Death Trap Page 2

  Things have become so desperate on Earth that already 500 billion dollars have been spent on this project, which seems like a lot until you do the math and realize that’s only about 10 dollars for every person on the planet.

  Kristy Sanders, my mom, used to be Kristy Wallace until she married my father, Chase Sanders. They teamed up with nearly 200 men and women specialists from all countries across the world when the first ships left Earth. I was just a baby, so I can’t say I remember, but from what I’ve been told, those first few years of assembling the dome were heroic. Now we live in comfort. I’ve got a computer that lets me download e-entertainment from Earth by satellite, and the gardens that were planted when I was a kid make parts of the dome seem like a tropical garden. It isn’t a bad place to live.

  But now it could become a bad place to die.

  Today Blaine Steven, the dome director, called everyone together and told us that the gigantic solar panels that cover most of the ceiling of the dome are failing to make enough electricity to run the dome and provide all our oxygen. He said if we cut back our use of electricity to only what is absolutely needed, we can use the rest of the electricity to make more oxygen. He warned that this alone would not be enough. But the reserve oxygen in the dome’s spare tanks will get us through the last few days until the supply ship arrives.

  So no extra electricity can be used on anything. The only reason I’m able to use my computer is because it’s running on battery. It means we won’t even use electricity for running showers. It’s better to be smelly and able to smell the smelliness, Director Steven said, than to be clean and dead. Everyone agreed.

  Director Steven also said that most work under the dome would be shut down. He said people should rest and sleep and read e-books as much as possible because resting bodies use less oxygen. He said if all of us joined together we had a really good chance of surviving.

  Let me say this to anyone on Earth who might read this. If, like me, you have legs that don’t work, Mars, with its lower gravity pull, is probably a better place to be than Earth.

  That’s only a guess, of course, because I haven’t had the chance to compare Mars’ gravity to Earth’s gravity. In fact, I’m the only person in the entire history of mankind who has never been on Earth.

  I’m not kidding.

  You see, I’m the first person born on Mars. Everyone else here came from Earth nearly eight Martian years ago—15 Earth years to you—as part of the first expedition to set up a colony. The trip took eight months, and during this voyage my mother and father fell in love. Mom is a leading plant biologist. Dad is a space pilot. They were the first couple to be married on Mars. And the last, for now. They loved each other so much that they married by exchanging their vows over radio phone with a preacher on Earth. When I was born half a Mars year later—which now makes me 14 Earth years old—it made things so complicated on the colony that it was decided there would be no more marriages and babies until the colony was better established.

  I stopped again. Because Mom tells me that much of the Mars Project has been explained so often in the media and in schools, I knew I didn’t have to go into detail about the colony itself. I guessed everybody on Earth already knew that Phase 1 was to establish the dome. Phase 2, which we were just about to start, was to grow plants outside the dome so more oxygen could be added to the atmosphere. The long-range plan—which would take over a hundred years—was to make the entire planet a place for humans to live outside the dome.

  People on Earth desperately needed the room. Already the planet had too many people on it. If Mars could be made a new colony, then Earth could start shipping people here to live. If not, new wars might begin, and millions of people would die from war or starvation or disease.

  I wondered, though, if people really understood how different it was to live under a dome nearly 50 million miles away from the planet Earth.

  I turned back to my keyboard.

  What was complicated about a baby on Mars?

  Let me put it this way. Because of planetary orbits, spaceships can reach Mars only every three years. (Only four ships have arrived since I was born.) And for what it costs to send a ship from Earth, cargo space is expensive. Very, very expensive. Diapers, baby bottles, cribs, and carriages are not exactly a priority for interplanetary travel.

  I did without all that stuff. In fact, my wheelchair isn’t even motorized, because every extra pound of cargo costs something like 10,000 dollars.

  Just like I did without a modern hospital when I was born. So when my spinal column twisted funny during birth and damaged the nerves to my legs, there was no one to fix them. Which is why I’m in a wheelchair.

  But it could be worse. On Earth, I’d weigh 110 pounds. Here, I’m only 42 pounds, so I don’t have to fight gravity nearly as hard as Earth kids.

  I thought about my father. I felt like I hardly knew him or he knew me because he didn’t stay long between trips to Earth and back. For a long time I was always angry when I thought about this, because, from what I’ve read, most kids get to grow up with their fathers. And most kids get to grow up using their legs. But I’ve decided not to waste time caring about him or about what has happened to my legs.

  I tapped at my keyboard, slowly putting more words together.

  When my body and arms aren’t weak from lack of oxygen, the lower gravity does make it easy to get around in my wheelchair.

  The other good thing is that I never have to travel far. Not like on Earth, where you can go in one direction for thousands of miles. Here, all 200 of us—mainly scientists and techies, the name we give technicians—live under a sealed dome that might cover four football fields. (I know all this about Earth because of the DVD-gigarom books I scan for hours every day.)

