Dirt Trek

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 435

LOCATION: Mawrth Vallis Salt Flats (Qaddafi Mars Authority territory)

The wind in the Outflow Channels whipped up the dust through the canyons to what sounded like supersonic speeds.

Clara sat in the passenger seat of the crawler, her leg braces locked. The heater had died ten kilometers back. Now, the main axle was dead too.

The crawler sat tilted on the white salt flat, listless.

Dr. Murray was outside. Clara could see her through the scratched viewport, huddled in her heavy archivist robes, the mask for her oxygen tank hanging off her shoulder, banging a wrench against the wheel strut.

Clara tapped the glass.

-Magister, she shouted. It’s freezing!

Murray ignored her. She hit the strut one last time, then dropped the wrench. She trudged back to the cab and cycled the airlock.

The wrinkled woman slid into the driver’s seat, shivering. Her face was pale, her lips blue. She pulled her gloves off and blew on her fingers.

-She’s cooked, Murray said. The salt ate the bearings. We’re stuck.

Clara looked out at the horizon. It was a flat dull line against a pink sky. The Qaddafi Mars Authority controlled this land, which meant nobody was likely to come bother you, but nobody was probably going to help you either.

The MTC warned about bandits and pirates across Qaddafi territory, which straddled both sides of the green line separating the terraformed zone of the planet from the rest of Mars, but that was mostly propaganda because the QMA did not allow MTC patrols into their territory, and refused to permit the MTC to set up permanent operations there.

It was one hard rule the QMA enforced. You had to belong to the charter to live in its territories. It wasn’t like that across Mars.

The New Paris Colonies of course permit MTC members to live and operate in all their settlements, New Paris and its exurbs and domed settlements, and to run their own. But even the WMR did not require residents of its territories to belong to its charter.

There were New Parisians living in West Mars, those who belonged to the QMA, and even members of the MTC, although the MTC never set up a permanent settlement or operation in the West Mars Republic, for fear of espionage.

-We can just walk, Clara finally said.

-To where? Murray asked. The elevator is four hundred kilometers away. The cold will kill us before the sun sets. And the air will keep getting thinner, until it’s gone. We don’t have enough oxygen to take that long to get there.

Murray reached into the back seat. She pulled out a heavy, wooden case and opened it. Inside were six dark, dense rectangular bricks. They smelled earthy, rich, and living.

-What are those? Clara asked.

-Bricks of tea, Murray said. Compacted pekoe.

She took a small knife and chipped a flake off the corner of one brick. She put the flake in her mouth and chewed it slowly.

-Why are we eating leaves? Clara asked.

-We’re waiting, Murray said.

She placed the box on the dashboard.

-Someone will come. This is the Salt Road. And when they do, this can get us somewhere.

Clara huddled in her coat. The temperature in the cab was dropping. Frost began to spiderweb across the glass.

They waited.

An hour passed. Then two. The pink sky turned a bruised purple.

Clara was drifting, half-asleep, when she felt a vibration, a low, electric hum. She opened her eyes.

A rover was cresting the dune. It was huge and boxy and moved on balloon tires.

It had no official markings, just a symbol painted on the door in white: A hammer crossing a torch.

-Trappists, Murray whispered.

The wool-colored rover stopped ten meters away, and the side door slid open.

Two figures stepped out. They wore heavy, brown pressure suits with hoods pulled over their helmets and carried titanium walking sticks.

They walked to the crawler. One of them tapped the glass with his stick.

Murray cracked the window open. The freezing air rushed in.

-Help us, Murray asked.

The figure in brown stared at her through his visor. He turned to his companion and made a hand sign, a quick chop of the hand and a circle.

-Trappists don't talk to outsiders, Murray explained to Clara.

The monk turned back to the window. He pointed his stick at the horizon, back the way they came. Go home.

Murray grabbed the wooden box from the dashboard. She shoved it toward the window.

-We can't go back. We can trade, she said, tapping on her wooden case.

The monk looked at the box. He leaned in to smell.

He froze. He tapped his companion’s shoulder.

The second monk stepped up. He looked at the bricks. He nodded slowly.

-Chay, the first monk said. His voice was rusty from lack of use.

-Real, Murray said. Six kilos. High density. Expensive.

The monk looked at Murray, then at Clara. He looked at the Lanky girl’s leg braces.

-Where? the monk rasped.

-Valles Marineris, Murray said. The Phobos Orbital Authority. The elevator.

The monk shook his head. He made a sign of a rising vertical line, then crossed his arms. Forbidden without permit.

-The MTC guards the spire, the monk said, spitting on the ground.

-We don't need to enter the spire, Murray said. We just need the maintenance shaft.

The monk paused. He looked at the tea again. He reached out a gloved hand and touched the wooden box.

-Why?

Murray took a breath. She looked at Clara.

-To go find her brother. And maybe what happened to Earth.

The monk looked at the horizon, toward the distant bulge of the Tharsis volcanoes.

He tapped his companion. They had a silent conversation, a flurry of hand signals and nods.

Finally, the monk turned back. He pointed to the rover.

-Leave the machine, he said. Bring the child. Bring the tea.

Murray exhaled and grabbed her bag.

-Let’s go, Clara.

They climbed out of the dead crawler. The wind cut through Clara’s thin flight suit. The monks helped them into the back of the rover.

The interior was warm. The walls were lined with racks of hydroponic trays growing small, struggling plants.

Clara sat on a bench. One of the monks handed her a cup of hot water. It tasted like metal, but it was hot.

The rover lurched forward, turning west, toward the mountains.

-Who are they? Clara whispered, sipping the water.

-Trappists, Murray said, stroking the wooden box on her lap. An old church order, from Old Earth times.

-And they’re taking us to the Elevator?

-They’re taking us to a back door, Murray said.

She looked out the window as the white salt flats rolled by.