Olympus Mons!

Illustration by Vincent Di Fate

Haley Surra watched Taylor walking toward her across the Mar-sport concourse. “Cocky kid,” she muttered to herself as he came nearer. Why couldn’t he leave her alone with her misery? He knew that she was a freaking jinx, a lousy albatross, just like everyone said. Hadn’t she already done enough to screw him up? Hadn’t the jinx made him lose the race? Hadn’t her lousy bad luck nearly killed them?

What the hell did he want now?

The first time Taylor saw Surra was in a cheap bar frequented by Mars grubbies and indentured workers; people who could only afford the cheap spiced liquor they served there. He’d taken a cup of the clear, searing, pepper-infused whiskey and nearly choked on his first sip.

“Grew the peppers in the old lady’s dirt,” the barkeeper had boasted proudly as she topped off his cup. “Gives it that added zip, y’know. What brings you to Jovus bubble?”

“The Chu San race,” Taylor’d replied. “I thought that was obvious.” With his expensive clothes and pale skin he knew that he stood out among these hard scrabble types like a beacon on an orbiter. “But right now, I’m looking for a grubbie who knows Mons,” he added.

The barkeeper flopped into the chair opposite him. “Wouldn’t call prospectors that to their faces, were I you. Besides, you’re probably too late.” She looked around the room. “All the ’spectors willing to run the mountain have been hired.”

“Heard there was a woman—Haley Surra—who hasn’t teamed. Said I could probably find her here.”

The barkeeper stood up abruptly. “Don’t know that she’d want to help, though. Got a bunch of family problems that’s taking most of her time, I hear. But I’ll keep an eye out.”

Taylor looked around at the crowd as the woman returned to the bar. Most were paying close attention to the news scrolling across the wall screen but a few were conversing intently in the Martian native’s low growls. A thin woman sat alone and stared at the ruddy desert outside through the observation window behind the bar. There was a half-empty cup in front of her. She turned and glanced his way after the barkeeper whispered something to her.

Taylor smiled at her and returned to his newly refreshed drink, sipping another minute quantity to see if limiting the volume would reduce the sting.

It didn’t.

“Sheila says you’ve been looking for me,” the sharp-featured woman who’d been at the bar said as she sat down. When he didn’t immediately respond she added; “I’m Surra—Haley Surra. What’s on your mind?”

Taylor Blacker looked at her and wondered if he had been led astray. His potential navigator turned out to be a slight woman with sharp cheekbones and a characteristic Mars tan. She was so thin that he wondered why even the weak breezes of Mars hadn’t whisked her away. She was not an imposing sight, not by half. She was hardly what he’d expected.

“Seen enough,” she said gruffly.

“I’ve been told that you know the mountain pretty well,” he started. “Fellow down in Marsport told me that you probably were the best grubbie I could find.”

Surra stared at him for such a long time that he wondered if his inspection of her had given affront. Finally, she responded. “You are so full of crap; the only reason you are talking to me is that you haven’t been able to find anyone else—right?”

Blacker shrugged. “Well—” he began.

“Let’s get something straight right off,” Surra interrupted. “I don’t like people who lie to me. I don’t like people who call us ‘grubbies’ and,” she added angrily, “I don’t particularly like fresh-faced kids who have so much money that they can afford to waste it on a stupid race down the old lady’s skirts. Stuff your bullshit, pack your bags, and go back to daddy, kid. You ain’t got a chance!”

Taylor grabbed her by the arm when she started to get up. “Listen lady, don’t tell me I haven’t a chance! I’ve been getting ready for this race for two years, ever since they announced it. I didn’t drop down here from Jupe Station for nothing.”

“Jovian, eh?” Surra said sharply, her eyes widening in surprise. “Well, that explains the accent and lack of manners.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Name’s Taylor—best damn engineer in JBI. Specialty’s systems and I think my bike’s design has the best chance for winning the Chu San. I’ve got some specialized gear that will give us an edge. Even had the rig modified to provide the extra stability for the steeper slopes.”

