Sand and Shadow Page 2

  Adán wasn’t sure if Tink was right, but for now it was as plausible an explanation as any.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Lainie asked Dema, who had turned her attention to the man in the last open unit.

  “Would you mind checking their arms?” Dema said, nodding toward Tink and Adán. “Make sure they’ve been properly disinfected.”

  Surveyor Specialist Jonah Smith remained prone in his cryo unit, his eyes pressed closed. Adán considered him one of the more intense members of the crew, giving them judgmental looks when they used profanity or laughed about “inappropriate” things, like sex. As a result, Jonah had seemed like an outsider to the rest of them, never quite connecting the way most of them had.

  “Can you feel your fingers? Toes?” Dema asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Any headache or pain anywhere else in your body?”

  “No. Just dizzy.”

  After clearing Jonah, Dema let out a relieved breath. “Except for the muscle spasms and stomach cramps, which were expected, everyone seems all right.”

  “All done,” said Lainie, securing a fresh piece of gauze to Adán’s I.V. wound. “What next?”

  Dema scanned the room with an intense urgency in her eyes. “We’ve got to check them all,” she said, indicating the closed units.

  “But the lights are off,” said Adán. “They’re not—they’re not ready.”

  Dema stepped over to the next unit, examining the LEDs. Then she shot a questioning glance over her shoulder at Tink.

  “No yellow light,” he told her. “Means the power’s off.”

  “No power at all? Any of them?”

  Adán knew what Dema was thinking. He’d been trying to push the idea away, but he could tell Tink was thinking it too.

  “They’re gone, Dema,” Tink said, a catch in his voice. “Something went wrong. Look at the way the lights keep flickering.”

  “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “The shuttle’s damaged,” Tink added. “The power grid’s impaired. Life support needs power. Damn it!” He banged a fist against his cryo unit.

  For a moment, Dema’s gaze remained fixed in front of her. Then her eyes darted from one unit to the next. “I have to check all of them,” she said again, determination in her voice. “There might still be a chance.”

  Lainie stepped up beside her and gave her arm a tender squeeze. “We’ll check them together.”

  Dema smiled appreciatively. Then she approached the next nearest unit and swept her entire arm down the full length of its cover. The dust sloughed off into a soft pile, leaving just a thin sheet of powder behind. This Dema blew away with a single breath. Then she and Lainie both stepped back with surprised gasps.

  Adán leaned forward a little so he could see into the unit, but he wished he hadn’t. Its occupant resembled something made of papier-mâché, its skin as dry and brittle as aged parchment. The severe contour of cheekbones and eye sockets jutted out from its face like tiny mountain ranges. The only thing Adán had ever seen like it was an Egyptian mummy at the Museum of Natural History. If not for the ID patch, it would have been impossible to tell who it was.

  Adán recoiled from the sight and backed up a few steps. Dema pressed her hand against her mouth. Her eyes wide with shock, she stared at the thing beneath the shield.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Adán hadn’t noticed Fess standing behind them. He looked both scared and angry at the same time as he paced nervously between the rows of cryo units.

  “What is that? I mean, shit man, that guy’s—you know—shit!”

  Jonah still sat inside his unit, his arms wrapped around his knees. “Shut it, Fess,” he said. “He’s just dead. All right?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead!” Fess stopped his pacing and flung his arms out in a frantic gesture. “What about the rest of ‘em. Are they all dead?”

  Dema rested her hand on the dead man’s cover. “Tink?” she asked in a surprisingly steady voice. “Why don’t you take a look at the control panel. We must be missing something.”

  Adán caught Tink casting a questioning glance at Lainie, who responded with a silent, reassuring nod. Then Tink crossed the Quarters to the solitary desk and screen standing at the far end. After wiping the screen free of dust, he slid his index finger across the glass plate, studying the data.

  “Just our six,” he said, shaking his head. “Ours are the only functioning units.”

  Adán studied the damaged wall. “Whatever hit us hit us hard,” he said.

