Ringclimber

Chapter 3 - First Steps

"Harrison Bose died Sunday after three days on the critical list. He had been injured in a runaway object construction accident. Mr. Bose is survived by a wife and two children."

Obituaries, Space Construction Business News, Issue 372

Sharon arrives in Chryse on a fine, sunny day, with only a few wisps of windblown dust streaking the rusty desert. She stands at the arc of the window for a long time, watching the wisps against the pinkish sky, listening to the rolling of the cargo porters in the hallway behind her. She feels angry, angry at the feeling that seems to be preventing her so completely from seeing the beauty. Was it going to grow worse and worse, so that she thought only about the cold, and the violence of the radiation? How could Rael do this to her?

She shoulders her bag and retreats down the alley. The shadows of the ranked plants slips across her face.

It is the first day, and the classroom is empty except for the sheer glass panels of the boards. She activates them, and the images of the controls race to their places. She clips her course libraries to the primary pane, and looks around. The walls darken to amber, her favorite, at a gesture.

She allows connection, and waits for her students to check in their pads. Finally, she has a full roster.

Deep breath, honey, she thinks, mimicking Pat's belt dialect.

"...prosthetic systems consist of the primary control blocks, the local intelligence for each limb, the actuator systems, and the feedback augmentors."

She displays a full view of the suit, cutaway, and rotates it. She highlights each subsystem as she mentions it.

"Donovan?"

"There's just the single cross-waist conduit? No redundancy?"

"That's correct; however, the local units handle most of the control, and they have the ability to continue movement even with complete loss of the primary.

"Now, the Magister prosthetic systems used the Harlow-Brinsley thrust pollers in triply redundant clusters." She calls up an image of the Magister systems. So familiar, she thinks quickly. "We can all appreciate the bulk this contributes to the design." Everyone laughs, and she smiles. "Still, until this new thing came along, that was the minimum anyone would accept for full-cycle hard rock work. Now, however, we get three triply redundant clusters where we used to have one triple unit, but the bulk is twenty-five percent less." She brings up both images and contrasts them. "Don't kid yourself. You're a lot more flexible, but the maintenance costs are higher because everything is packed that much tighter."

Her alarm blips.

"OK, well, that's it for now. Any questions?"

None.

"Right, well, I'll check into Conference Call tonight, so leave anything you'd like me to get to for you by, say, twenty-two. OK?"

The students meet in the hotel lounge. Their voices are a cluster of dialects and interruptions...

"But did you hear that shit about the shoulder ring? Well, sure, it's just an operational problem, except you might happen to be in it."

"Hey, so you lose an arm; so what?"

"Well, I like the way she laid it out about those new pressure wells. I've been looking for somebody who could get into the theory of the thing, you know, and she can handle it."

One of the men leans over. "You've got that right," he said, leering with a loose mocking smile.

"You know what I mean, damn it -- She took the thing into the Rings when it was a prototype, you know?"

"And air out," somebody else offers.

"Jack shit! What density do you fuck around in? Vacuum dust? I'd like to see you in the Rings, asshole."

There is a day in the series when she has no class. Sharon borrows an old Magister land suit from the local station and heads out over the plain of Kylee. No special destination in mind -- just a test. She walks.

At the top of a low hill, the colony crouching behind her, she pauses and considers. The suit's prosthetics seem to claim the potential to go anywhere, and the life support is fully loaded; she is wondering what remains... what else is there, besides the night?

She walks the desert of fragments. As if casually, she picks her way among the rocks and boulders. It is a feat the suit has not been designed for; an act more demanding than most spacework. She skirts craters and rockslides, and she advances on the hem of darkness at twenty kilometers an hour.

She loves the suit. Even as night drains the land of color, the suit gives her revealing images of the landscape, projected on her helmet dome. She walks among the rocks with the safety of a pedestrian on a lonely country road.

When she is tired, or needs relief, she pauses; she does not stop until midnight. Then she stands still and looks up into the dark, aerosol-shrouded sky, seeing the faint brighter stars through the glass, and the names and positions of those invisible, projected on the helmet. It is time for dinner and she accepts what the suit can provide. She rests and sleeps standing until dawn.

"Glad you could make it," Erin said.

Pat's smile wrinkles her craggy, mannish face. "Nice office. New?"

"Last year," Erin replies, crossing to her web. Mars is a vast crescent on the horizon of Phobos behind her, the Tharsis volcanoes a faint irregularity against the limb.

"The custom," Erin smiles and hands Pat a flower, the standard courtesy between spacer friends.