Surra slowly sat back with a grin on her face. “Shows how much you know, kid. The old lady doesn’t have much of a slope,” she laughed. “Hell, I doubt that she’s got more than a thirty degree hill anywhere on her. It’s speed you’ll need in this race, and those idiots willing to ignore the risk of cracking up will probably win. You ready to do that, kid? Willing to put your young life on the line for something as stupid as fame and glory?”

Blacker ignored her barbs. “What you know about the mountain might give us an edge. I’m told that you know every square meter.”

Surra nodded. “Worked it for years, me and my partners. Didn’t get anything out of it but lots of debt, busted gear, and a rotten reputation.”

“Is that why they call you Jinx?” he asked quietly.

Surra stood up. “You’ve got a nasty mouth to go along with your wealth, kid. Why don’t you go home to daddy and find some other way to waste his money?”

Family! If she only knew. He’d kept his entry into this race a secret from his precious family. Hell, if gramps or pop knew about this they’d probably have a fit. Gramps would probably send a troop of his security people to kidnap him until the race was over. His father had protested him risking his life working the Jovian moons as an engineer, but his family finally accepted that—lots of training and the best equipment JBI could provide eliminated most of the risk. Doing something that, from their perspective, was as pointless as the Olympus Mons downhill race was another matter entirely.

“Listen, lady, I’ve dumped every centime I earned from working the Jovian moons into passage here, the entry fees, and the modifications I needed on the bike. The money’s my own, not my family’s,” he responded angrily, “and why the hell that’s any business of yours I don’t know. Listen, I might not be able to win this race without you, but I am going to race down that mountain. And I’ll do it alone if I have to!”

Surra looked hard at him. “You’ve got balls, I’ll say that, kid. But what’s in it for me?”

“There’s three thousand when we cross the finish line,” he said quickly. “Win, lose, or draw.” She started to turn away.

“All right, five thousand,” he offered. “That’s all I have left.”

“Not enough to make me risk my neck, kid. What else you got?”

“Share the purse if we win,” he said. Surra sneered. “And you can keep the bike after we’re finished,” he added in desperation and sat back, hoping that was enough. The bike was his last counter. He had nothing else to offer.

“Really?” she said, returning to her seat. “Bike’s a pricey item.” She seemed to consider the offer for a few minutes. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll do it. You have all the permits?”

“Yes, but I have to admit that I was a little overwhelmed by the bureaucrats at Marsport. Took me four days to fill out all the waivers and get them processed. And the fees!”

“Government’s a mite touchy over this race,” Surra said quietly. “They want to make sure that anyone insane enough to enter won’t hold them accountable for anything that happens. Lots of people been killed running the Chu San, trying to beat the record.” The last was said with a note of sad regret in her voice, as if it was personal.

“Listen,” she said, obviously collecting herself. “Have you given any thought to the route?”

Taylor smiled. He wasn’t sure that he’d enjoy working with this pitifully thin, washed-out, abrasive woman, but what choice had he? “I figured on following Chu San’s route.”

Surra sneered. “That’s what most of them will do. But there’s a shorter way—riskier—but faster by an hour or so, providing your bike can handle it.”

“With the modifications I’ve made she should be able to do fifty on the flat, and corner at thirty. That good enough for you?”

“Yeah, but you’re pushing it with that kind of speed, maybe too much. Especially on the old lady’s broken terrain. Lucky if you can get up to thirty, until you get to the plains, that is. Oh well, finish your drink and let’s go somewhere where we can work on some ideas.”

“So you’re with me?” he stuck out his hand.

Surra hesitated, sighed, and then grasped his hand. “It’s a deal. But it’s just for the money. And the bike, of course,” she added. “Now, finish your drink.”

“We’re going to win this race!” Taylor exclaimed and lifted his cup in salute.