  “Or we hit it,” said Jonah, who was finally easing his way out of his unit. “Maybe we crashed like Tink suggested. Maybe the landing system malfunctioned.”

  “We might have struck an asteroid,” suggested Lainie, twisting her loose hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. Despite her composure, it looked like she was fighting back tears. Adán couldn’t blame her. After training together for so long, most of the crew had formed tight friendships, and now most of them were dead. Of his own close circle, only Tink remained. The realization filled his stomach with rocks.

  Swallowing back the rising fear in his throat, Adán turned his attention back to Tink. “Life support. Power. Who knows what else has been damaged? We need to evaluate our situation before we decide what to do next.”

  “Evaluate what situation?” Fess’s voice was taut and shaky. He turned to the unit beside him and pushed away a swath of dust. He did the same with several units in a row, each time revealing another mummified crew member. “Look at them!” he said. “They’re all dead! That’s our situation!”

  “Calm down, kid,” said Adán, concerned Fess’s panic might spread to the rest of them, but Fess would not quiet down.

  “We’re it, man. Six out of twenty-four! There aren’t enough of us to do anything!”

  No one replied to Fess’s revelation. They all knew what he said was true. There were six squads tasked with specific responsibilities, each dependent upon the others for a successful mission. Each squad had four members—three core members and one alternate. NGIS had made sure there were enough people to function even if someone got injured, or worse—died. But no one could have foreseen something like this.

  “Hold on.” Tink stared at the control panel.

  “What is it?” asked Adán.

  Tink didn’t answer at first, his eyes fixed on the panel. Then he scanned the room, his gaze finally resting on unit #24. It was the last unit in Adán’s row, at the end of the bulge, one of the displaced units. Adán wondered what Tink saw there. What was he looking at?

  Then he saw it, too. A momentary flash of green, barely visible beneath the swath of dust. It blinked on again, holding steady for a few seconds before switching off.

  “I think that one’s still functioning,” said Tink. “The indicator light keeps going on and off, but the yellow LED is holding.”

  Dema hurried over to the unit. A moment later, Adán was beside her, wiping the lights clean. Yes, there was the faint yellow light just like Tink said. How had he missed it before? Maybe it hadn’t been on, but it was on now. As they stood there watching, the green light turned on again.

  Dema didn’t waste another second. She pulled the release, and the screen slid open. Dust sloughed to the floor, and soft clouds of it billowed up around their feet. Inside lay a man with thinning blonde hair. He was unconscious, but he was most definitely alive.

  Scott Dryker was the education team’s squad leader and Carpathia’s mission commander. Seeing his face instead of one more mummy sent a wave of relief through Adán. So, there were seven of them. Seven survivors.

  Lainie had come to stand beside him and was peering over his shoulder at Scott. Tink watched the monitor, but everyone else had gathered around Scott’s unit. They all wanted to know the same thing.

  “Is he—?” Fess folded and unfolded his arms, restless and worried. His voice cut off, like he didn’t dare utter what should follow.

  “He’s alive,” said Dema, g
lancing at Tink for confirmation.

  Tink’s eyes were riveted on the monitor. “His vitals are holding, but his brain activity—there’s something odd—”

  Suddenly, the green light above Scott’s unit switched off. Tink’s head shot up. “It’s off!” he shouted. “Everything just shut off!”

  He was right, Adán realized. The green—the yellow. Both lights were off now. Lainie gripped his arm. “Oh my God!” she said. “Is he breathing?”

  Tink was shouting again. “His vitals are slowing. Power’s been cut off. We’re losing him!”

  All eyes turned to Dema. She was the sole medic, the only one who knew what to do, but she wasn’t moving. She stood frozen, staring at Commander Dryker’s still form like she was in some sort of a trance.

  “Dema,” said Adán. She didn’t respond. A look of confusion passed over her face.

  “Dema, tell us what to do,” said Lainie desperately.

  Adán touched Dema’s arm, which seemed to shake her out of her stupor. Her face changed, her expression resolved.

