Chapter One
Ahead of me, somewhere in the jungle of tall, green
bamboo-corn, a man's life depended on how quickly I could
reach him.
This was no virtual-reality computer simulation program,
like the ones I'd practiced for years in the science lab. It
was the real thing. I'd been given so little time to get ready
that all I knew were the basic facts about my mission.
The man's name was Timothy Neilson. He was a high-level
medical tekkie-a technician who helped the scientists
carry out their experiments. His job was to tend what
we under the Mars Dome called the "cornfield," a large
patch located in a greenhouse outside the dome. Neilson's
emergency beeper had gone off fifteen minutes earlier, and
it was a good thing I had already been in a practice rescue
session, hooked up to the robot I was now controlling. That
meant I could roll into action immediately. But I didn't know
if that was fast enough. Timothy Neilson wasn't responding
to radio communications, even though the computer link
showed that his receiver and transmitter were both in perfect
working order.
I knew one other thing about Timothy Neilson.
The emergency signal reaching the dome from a computer
chip embedded in his space suit told us the suit was
leaking oxygen and heat so badly that he now had less than
ten minutes to live. If he was still alive.
The gigantic black shell of the dome was five minutes
behind me across a stretch of hard-packed, red desert
sand. That meant I'd have to find Timothy Neilson in five
minutes and get him back to the dome in the remaining five
minutes.
Two things would help me. First, I held a global positioning
unit (g.p.u.) that allowed me to track the location of the
signal chip in his space suit. Also, as I neared his body, I
could switch to infrared vision and look for the heat escaping
his space suit.
Even with the g.p.u. and infrared to help me, however, I
was in trouble because of the bamboo-corn stretching high
in all directions around me.
Although this was Mars, the stuff around me truly was
as thick as any jungle. My mother is one of the scientists
who has worked hard for fourteen years to genetically alter
Earth plants that might survive on the surface of Mars.
None can-so far-but these hybrids had come the closest.
The stems of the plants were tall and thin and strong
like bamboo plants, with wide, long leaves like those of
corn plants. The entire field-a half-mile square of rows
and rows of bamboo-corn-was enclosed by a huge greenhouse
tent of clear, space-tech plastic sheeting that gave
the plants the protection they needed to survive. With 100-mile-an-hour
sandstorms that covered half the planet and
an average temperature of minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit,
life on Mars wasn't easy. But the next generation of
these plants, my mom believed, would be able to grow without
the greenhouse. In addition to the oxygen given off by
the plants, the Mars Project would begin pumping oxygen
into the atmosphere. Eventually, scientists hoped humans
would be able to live on Mars without being under the protection
of the dome. And that would help solve one of
Earth's problems in the twenty-first century-overcrowding.
I was somewhere in the middle of this field, with four
minutes now remaining to find Timothy Neilson.
Using my robot wheels, I rolled down a path between
two rows of bamboo-corn. The leaves tickled like silk
against my titanium shell. Above the rustling of those
leaves, I heard the whistling of Martian wind as it found tiny
gaps in the greenhouse tent. Unlike the dome, this wasn't
sealed perfectly. It didn't need to be; the plan was to see if
these plants could thrive with only some protection. If they
lived, their seeds would be cross-bred and genetically
changed again to make the next generation even hardier. I
listened as the wind whistled and sand rattled against the
plastic
No!
I told myself I did not hear what I thought I was hearing:
movement in the corn leaves, just out of sight. Like the
noise of dozens of creatures slipping away among the
stalks of bamboo-corn.
I swiveled the robot body, scanning around me. But only
the silent, tall green stems surrounded me like prison bars.
Then I saw a darting movement. But it came and went
so quickly, I told myself it was just my imagination. Aliens,I
told myself firmly, do not exist.
I pushed forward, wondering if those nonexistent creatures
were about to attack me.
My g.p.u. chirped. Loudly. I would have jumped if I hadn't
been on wheels. It chirped louder and louder, telling me I
was getting close to Neilson.
Suddenly I came to broken plants, pushed over and
sideways as if a man had crashed into them at a full run. I
swerved and followed the crooked path.
It was easy to see footprints in the soil where the weight
of the man's feet had crushed the wide leaves at the base
of the stems. I rolled forward. It was like tracking an animal
that had run in full panic, not caring what it hit as it fled.
As I followed a twisting path through the bamboo-corn, I
had no choice but to believe something I did not want to believe.
Someone-or something-had chased Timothy
Neilson.
Impossible, I told myself again. This was Mars. The scientists
claimed there was nothing alive on this planet that
could hurt us. And aliens simply did not exist.
I quickly scanned in all directions, but the bamboo-corn
made it impossible to see beyond the reach of my titanium
arms.
I switched to infrared vision, which let me see heat instead
of light. The green outlines of the stems and leaves
against the pink light of the Mars sky disappeared. In infrared
vision, I saw a blur of warm orange (the plants) standing
on a deeper, brighter orange (the warmer sun-soaked soil),
surrounded by a very light orange color (the cooler air).
Beyond the warm orange of the plants, I tried to sense
the red shapes of living creatures.
Then I told myself I was dumb. Even if aliens did exist,
which I knew was impossible, why should I expect them to
have the same kind of body heat as humans?
The chirping of the g.p.u. guided me forward. I rushed as
quickly as I could.
Seconds later, my infrared located the red outline of a
space suit that was bleeding body heat.
Timothy Neilson.
"Are you all right?" I asked in my deep robot voice.
No answer.
I switched back to normal vision and focused on the
white fabric of his space suit. He was lying on his stomach,
his legs twisted beneath him where he had fallen in the middle
of the bamboo-corn. His space helmet was hidden by
the leaves of plants that had fallen on top of him.
I scooped him into my arms, grateful for the strength of
titanium limbs. Without hesitation, I wheeled back toward
the dome.
I now had six minutes and twenty-five seconds to get
Timothy Neilson to medical help. If he was still alive. If I
wasn't attacked by whatever had attacked him.
Because if I could trust my eyes, it looked like teeth and
claws had ripped the holes in his space suit.