“Yeah, to winning the freaking, idiotic race,” she said with a note of resignation in her voice. She tossed the contents of her cup back with a quick twist of her wrist.

Taylor did likewise. The peppery whiskey burned even worse than before.

After their meeting in the bar Surra had shown him the tricky course she’d wanted to take. He wasn’t sure that the risk of traversing the rimae, as the Martians called the long fissures that ran across Mons’s skirts, was worth the savings in time and distance. He asked why they couldn’t just follow the rimae-avoiding course that Chu San had followed twenty years before when she made her desperate run across the mountain to rescue the downed shuttle.

Back in ’34 Chu had covered the distance in fifty-four hours and thirty minutes in her rover, a cobbled-up affair that she’d thrown together when it was clear that she was the only one close enough to get to the crash site before the crew’s life support died.

Years later they’d whittled the time down to forty-eight and a fraction hours. Ten people had been killed trying to beat that record, the last just four years ago.

The attraction of breaking the record for a downhill race on the largest mountain in the Solar System was too much. Finally, responding to an onslaught of financial, political, and commercial pressures, the rump Mars government had decided to sponsor a formal race, one that would bring in much-needed revenue and attention.

“The tricky part of the race will be at the top, above Mars’s atmosphere,” Surra explained as she spread her photographic survey maps out on the table top. That fact alone still struck wonder in him. “We won’t have the thicker air around us until we’re nearly three hundred klicks down the old lady’s skirts. But Mars’s air is so thin we don’t have to worry about it.”

“Yeah, I know; it’s so thin that it hardly comes up to your knees,” he said, repeating the well-worn joke.

Surra didn’t even smile. “When we’re above the atmosphere it’ll be tough going; bright highlights and stark shadow in the day and dim starlight at night. Have to use the headlights most of the time. Down below, the heavier air’ll diffuse the light some, so we’ll have decent vision during the day. Most of the racers should hit the finish line in late afternoon with the Sun behind them.”

“We’ll finish at noon—forty-six hours,” Taylor replied quickly. “I want to cut at least two hours off the record!”

“You can’t shave it by that much,” Surra protested.

“Sure we can. You said you could save us an hour, didn’t you? If I can cut off another hour with my bike’s speed and stability, we can do it easily.”

“Crazy kid,” she muttered, but not so softly that he didn’t hear. “What the hell do I know?”

They leaned over the maps and began to calculate the odds; balancing risk against time. Their final route was a compromise.

They’d arrived at Bottomos, the humorously named research station at the edge of Olympus’s caldera, a few days before the start of the race. Surra swore with a straight face that the station was the lowest synchronous space station above the Martian atmosphere, lower than both Deimos and Phobos by several orders of magnitude.

The flat, cratered caldera around Bottomos was the lip of the Olympus volcano that spewed out the millions upon millions of tons of lava and formed the thousand-kilometer-wide mountain millennia before. The caldera was ten kilometers across and dotted with the relics of previous research projects. The radio tower sported antennae for various purposes and had a half-dozen microwave dishes that pointed to the widely scattered habitats surrounding the base of Olympus, including Rescue Point station, the final destination of the racers. There were four large satellite dishes, two pointed up and the others at each horizon, where they could acquire the synchronous satellites one-third of the way around the planet.

Also scattered about were the brightly colored temporary plastic blisters that covered a few of the racing bikes. Taylor’s was colored a pale rose—the true color of Jupiter’s great spot. The pressurized structures were more for the comfort of those working in them. The racers who couldn’t afford blisters had to work on their bikes out in the open, wearing their suits.

“Adjust that cable, would you?” Taylor asked Surra as they prepared the bike for the race. The rough transport up the mountain had shaken quite a few things loose and he wanted everything brought back to spec before they put it on the starting line.