  When I’m not being taught by my computer or Rawling McTigre, I spend my time wheeling around the paths beneath the colony dome. I know every scientist and techie by first name. I know every path past every minidome, the small, dark plastic huts where people live in privacy from the others. Between the solar panels that crowd the ceiling I’ve seen every color of Martian sky through the super-clear plastic of the main dome above us. I’ve spent hours listening to sandstorms rattle over us. I’ve …

  … I’ve got to go. Mom’s calling me to join her for mealtime.

  I hit the Save button on my keyboard. There would be plenty of time later to report more on our oxygen crisis, millions of miles away from rescue.

  CHAPTER 4

  Our minidome, like everyone else’s, had two office-bedrooms with a common living space in the middle. Mom wasn’t able to use her second room as an office because that had become my bedroom. We didn’t need a kitchen, because we never had anything to cook. Instead, a microwave hung on the far wall; it was used to heat nutrient tubes. Another door at the back of the living space led to a small bathroom. It wasn’t much. From what I’ve read about Earth homes, our minidome had less space than two average bedrooms. And I could only dream about having a backyard and fence and garden the way I’d seen in e-photos.

  Mom was waiting for me in one of the chairs in the common area. She had thick dark hair that was cut short, like an upside-down bowl. She didn’t care much what she looked like—especially during the long, long months while my father was gone between refueling stops on Mars. It meant more to have a hairstyle that didn’t take much fussing and gave her as much time as possible for her science. As the leading plant biologist on the station, Mom had a big job: to genetically alter Earth plants so they could grow on Mars.

  She gave me a tired smile—the 14-hours-of-hard-scientific-work smile. I gave her one in return.

  “How are you doing with your journal?” she asked, like this was just another normal day.

  “Fine,” I said, like this was just another normal day. “What’s for supper?”

  Dying was funny. Not funny ha-ha. Funny strange. Everyone thought about it all the time, but nobody wanted to talk about it.

  I grunted as I pushed my wheelchair
toward her. It was getting harder and harder to move it. I worried that pretty soon I might not be able to move it at all.

  Mom stood at the microwave and hit the buttons.

  As I waited for the seconds to count down, I did what I always did whenever I had to wait. I reached down to the pouch hanging from the armrest of my wheelchair and pulled out my three red juggling balls. I began to juggle, keeping all three in the air so it looked like one blur. Some people twiddle their thumbs. Me, I like to juggle. Rawling says I learned it because it’s something athletic I can do better than most people who aren’t crippled. He’s probably right.

  The microwave dinged that it was ready.

  I caught the juggling balls and put them in the pouch. With effort, I pushed my wheelchair toward Mom.

  She handed me a plastic nutrient tube about the size of a chocolate bar. Red.

  “Spaghetti and meatballs?” I asked.

  She nodded. I’ve never tasted real spaghetti and meatballs, so I have to take Mom’s word for it that the nute-tube stuff is not nearly as good as the real thing.

  As usual, she prayed over it.

  As usual, I didn’t.

  As usual, it made her sad.

  “Our oxygen level is dropping faster and faster,” Mom said softly. “How can I convince you to place your faith in God? If we have only a month left …”

  “I only believe what I can see or measure,” I said. In the colony, I was surrounded by scientists. All their experiments were on data that could be seen—and measured.

  “But faith is the confident hope in things unseen,” she insisted, a bit teary-eyed. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be a matter of faith. We don’t see your dad, but we know he loves us, no matter where his cargo ship is. Faith in God is like that.”

  Right, I thought. I wasn’t going to tell her that it wasn’t easy to love a space-pilot father you never saw. And it wasn’t easy to believe he loved me, either.

  “Mom—” we had argued this so much that I decided to stick with the same old argument—“you can’t make me believe in God. If you want me to pretend, I will.”

  “No,” she said, with her mouth tight the way it is when she’s vexed. “I always want you to be honest with me.”

  “There you go,” I said. “End of argument.”

  I ripped off the top of my nute tube. Most of the scientists needed to use a knife or scissors. I didn’t since I had developed a lot of strength in my arms and hands.

  I guzzled the red paste, then tossed it on the table. “I’m going.” Mom and I were good friends, but we were both grumpy from our argument about God and from the oxygen problem. I needed time by myself.

  She didn’t ask me where I was going. She didn’t need to. There isn’t much room in the dome for me to get lost. And everyone knows I’m a telescope freak. I spent any spare time I had on the third-level deck at the telescope.

  By the time I wheeled to the center of the dome 15 minutes later, I was sweating from the effort. Before, it would have taken only a couple of minutes and hardly any muscle power. This oxygen thing was scary. But what could I do about it?

  The deck was dim because all but the most-needed lights had been shut down. Just another reminder of the oxygen problem.

  Around me, men and women scientists walked slowly on the paths, going from minidome to minidome for whatever business they had. They nodded or said hello as they passed me.

  In my wheelchair, I nodded and said hello back. Other than that, as I rolled along, I just stared upward at the stars above the dome. Other people on other expeditions might one day explore the planet outside. Not us. For starters, I wondered if we’d be dead soon. Dad was piloting the next cargo ship, and it wouldn’t arrive for five days. One day after the colony dome ran out of oxygen.