  “Okay. Everyone back away!” ordered Dema. She squeezed Scott’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. “Scott, do you hear me? Tink, look at the vitals again. Do you see anything?”

  “Power to that unit is off. His heart rate is dropping.”

  Dema released Dryker’s limp wrist. Adán felt a wave of nausea. They’d lost their commander. What the hell would they do now?

  But then Dema was moving, shouting, pointing. Adán blinked, trying to refocus his thoughts. She was shouting at him.

  “Adán! See that line there? Brush off the dust. It’s red. You can’t miss it. Follow it to the crash box and hand me the paddles inside.”

  Adán did what he was told. They had practiced such scenarios in training. He followed the power cord, thick as his thumb, to where it connected to the red box on the shuttle wall. He flipped up the latch and threw open the cover. Inside were two squarish paddles connected to the box and each other by a spiral cord. He handed them to Dema.

  “Push that button inside. That’s right,” Dema instructed. “The charge has to build for a minute. Let’s hope to God these things still work.”

  The crash box emitted a high-pitched beeping. Dema instructed Adán to unzip Scott’s uniform, which he did. Then Dema placed the paddles on the commander’s chest, the skin bare and pale. Then they waited.

  “Dema, you’ve got to do something,” called Tink. “He’s flat lined!”

  Dema didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on Dryker’s face. The beeping changed to a steady hum.

  “Clear!” Dema shouted.

  There was a loud umf as the paddles shocked him. Scott’s chest jolted like something had slammed into him hard. At the same time, the lights in the room dimmed so low Adán could hardly see at all. The defibrillator had drawn too much power from the already damaged grid.

  Everyone waited. Adán hardly dared to breathe.

  C’mon. C’mon.

  The lights eased back up. Dema reset the paddles. “Tink, any change?”

  Tink was shaking, and sweat trickled down his temples. “Nothing. Oh, God,” he whispered. “Please.”

  “Again!” Dema shouted.

  Adán pressed the button again. Lainie finally broke down and started sobbing. Jonah crossed himself. Fess muttered “Christ” under his breath.

  Again, Scott’s body jerked with the electric shock. And again, the lights dimmed low.

  They all held their collective breaths waiting for confirmation from Tink that the shocks had worked. Except for the beeping from the crash box, the room filled with a tense silence.

  Then suddenly, there was a loud BANG followed by a violent jolt.

  Adrenalin blasted through Adán’s body, and he felt the fire down to his fingertips.

  “What was that?” Jonah asked in a hesitant whisper.

  A moment passed, then came another sharp bang. The walls of the Quarters shuddered as if something had grabbed hold and was shaking it. Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped, and the room was again in silence.

  “Wow,” said Tink, letting out an agitated breath. “I don’t think the shuttle can handle the defibrillator’s power surge.”

  “Is that what that was?” asked Lainie, drying her eyes with the heel of her hand.

  “Yeah,” said Fess nervously. “Had to be, right?”

  Tink continued. “Next time, there might not be enough power to get the lights back on.”

  Dema was breathing hard, as they all were, but she set the paddles aside and positioned her palms on the commander’s chest, depressing his ribcage several times in succession. They had all practiced giving CPR in mission training, but this was the first time any of them had ever witnessed it for real.

  Dema gave Scott four more compressions. On the last one, the green light on Scott’s unit clicked on again. All eyes focused on that small, green glow. The yellow light beside it came on, too, but flickered unsteadily.

  C’mon. C’mon. Adán was ready to make a deal with God—or the devil—for the life of their commander, if that’s what it would take. But then Dryker took a sudden gasping breath.

  “Quick!” said Dema. “I’ve got to disconnect him! If this thing shorts out one more time, he’ll flat line again.”

  Adán knew what she meant. They could not risk draining what little power the shuttle might have left. If Dryker’s heart stopped beating again, that would be the end for him. Adán didn’t wait to be told what to do next. He fumbled through Scott’s first aid box and got two sterile pads of gauze. Tearing them open, he held them ready as Dema removed the needle. A bubble of red formed just as Adán pressed the gauze to the wound. A moment later, Adán had the gauze taped in place. Dema pulled the silicon patch off Dryker’s upper arm, but just as Dema reached for the patch at his temple, the unit’s lights flicked off again. Dema grasped the edge of the patch and yanked it off. A small strip of skin came with it, but Scott was still breathing. He was safe.