Surra nodded and turned the tensioning spring’s bolt until the mark on the steering cable came even with the indicator scratch he’d marked on the strut. “Done,” she said and turned her attention to the cradle that would hold her at the bike’s side.

The four-meter-long vehicle was Taylor’s modification of an ordinary three-wheeled prospector’s cart. He’d stripped the high saddles from its back and mounted cradles—open stretchers is what they resembled—on either side. They’d be riding in a prone position instead of sitting up.

“Putting our weight as low as possible on the sides brings the center of gravity down,” he explained to Surra. “That gives us greater stability and allows the bike to handle turns better. That’s why I put those skids underneath, to stop the cradle from dragging if the bike does bank too far.”

The huge front wheel was a fat metal mesh that acted as the shock absorber and driving wheel combined, thus saving weight and simplifying construction. Taylor’d replaced the wheel’s standard drive motors with a pair of high torque induction units that would deliver higher rpm’s on a lower electrical load. He’d also installed a capacitive discharge system that would provide a better acceleration. “They’re the same motors we use for the hoists on JBI’s sailing ships,” he explained.

Taylor had the rear metal mesh wheels splayed wider—nearly twenty degrees—than usual, again for stability. The top edges of the wheels just barely cleared the fairing of the bike’s main body.

Aside from the lack of saddles, the body of the bike was fairly standard. A set of extension hoses ran from the life support connections to each of the outboard cradles. There was the standard radio dish at the back of the bike, and inside were the usual batteries, air and water tanks, and storage space. For this race that space contained spare gear instead of the usual prospector’s collection of equipment, tools, and supplies.

Steering and other control cables had been run out of the side of the fairing to yokes at the head of each cradle. “Duplicate controls so one of us can rest while the other drives,” Taylor explained when she asked.

“You really think you’ll get any rest during this race?” she asked.

“Have to. No way we can both stay awake and alert for two whole days,” he replied.

As far as she could see he’d made only minor modifications to the frame and running gear of the bike and thereby stayed within the design parameters that had been set for the racers.

Taylor’d also “borrowed” a precise inertial navigation instrument from JBI. It would provide them with a detailed picture of their precise location on the mountain. The inertial was accurate to within a half-meter and designed to withstand the intense beatings as the ships were tossed about by Jupiter’s fierce storms. He doubted that a little vibration from the Mars bike would affect it at all.

Using the photo-maps, Surra and he had programmed the unit for every centimeter of the route they intended to follow. They would know exactly where they were even if they couldn’t see where they were going. Of course, there was nothing that could obscure their vision, so they would never have to exercise that option.

Surra proved that she had the best route and had shown him the details on her map back in her room. She knew a few things about the old lady that wouldn’t show up in the photos. He would never have thought about the small craters caused by millennia of meteor bombardments on Olympus’s flanks, nor the hair-thin cracks that were still wide enough to catch a wheel were they to enter on a shallow angle. But she knew how to steer clear of these minor obstacles.

The path that she wanted to follow appeared foolish and frightening at first. She wanted them to leave Chu San’s route and traverse a set of rimae to the southeast. The width and depth of those deep cracks would convince the others that they should swing to the north and west. That would take them on a long time-and distance-wasting switchback. If Taylor’s bike could make it through the shallow fissure, as Surra swore they could, they would save considerable time.

“I’ll trust your judgment,” he’d agreed cautiously as he squinted at the map. “But if I die you’re going to have to deal with grandpa!”

“Got the balls to drive like a bat out of hell down the biggest mountain in the Solar System but can’t deal with your own grandfather!” she said incredulously. “You’re a wonder, Taylor; a blooming wonder.”

“You haven’t met JB,” Taylor warned. “He’s a rough old coot who’d sooner die than admit he’s wrong on anything. He’s intimidated me ever since I can remember.”

He hesitated, wondering just how much to let her know about his family. “Getting out from under gramps is why I’m doing this.” he started to explain but, when he saw her raise an eyebrow, he stopped. “Forget it. That’s my problem, not yours.”