Pat accepts it, and, as always, she examines it closely, testing its scent and checking its bulb of supporting hydrofluid. "Lovely. You have damn fine taste." She clips it to her bandolier with a nod. "You'll excuse my lack, I hope? Lucky enough we were here at the same time."

Erin sighs. "Doesn't happen often, lately, does it?"

"Different parts of the system. It's getting too large now."

"Oh, yes."

They talk for a while, occasionally of climbing. Finally, Erin raises the subject.

"You know, I want to make a proposition."

Pat lifts an eyebrow. "Like?"

"A climb on Arsia; the southeast slope, on the Flow Chasm. Now, listen, I've got an excellent third, a Martian physician, and you'll never guess who's on Mars until just before the dust season..."

Pat shakes her head and leans back in her chair, her first two fingers drawn across the corner of her mouth. "Look, we can't go into this too much, I am on my way up, but, are you really ready?"

"What do you mean, ready?" Erin asks, looking uncomfortable.

"After Saturn. C'mon, Erin, you know what the hell I mean."

"What about you?" Erin retorts. "You're back to work. You're flying around rocks all the time."

Pat flushes. "Sure, I work. That's different; it's not the same kind of risk. You can always -- well ...back out. Climbing isn't that way, mountains or rings."

"Sure. Who helped you hunt for Rael's body? You can't kid me."

Pat holds up a hand. "Listen, I've got to go. It's dust season now, isn't it? Let me talk to you in a month, okay? You can wait a month?"

Erin's smile is slightly forced. "Sure. No problem."

She waits in the empty office for a while before she, too, leaves on business. Why didn't she seem to feel like they did? Why is it bothering them so much?

She'd liked Rael too, hadn't she?

Sharon meets her in the concourse. "Hi, Erin."

They hug. Erin inspects her friend's freckled countenance for health and finds it. "Well," she smiles, "We're looking bloody good, aren't we?"

Sharon looks at her strangely. "Now what the hell does that mean?" she snaps, surprising herself. She looks away. "I'm sorry," she said a moment later. "Just a bad day... You're looking good, yourself."

"So what's going on?" Erin asks as they set off down the crowded corridor.

"Oh, nothing. I have up days and my down days. " Sharon grimaces. "This is one of the down days, believe me. I feel like a damn plastic ball, lately, don't ask me why."

"I hear the classes are good, the students like you."

"We're having a good time."

Erin sweeps her hair back from her face. "You sound just like Gordon."

"'He infects us all with optimism.'" Sharon replies in the form of a quotation. "Here on business or pleasure?"

"Both, actually."

"Ah." Flatly, because she doesn't want to hear anything more. She diverts the conversation by asking about the Phobos office. Maybe Erin won't discuss this climb with her. Maybe.

They are passing the port lounge. "Drink?" Erin asks.

"Fine." They are enveloped in the soft light, music, and the gentle rise and fall of distant voices.

At a table, Erin sips her glass of Callisto. "I suppose you've heard about what I've been organizing?" she asks. A mischievous grin tugs at the corners of her mouth.

"A Mars volcano expedition, isn't it?"

She feels so brave, staring over the edge of the cliff into Erin's eyes. She sips her coffee carefully.

"Why, yes... that's right. Arsia, as a matter of fact." Erin is surprised; Sharon can tell.

"Great. I hope you don't expect me to discuss it." Sharon's eyes are bright.

Erin looks shocked. She glances around "Well... I didn't know you felt that way. We haven't talked about it before. I -- I didn't realize you'd reject everything that... You took this job. I thought you were coming back."

"Mars is a planet. I don't have to stay on Earth. I took the job to keep Gordon from harassing me. It works. But I'm not going to think about getting out any more than I have to."

"I see."

Sharon feels the anger dangerous in her wrists. Her coffee shakes with the conflicts and she puts it down. "You think so."

"Oh, stop being the fatuous ass with me, Lazlo." Erin snaps. "How can you stay away from climbing? It can't be Rael -- I'll bet you're seeing someone right now, here on Mars, am I right? Or what?"

Sharon sighs. "No, Erin, I'm not seeing anyone. It's not because of Rael. I know what I'm doing." She hugs the memory of her midnight walk as her own; her secret.

Erin rubs a finger along the edge of her bulb. "Oh, I don't blame you," she says hollowly. "I just wanted to ask you to come on this climb. To take another shot at leading, keep you on top of things. Pat and I both want you to go on Arsia with us."

Sharon shakes her head, tension drains. "Good intentions, but basically - no. No way. I mean it. No way."

Erin frowns into her drink.

Gordon meets Sharon a week later at the company offices in Kylee.

"How are you?" he asks, hugging her briefly.

"Ok."

"Come in, we'll talk about what's next."

An impish smile took over her lips. "Yeah. Let's go."

