them the oxygen that would keep us alive.”
“That's why I brought back the solar panel wheels,” I said. “To prove it to you.”
A third scientist snorted through his thick white beard. “You brought them back? That's a robot out there. You've been here in your wheelchair, asleep. Now I understand why Director Steven thinks you're dangerous. You've lost your mind.”
I'd forgotten. The experiments with the robot were so recent that only Mom, Rawling, and the director knew about them.
I grinned at all the people staring at me. “I think I have a way to prove to you that I'm in control of the robot.”
It had become a beautiful sensation, falling off the edge of a high, invisible cliff into a deep, invisible hole.
When the falling ended, I focused my video lens upward at the platform buggy observation deck. I saw nine people crowded at the glass wall, peering down on me. Behind them, I knew, my motionless body sat in my wheelchair.
The heat of the Martian sun seemed to glow in my titanium bones. It was midday, and the temperature registered 65 degrees Fahrenheit. In my entire life, I'd never been outside. It felt as marvelous now as it had when I'd first left the dome to scoot across the plains.
And wind. It whistled across the stark rocks embedded in the sand. Tiny bits of sand rattled off my wheels and arms as I sped across the landscape. It was such a glorious feeling of being alive.
I wanted to sit where I was and enjoy all of thisâthe things that humans on Earth can have anytime, just by stepping outside. But I'd made a promise to the scientists in the platform buggy. And they, in return, had made a promise to me.
If I could convince them I was the brains of this robot, they'd follow me back to the dome and share their oxygen with the others.
First I raised one titanium hand and waved.
They hadn't expected this. I could see on their faces that a few were startled. Others waved back, smiling.
I waved at Director Steven in the other dome.
He crossed his arms and frowned at me.
I stopped waving. My left hand held two solar panel wheels, small like the wheels of roller blades on Earth. I dropped my right hand, which held one wheel, down to the ground. Holding the wheel tight between two fingers, I dragged my other titanium finger as I began to move the robot back and forth.
When I was finished, I surveyed my handwriting in the sand. Take us home, it said in big letters.
I looked up again and saw that many were pointing down. They could see it clearly, and they understood.
But that wasn't all I'd promised as proof.
I turned the robot to face them as they watched me from the observatory decks of both platform buggies.
In my mind, I took a deep breath. Breathing was one of the few things I did better in my own crippled body than I did in the robot body. Still, just thinking of breathing helped me concentrate. I wanted to do this right. I wanted to be able to lead them to the dome across the packed sand of the desert that let this robot run like it was a leopard.
All eyes were on me as I began to deliver on my promise to them.
I switched the small solar panel wheel from my right hand into my left hand, so my left hand held all three wheels. Then I tossed one of the small solar panel wheels in the air with my left hand. I caught it with my right, but as I was catching that wheel, I tossed the second wheel from my left hand into the air. A split second later, I tossed the third wheel.
And just like that, I was juggling.
We did it. We made it back to the dome just in time.
All of us worked together to fix the solar panels and give oxygen to the people who were on the verge of slipping away.
I was right. Microscopic sand particles were the problem. It had taken years, but eventually the buildup of sand and the wearing down of the ball bearings had made the solar panel wheels drag just slightlyâenough to throw off the panel angles. So now that the ball bearings have been fixed, there's no longer a danger of anyone dying from lack of oxygen.
After the immediate threat of death was gone,
the people turned their attention elsewhere ⦠to Director Steven.
Everybody under the dome is angry at him.
And who can blame them? In the same way that he used my body as an experiment by forcing my mom to let a surgeon put a rod in my spine, Director Steven used all of the techies and workers as pieces of a puzzle, shifting them around to suit what he thought the Mars Project needed.
Whether he was right or wrong, the dome scientists disagree.
But the fact is, no one trusts him now so he's under guard in a small lab. Soon the next supply ship will arrive. When it leaves to return to Earth, he'll be shipped back with it. Rawling has been voted in as the new director.
I feel sorry for ex-Director Steven. He faced a difficult decision in trying to choose who should live and who should die. But I think that was just it. He made the decision without talking to anyone, as if he were trying to be God.
After facing death, learning how I really became crippled, and seeing my mom's willingness to sacrifice her life for me, I'm a lot more open about that subject too.
The subject of God.
Mom has always said faith is a sure hope in things unseen. I've decided that just because IÂ can't find a way to measure the existence of God, it doesn't mean he isn't there. And it's the same thing with the soul.
Actually, all of this has helped me stop feeling sorry for myself in my wheelchair. I've realized something. All of us, even the best athletes, are imprisoned by our bodies. Against our will, our bodies will someday grow old or sick. And, sadly, our bodies will die.
When I think of it that way, I'm in the same prison you are. Sure, in an uncrippled body, your prison cell might be bigger and brighter but not by much. You can run at eight miles an hour, and I can roll along in my wheelchair at only three miles an hour, and in my robot body I can go three times as fast as you. But all of those speeds are so tiny compared to the vastness of the universe that it doesn't matter at all who's faster.
What I've begun to understand is that, although we're stuck in our bodies, we can have freedom of the soul. I'm going to give this a lot more thought.
Anyway, I've got to shut down this computer and go. RawlingâI mean, Director Rawlingâis yelling to me about someone seeing aliens outside the dome.
Ha. Aliens. Not very likely.
But Rawling is insisting I get into the robot body and do a quick search.
I'm excited about getting outside on the surface of Mars again, but I'm not expecting to find anything. Everybody knows there aren't any aliens on Mars.
Right?