“Yeah, I got my own problems to worry about,” Surra replied.

“Does it have anything to do with why they call you Jinx?” he asked innocently.

“Mind your own business, kid.” Surra snapped.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Surra had said the previous evening as she stood beside him at the lip of the plateau.

Taylor had been staring to the southeast. “I thought we’d see the tips of the three sisters,” he indicated their direction with a sweep of his hand. “I didn’t realize that they’d be below the horizon.”

Surra laughed. “We’re nearly thirty kilometers up, kid; completely out of the atmosphere. At this height the horizon’s only five hundred kilometers away. Does that figure sound familiar?” She tried to keep the teasing note out of her voice.

Taylor screwed up his face, as if he were trying to figure out the joke. “That’s half the diameter of Mons,” he said at last.

“Right, and that’s why you can’t see the peaks of Archaeus, Arisa, and Pavonis—from here all you can see is Olympus Mons herself. Ain’t nothing but mountain down there—she’s a big one, all right.”

She let that soak in for a while and then hit him on the shoulder of his suit. “That’s enough sight-seeing. We need to get the bike ready for the run tomorrow.” Without waiting to see if he was following she headed for the blister they’d erected earlier.

Surra removed her helmet once they had the blister pressurized. It was easier to work that way. She left the rest of the suit on for protection against the bone-chilling cold of outer space. Olympus hadn’t been active for a few million years and there was no way they could gather any warmth from the vacuum surrounding her peak. The only place they could shed the suits completely was inside Bottomos station.

The research facility had originally been equipped for a staff of twenty and was now cramped with the fifty-odd racers, officials, and well-wishers that had squeezed into it for the race. With only a few square meters apiece the crowd tried to make the best of the situation; some sat talking quietly, others busied themselves by painstakingly going over their suits and gear, and some were just trying to get as much sleep as they could before the start of the race. Although there was an air of good-natured, shared competitiveness, most of the old Mars hands were very pointedly avoiding her.

“Why aren’t they talking to you?” Taylor asked. “Is it that jinx thing again?”

“Did you major in Asshole 101 in engineering school, Taylor?” she barked angrily.

“What did I say? All I wanted to know was why your friends weren’t talking to you.” Taylor looked all of his twenty-eight years, dewy-eyed and innocent.

Surra debated telling him about Gaspar, but held off. Too damn many ears close by to hear, too many who might chime in with their own interpretation of events that night she’d put the curse on his downhill run. Too many who’d just as soon toss her out the lock as let her in the race.

“Maybe I’ve got bad breath,” she told him.

At that point Jack Fleth came through the lock with a big-arsed grin on his face. He glared at her and then hastened to the far end of the station.

She and Gaspar, her partner, had tangled with Fleth over who had rights to the water meteor they’d found at Petera. They’d won, but not without a brutal fight that made the lawyers rich and both of them poorer.

Fleth was canal scum, the worse of a rough bunch of rogue prospectors who’d sooner steal a claim than stake one themselves. Rumor had it that he’d had a few too many claims in places where people had caught the vacuum disease. Nothing concrete, just enough suspicion to make people uncomfortable.

You took precautions when Fleth was about.

“I’m going to check on the bike,” she said casually. It was as good an excuse as any to get away from Taylor’s innocent and hurtful questions. She suited up and cycled through the lock.

The blister looked untouched, but then everyone up here knew how to operate a vacuum zipper, so that was no assurance. She opened the closure and went inside.

A quick examination of the bike showed nothing obviously wrong. The locks Taylor had put on the hatches were still closed and, for the first time, she regretted calling him foolish for bringing them. The tires looked all right, not that you could harm the fat, metal mesh doughnuts. They were built to take the punishment of the sharp Martian rocks.