He seats himself behind the desk and presses a couple of sections on his datapad. "Well, there's quite a number of things. Of course, you'll want some time on earth; help keep that potter crew of yours occupied. Oh? And what's this?"

She is laughing. "Well, I expected you to try to talk me into going out again. I thought we'd have a fight about it."

He frowns. "Thanks a lot."

"You did get me out here. Your wife was here a while back, trying to get me interested in her new project."

"I didn't think that would keep you from trusting me..."

"Sure."

She runs the edge of her hand along the scar on her chin. Finally, she smiles ruefully. "All right. Can I have two weeks?"

"I was thinking three."

"Well, if I have to..."

"Oh, we could shorten it, if you'd -- "

"No, no, really. I can think of a few things to do."

"No doubt."

He sobers first. "Can I ask?"

She shrugs. "As long as you don't mind if I don't answer."

"I don't."

"Go." She settles back.

"How are you feeling? In general?"

Her mouth becomes briefly thin. "You mean about Rael."

"Yeah."

She releases her breath.

"I'm doing okay."

"Good." He smiles, and she tries to forget she that she has lied.

Now free, she feels the solitude reach into her, stifling, like air too thin. It has been building in the distance for days, and she has been shoving it away, throwing her energies into her work. But now she thinks of the time hanging a weight around her shoulders. She stares at the faint glow of the dim wallboards, eyes grasping the images whole, too solid for consumption.

Work is denied her, anyway.

She hesitates between going and staying, wavers between privacy and desperate loneliness; she stands and paces the dimensions of the room, once, then sits down again on the bed.

Finally, she dresses carefully, examining herself in the wall, and when she hesitates once again, she reminds herself harshly -- I'm going out, I'm going to be with people. And I'm going to be brave about it, no matter what.

The music seems harsh and strident, in the recently popular mode of shi-bop. The instrumentalists step glistening through the field of light; interacting with each other and the volume of sound.

Sharon watches from the edge of the crowd, ambivalent where they cheer and dance. She tries to see why the music leads the way it does: a strange, lurching, powerful rhythm that she finds suddenly tugging at the muscles of her hand, tapping a silent beat against her thigh. Then she understands, and she senses an exotic night of breakers and wild gymnastics, people torn like shreds of cloud on their own discipline. So she laughs and claps as the notes slide away to a quiet interlude.

" -- but shi-bop's so superficial... " someone says, walking by.

She watches people dancing -- that woman, her hair lashing against the translucent washes of light.. a couple watching the performers with an eagerness that speaks of their love. Their hands are intertwined on the table top. She glances away; but then she forces her eyes back to them. This might be one night in a hundred for them, but I wish...

She notices a tall man, bushy hair an umber aureole against the light. He dances in place, swaying with the percussion, drink tucked under his arm. His beard is light, barely enough to blur the line of jaw and cheek. He is grinning widely, fully captivated by the music, but his eyes are alert, sometimes flicking across the musicians, sometimes scanning the audience.

Some people passing jostle her, and she finds herself suddenly looking up at his face. He notices it no more than anything else, and she turns her attention back to the floor. But, after a while, she can't resist, and she glances aside again... just as he completes the motion of looking away from her. Then he moves away, into the crowd, and she is surprised at the disappointment she feels.

At the console, later, she selects a smoke. Suddenly, he leans past her, setting an empty glass on the tray. "Excuse," he apologizes.

"Sure," she replies.

"You've saved the bar another dollar," he states. They laugh, for a moment their eyes meet, and he seems to search more closely. Still, he walks away.

By the time she stands by the arch, she has already made up her mind in a strange, non-verbal way, as if the decision... as if she is afraid of the decision. She tries not to think of Rael. She tries to keep it like this: as it is before she had met Rael. How had she felt?

But already she has decided to step forward. She looks around, but he can't be seen. She leans back against a column...and she suddenly frowns at herself, realizing that she had been wrapped up in something without realizing exactly how. The instrumentalists come down for their break, and quieter, synthetic music replaces their work. It is a while before she notices him standing against the pillar opposite, hidden behind the dimness. It is an excellent location from which to watch her, if that is what he had been doing. She smiles an inner smile; it is an old game, and it has been a long time.

She beckons him over; at first he looks at her with surprise, apparently uncertain, but then, with a single, easy motion, he crosses the distance to her.

"Are you familiar with this music?" she asks.

He shook his head. "I'm just a guest. This kind of thing hasn't gone much further than Mars, yet. Who knows if it will?"

"I was hoping for an experienced guide," she replies. "You seem to like it."

"I've been here a few weeks. I come down a lot. I suppose I like just about anything when I give it a chance."