  I kept staring upward. My gaze drifted to the giant dark solar panels that hung just below the clear roof of the dome. These solar panels, which turned the energy of sunlight into electricity, were killing us. Part of this electricity powered our computers and other equipment. Most of the electricity, though, flowed as a current into the water of the oxygen tank. The electrical current broke the water—H20—into the gases of hydrogen and oxygen, two parts hydrogen for every one part of oxygen. The hydrogen was used as fuel for some of the generators. The oxygen, of course, we breathed.

  But something was wrong with the panels. Nobody could figure it out. Taken down and tested, they worked perfectly. But back up at the roof, the panels were making less and less electricity each day. With less power, we had less oxygen. It was that simple. I focused upward, thinking about that.

  Then it hit me. It wasn’t the panels. It was the sunlight. What if the panels worked fine, but they weren’t getting enough sunlight?

  And I thought I knew why!

  I spun my wheelchair around and began to move as fast as I could toward the director’s minidome.

  At that moment all of the dome’s lights snapped off. The hum of the generator quit.

  In total silence and darkness, I froze.

  Then I heard a scream.

  Unless I was wrong, that scream had come from the direction of my minidome.

  CHAPTER 5

  Within seconds, the total blackness inside the dome was filled with flashlight beams, making the air look like a giant confused sword fight of lights.

  I still didn’t move. I didn’t have a flashlight. I couldn’t see where to go. In a wheelchair, the last thing you want to do is hit something that will knock you flying. When you can’t use your legs, it’s embarrassing to have to crawl along the ground and try to pull yourself up into the wheelchair again.

  More screaming reached my ears. A strange blue glow began to appear in the dome, like neon ice melting in all directions.

  The emergency backup lights were on. In the glow, I saw a figure running toward me, with other figures chasing it.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  Shouting was a very dumb thing to do. It alerted the running person to the fact that I was in my wheelchair and waiting.

  Whoever it was turned and shielded his face with his arm as he kept running toward me. In the weird glow of the backup lights, I didn’t have a chance of figuring out who it was. He darted sideways to go around my wheelchair.

  Sticking out my arm, I tried to stop him. Since people were chasing him, they probably had a reason for wanting to stop him.

  That was another dumb thing to do. If I’d actually grabbed him, the force of his momentum could have ripped my arm off at my shoulder.

  He passed me. Other dark figures got closer as they kept chasing him.

  “Hey!” I shouted, louder. This time I did want to be seen. Getting trampled in my wheelchair is not my favorite evening activity.

  “Hey!” I shouted one more time—and not because I wanted to warn anyone. This time it was because my wheelchair was suddenly moving.

  The person behind me had given me a shove! He wanted me and my wheelchair to block the people chasing him.

  I tried squeezing my brakes, but it was too late. I was on one of the sidewalk paths between minidomes. There was hardly any room to move around me on either side.

  There must have been 10 people chasing this guy. And with 10 people all running like crazy, with hardly any room on the path to begin with, it’s not fun to be the wheelchair that flies directly into the crowd.

  Bang!

  Something hard hit me in the face.

  I tumbled out of my wheelchair and skidded on my chin into the side of a minidome. Two other people stepped on me and tripped. Someone behind them fell right on top of me. Then something else hit me on top of my head—someone’s knee, I found out later. It mashed my face into the floor of the dome. I cracked my forehead in a thump that sounded like wood against concrete.

  After that, I didn’t remember anything else, except that slowly it got darker and darker and the noises became quieter and quieter until I finally faded out completely.

  CHAPTER 6

  It smelled like someone wa
s ramming a bottle of bleach up my nose.

  Smelling salts.

  It snapped me right out of my black daze.

  I woke up with Rawling on one side of me and my mother looking down, worried, from the other side. I was on my back on an examining table in the medical emergency room.

  “Hey,” I said with a croak. “Someone turned the lights back on.”

  Mom sighed with relief, smiled, and wiped my face with a cold, wet cloth.

  “Welcome back, scout,” Rawling said. “Now you know what it would be like to play football.”

  “And be the football?” I groaned. “See, I told you it’s a dumb game.”

  Rawling and I argue about that all the time. He’s got a DVD-gigarom collection of Super Bowl games, and he loves watching them. I can’t figure it out. A bunch of guys running into each other and a bunch more people screaming at them.

  “What happened out there?” I asked. “I was just minding my own business when it went dark. I heard screams and saw this guy getting chased and then—”

  “He pushed you into the people chasing him and got away.”

  “Nobody gets away from anybody in this dome,” I said. “It’s too small.”

  “Whoever it was,” Rawling replied, “got away long enough to stop running and find a way to mingle with the crowds. That’s the best way to hide in here. Just look like everybody else. He’s not a stranger, since the only humans on Mars are the ones already living under the dome.”

  Mom asked, “Did you get a look at his face?”

  “Couldn’t see anything,” I said. “What did he do?”

  “Nothing,” Rawling said. “At least nothing we can figure out.”

  “I heard shouting in the dark.”