There was a barely noticeable coating of silvery dust on one of the struts that hadn’t been there a few hours earlier, when she had adjusted the steering cable. She wiped the dust with her glove and examined the residue on the tips. It was definitely metallic, but from where? She looked about.

There, right at the point where the steering cable entered the housing, was a bright line. She placed one foot on a strut, stepped up, and looked closer.

The cable was nicked part of the way through. “Precautions, indeed,” she muttered.

“Come on, Taylor. We need to go over the route one more time.”

Taylor looked up at her. “We must’ve gone over it a thousand times already. I don’t think I need to memorize every damn rock on the mountain!”

Surra looked around. “Taylor,” she said through clenched teeth, “we freaking need to go over the stinking maps! Now, come on!” She yanked the map unit from their pack and marched toward the bathroom, the only place in the station where they would have any privacy. Why did Taylor have to dig in his heels now, of all times?

As soon as they were inside she shoved him onto the seat and put her face as close to his as she could. “The bike’s been sabotaged,” she whispered. “Somebody cut the steering cable.”

Taylor started to rise but she pushed him back. “I think I know who, but I don’t want him to know. He might be on his own, but could have somebody else. Either way we don’t want them to know what we know—OK?”

Taylor nodded. There was a look of surprise on his face, as if he hadn’t expected such an act. What the hell did he think this was? To a Mars rat like Fleth the fat purse was worth killing for.

“How long would it take to replace the cable?” she asked. “Could we do it while we are getting ready in the morning and without anyone getting suspicious?”

“Not long,” Taylor answered to her first question and then screwed up his face in thought. “The fix might take about ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I designed it so it could be easily replaced. We’ve got spares,” he added.

“Great, now we have to stay in here for a while so people will think we’ve been studying the maps.” She shook the unit.

“Hey, I know how else we could spend the time.” Taylor put an arm around her waist.

“Forget it, kid. I’m not a freaking pedophile,” Surra said as she slipped from his grasp and tugged to straighten her clothing. “Come on, let’s really look at the maps. I want to make sure you know the mountain.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he groaned.

Well, he sounded contrite enough. Damn kid, she thought.

“Trying to change your luck, Surra?” somebody said, far too loudly, as they went back to their spot on the floor. Surra turned with fire in her eyes, ready to blast whoever had made that comment.

The fire went out as soon as she caught sight of Sid Gammons rising to his feet. She and Sid went back a long way, before she ever tied up with Gaspar, even.

After a few hugs Sid took her back to meet Punjasuma Ramswamy, a Jovian pilot who had struck it big and was trying to find something half as interesting as Jupiter to spend his sudden wealth on. “So I’m soaking him for the bike, my time, and a share of the purse,” Sid remarked as he introduced them. “Damn fool has more money than brains.”

Rams laughed with them. “Jist wented to ha’ de ride,” he remarked with a Jovian twang even more pronounced than Taylor’s. “Provide that Zid survives.”

Sid sighed. “Yes, there’s that. I tell you, Surra, I don’t know if my ticker will stand the excitement. Too damn old for all that adrenaline, you know. Say, how would you like to take my place? Good money for you. Give you my share of the purse.”

Surra smiled. “I don’t think a share of nothing is worth much, Sid. Besides, I got my own crazy Jupe who thinks he has a chance.”

“Not worried about the jinx, is he?” Sid asked with a smile. He’d never put much stock in that superstition.

“Not as much as some,” she replied with a tilt of her head at a group of old hands. “By the way,” she said with an extra nod toward Fleth, “have you checked your bike lately? Saw Fleth walking around out there earlier.”

Sid’s mouth tightened. “Yeah, I noticed. I hear he’s still mighty sore about losing that claim fight you had.”

“Grudge like that eats a man,” she said. “Probably has it in for you as well, being a friend of mine and all.”

Sid nodded. “I’ll watch him. Think he’s up to something?”

“Cut cable,” she whispered. “Don’t react. But check your bike real careful like, just the same.”