"Musician?" she asks.

"Actor," he replies. "You?"

"Oh, lots of things," she replies, not knowing how to answer.

His eyes are dark and deep in the dim light, and when he raises an eyebrow, it is with a grin behind his faint beard that questions. She laughs. "Only an actor could do that, I suppose."

"Ah, you do know actors. But not theatre yourself, I don't think. Except..." he appraises the way she stands, and finishes, "maybe dance."

"That's one of the things."

"I'm Lucas."

"Sharon."

He touches her shoulder. "I can see you're going to intrigue me one way or the other all evening. Why don't we get a table and get acquainted."

She likes his openness and confidence. "You're on."

He is an actor from the colonies, more at home on Mars than in space, recording documentaries and drama for wideband holocasts in the Belt, where there is currently a growing interest in early period Martian colonial drama and history. He is originally from the moon, calling himself "one of the new flotsam of the post-colonial era." She laughed at the phrase, but not at the man.

"Well," she replies to his question with a partial revelation, "I'm in teaching. Dance is just a sideline I use to keep myself fit."

"Not artistically active? But you are an artist?"

"Well, I make pottery; but that has nothing to do with anything else, directly."

He leans back, and his glance is admiring. "You aren't kidding when you didn't know what to say when I asked you."

She shakes her head, blushing. "No."

"And what do you like the most?"

"Oh -- " and she shuts her mouth with a snap. "I guess it'd be hard to say."

He has seen the slip, but wisely avoids questioning it. The music is about to begin, and he says: "Would you like to dance?" She nods and rises, taking his hand.

They dance a couple, and he is a fairly good dancer. The motion rings with the liquor in her veins and she suddenly is aware of him physically as he dances, weaving with her in a silent communication of movement. She realizes she is enjoying this, even more than she had dared to hope.

Suddenly, something seems to let go, and she is caught up in the music completely. The asynchronous rhythm plucks at her training, and she is whirling, a tightly-coordinated burst of energy, punctuating her spiral with snaps of arms and legs. The other dancers become invisible to her, but she never leaves her place. They draw back, watching, as she swings and leaps, held to a point by a force that seems to transcend momentum. Glances are traded among the instrumentalists, but they are far from resentful; they are glad of the interest, especially from someone so obviously professional, and they swing with her, relentlessly rhythmic, relentlessly changing, until the song shudders to a close. She stops, swaying, and bows to the musicians and their applause, silent amidst the cheering that has detonated the club. They return the compliment, grinning wildly. "Thanks!" they call, as she waves and makes her way slowly to Lucas. He grins and kisses her. "That was fantastic!" he shouts over the clamor. "And you say you dance a little, eh?" She tries to laugh, but her lungs is too tires. She collapses into a chair. "Not often enough, obviously," she gasps. Her eyes close briefly.

They drink, smoke, talk and laugh until the hour becomes early. They dance a last dance, a slow dance, and she leans her head on his shoulder, taking in the scent of him, feeling his arms at her waist. When the dance ends, there is a moment when she hugs him tightly, feeling so relaxed that she hopes it would never end.

But there is a tension rising, because with the morning there is her flight, a mere three hours away. She will not sleep this evening. She has to leave.

"I have to go," she sighs, looking up at his weary, blissful face. "I'm leaving for Earth in a few hours."

The corners of his mouth come down, even as he struggles with himself. "Yes, well, that's the life of an actor as well. I imagine it's too much to expect our paths to cross again. Too many people keep telling me this is a solar system too easy to get lost in, no matter how good you are."

She wants to deny it, but when she looks back at him again, she had to be honest. This had been the best thing for her in a long time, but for it to stay that way -- simple, pure, enjoyment -- it could never be allows to be more. "I'm afraid you're right." She leans up and kisses him. They embrace deeply and then, with a last, languorous touch of hands, he smiles at her; from within a complex of emotions she walks away.

The flight stretches into days enclosed by the cushioned ceiling above her bed. Too much time to rehearse her encounter with Lucas, to remember him, to clutch at the image of Rael and to see his face become confused with the dark brown eyes that seem to look so penetratingly out of the darkness. Like a drowning sailor loving the sea, she holds Lucas before her imagination as if possessed, until she recants in her determination; then her certainty would rush back like a wave, leaving her in the turmoil of its decay. It would be impossible to find him. Chryse is small, but it is large enough for him to be lost in... She rolls her head and buries her face in her pillow, secretly and shamefully glad that it is the end of an interlude, that there are no conflicts at home, and that she is now free to work on her life without distraction.

Content, Layout, and Images Copyright © 1999 by Mark Cashman except where indicated (NASA photos)