  “We need to move him,” said Dema.

  “Move him?” asked Adán. “Where? Why?

  “He’s unconscious. Who knows for how long? He still needs the I.V. and the monitors, but his unit has malfunctioned.”

  “We could move him to one of our units,” Lainie suggested. “Give him mine.”

  “That’s a good idea, but let’s choose one that’s closer,” said Dema. “Adán, Fess, c’mon you guys. Give me a hand.”

  Tink and the other three men followed Dema’s directions, lifting the commander out of his cryo unit. The nearest functioning one was Adán’s, so they carried him there and laid him inside.

  “Watch his head,” Dema ordered.

  While Dema set about connecting Adán’s monitoring patches to Dryker’s body, Tink made sure the readings showed up on the control panel. Then Dema sterilized the I.V. needle with alcohol swabs from Adán’s first aid kit and inserted it into Scott’s arm. Meanwhile, Adán stood aside, watching the entire process in disbelief. It seemed strange to see their mission commander lying in the unit that had kept Adán alive throughout their journey. It didn’t feel right somehow, but Adán shook it off.

  Scott Dryker had survived, barely. But seventeen others were dead, most likely from an electrical system malfunction caused by whatever had dented the shuttle.

  Adán stepped over to the now empty unit #24. The distended section of the wall extended into the compartment by as much as twelve or thirteen inches, enough to have pushed four units away from the wall, including Dryker’s, which Adán realized had been slightly crushed on contact. But he spotted something else as well.

  The end of the bulge was a mangled mass of twisted metal and wires, and at the center of it, a two-foot-long gap caked solid with orange dust. Adán poked at it with his finger, and, to his surprise, it sifted away like powdered sugar, leaving a jagged breach clean through the entire hull.

  He bent low until his eyes were level with the opening and peered through it. What he saw was a narrow slice of more or
ange. His view was limited, but from what he could tell, the outside didn’t look much different from inside. Just dust as far as the eye could see.

  The air coming through the opening was frigid.

  Air? It couldn’t be, he thought. There was no breathable atmosphere on Europa. Adán thought of Tink’s explanation about the pressure being balanced, preventing their air from escaping. But air was coming in, not going out, which would explain why so much dust had blown into the shuttle. To play it safe, he would seal off the hole until a more permanent patch could be installed.

  Reaching into Dryker’s unit, he pulled out the foam pad on which he’d lain and rolled it into a long cylinder. Then he pressed it into the gap. Just before he got the last bit crammed in, a small puff of air escaped through the narrow space, and with it—a smell.

  Adán bent closer and sniffed.

  Impossible.

  Before he could second guess himself, the smell was gone, replaced with the bland scent of arid dust. But for that moment, that single moment, that smell had seemed as real as anything—the unmistakable aroma of cinnamon.

  Umma sets four china plates on the table and carefully arranges the sujeo beside them. Tonight, we are having a guest. Commander Travis Berkeley will be joining us. Appa arranged it. Refused to allow me to join the shuttle team without first meeting with the person in charge. I’m embarrassed, but out of respect do not contradict my father. I never contradict him.

  It helps that we live in Falls Church, just twenty minutes outside DC, and Appa has worked at Northrop Grumman as a flight engineer since before I was born. He thinks this gives him some clout. I suppose it might, though I don’t think that is why Commander Berkeley agreed to come. I’m only twenty-two, but I earned my masters in Aeronautics and Astronautics at MIT last year. I’d already been accepted to work in my father’s department when NASA went public with the colonization recruitment program. There was never a question whether or not I would apply.

  I carry the bowl of steaming rice to the dining table and place it in the center next to the platters already there. Earlier, I helped Umma with the mandu, my favorite.