Sid nodded. “I’ll do just that.”

Taylor was sleeping when she returned to their spot on the floor. His head was propped on her pack and his arms were wrapped around his own, as if it were a surrogate teddy bear.

“Just a kid,” she said as she settled down beside him and rested her head on half of the pack. Taylor turned over and threw his arm across her. “What the hell,” she said to herself and put her arm around him. At least they’d be more comfortable this way. Sleep came easier than she thought that it would.

In the morning Taylor seemed to have lost his give-’em-hell attitude and settled to the business of getting the bike ready. They’d struggled awake four hours before the start, thrown a high protein, low-residue breakfast into their mouths, stood in line for half an hour to use the toilet one last time, and made it to the blister with three hours left before the start.

Taylor went straight to work replacing the cable while Surra checked the seven oxygen tanks, each containing an eight hour supply, the ballast water, and the charge on the batteries. She also walked around the bike to see if any other damage had been done during Fleth’s nighttime visit. Everything seemed all right.

The solar panels on the top of the blister had done their job and brought the batteries up to maximum charge, more than enough to get them down the mountain.

“Everything looks all right,” Taylor remarked after he finished his own walk-around. “But let’s just triple check everything to make sure we’re really and truly ready.”

Triple-check seemed to be Taylor’s watchword, but that was good. To survive on Mars you only had to check and double-check until it was second nature. Apparently his Jupiter was not as forgiving.

Surra turned to look at the fittings on the life support one last time. There was still fifty minutes before they had to remove the blister and move the bike to the starting line. Plenty of time.

Then it hit her: In less than an hour she would be strapped to a four-meter bike hurtling down the largest mountain in the Solar System. In less than an hour Taylor’s fate would be irrevocably linked to her own.

She debated telling him about her jinx so he’d know what they said about her. Why hadn’t she told him when he asked? As if he had read her mind, Taylor looked at her with a question on his face. Was he going to ask again? Surely this was the time to tell him.

“Do you think this coupling is too tight?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, losing her resolve. Maybe later she’d tell him. Much later.

“There should be some engines roaring,” Taylor said jokingly as they listened to the countdown that would start the race.

“Be quiet,” Surra shot back over the intercom. “I want to hear the count.”

“Three minutes,” the radio squawked.

“Remember, we go straight down for the first ten kilometers,” she reminded Taylor. “There will be a big fissure on our left when we have to make that sharp turn. I’ll tell you when to start the turn to the north.”

“We’ve been over this a hundred times,” Taylor complained. “I think I know the route as well as you.” The kid could be a real jerk at times. Didn’t he know nerves when he heard them?

“Just the same, don’t get creative or we’ll both be in trouble. I know the old bitch better than anyone. You wait for my directions, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said sarcastically. Apparently she wasn’t the only one with a bad case of nerves.

Surra listened as the count headed toward the sixty second mark. “Sixty-four, sixty-three, sixty-two. One minute!”

“Charging!” Taylor barked, all business. Surra checked her harness to make sure the straps were tight. If Taylor’s capacitive shot to the high torque motors he’d installed worked as promised, she’d be in for a helluva jolt.

She glanced at the bike on their right. Externally, It wasn’t much different from theirs. All of the entries in the race were modified three-wheeled prospector bikes. The riders on the one beside her sat in the saddle on top, where the prospectors normally rode, one behind the other. Taylor had shown her the drawbacks of that design; it gave you better visibility but made the center of gravity too high at the speeds they’d be using. That could be dangerous in a tight turn.

Taylor’s modified bike—she could not bring herself to think of it as hers—used a side-mounted configuration with him on a outboard cradle on one side and her on the other. Because of the limited visibility this gave them, the only way they could communicate was through the intercom.

“Thirty-two.”

Damn, she shouldn’t be wool gathering at this point. She activated the map display in the inertial with a thick-gloved finger. The color screen came to life immediately, their current position atop Olympus marked with a bright red dot and the track they’d planned a yellow line. The inertial would have been a handy gadget to have a few years back, when she’d been prospecting in the wastelands, she thought. But she couldn’t have afforded it then, any more than she could now. Damn rich kid! What did he know about Mars?

“Twenty-five.”

What was she doing here, Surra asked herself for the hundredth time. Taylor could have bought a full year of her family’s services for the price he’d spent on this stupid race. What the devil were all of these idiots trying to prove, anyway? With most of Mars’s prospectors struggling to earn enough to pay the exorbitant fees for the oxygen and imported water, this race seemed a ridiculous waste of money and resources. But the government said that it put new capital into Mars’s marginal economy, and that was good. Hell, anything that would improve the lousy economy was good! Maybe it would even improve enough to get her damn sister off her back.

Most of these racers were in it for the glory, she knew. Big fucking deal; beating the forty-eight hour record for the run from Bottomos to Rescue Point. The other record, the one nobody liked to talk about, was ten idiots killed trying to do the same thing. Her first husband had been one of them.

“Eighteen,” said the radio. Why was time dragging so slowly? She felt her blood surging in her ears and heard the air rushing into her lungs. Every sense was heightened, every detail stood out in sharp detail.

“Tennineeight.”

How had the time gone by so fast? The adrenaline was flowing now. She could feel her heart rate shoot up. Her palms started to sweat. She braced her feet against the stops near the back of the cradle.

“Brakes off!” Taylor shouted through the intercom, loud enough to make her ears ring.

“Five.”

“All secure,” Surra said curtly and braced her chin against the helmet’s padded collar.

“Three!”

“Applying power,” Taylor reported, sounding calmer now. He’d said that it would take three seconds for the capacitor to charge up from the battery.

“Two!” Surra held her breath.

“One!”

“Ya-hoooooo!” Taylor shouted as the bike leaped forward.

Surra hadn’t heard the start count clearly enough to know if they had gotten off properly. If Taylor’s calculations had been correct the capacitor should have discharged across the motor, spinning the drive wheel up to 6,000 revs in an instant.

The bike screamed off the starting line and, throwing a stream of pebbles and dirt behind them, hit the gentle slope thirty meters away, beyond the edge of the caldera. It bounced twice and then pitched to the right. By the time Taylor got the bike back under control two other bikes had dashed ahead of them.

“Damn!” he exclaimed. The speed increased and settled into a rattling, shaking, bone-shattering ride.

“Don’t worry. She’ll settle down in a bit,” Taylor shouted and, true to his word, the bike did.

Now it was only rattling and bone-shattering.

The slope at this level was the youngest part of the mountain, the most recent lava flows. Most of the surface was hard, bumpy rock. They wouldn’t encounter any change in the scenery for another twenty bruising kilometers.

Soon the leading bikes started to turn to the left. “Follow them,” Surra instructed. “You’ll be able to see the fissure’s edge in a minute.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the northern edge of the first transverse rima appeared. The leaders of the pack were already swinging to avoid the second one.

“Watch it!” Taylor swerved the bike to avoid a broken slab that appeared in front of them. She glanced back and saw that most of the bikes behind them did likewise. One didn’t, hit it, and spun out of control, throwing its riders. Surra said a brief prayer for them. A smashed helmet in this vacuum was an instant death sentence. Farther down, where the atmosphere was thicker, you could survive for maybe a minute longer than instantly—faint comfort in either case.

They were now moving down a fifteen degree slope that was relatively clear of debris, moving at about thirty or forty klicks, just on the edge of too damn fast for safety and a hair slower than the leaders of the pack.

“Stay back. Don’t try to keep up,” she reminded Taylor. It would be just like the kid to be so pumped that he’d forget her insistence on caution.

“Right,” he said, too sharply. Apparently, steering the bike was taking a lot of his attention. Their practice runs earlier in the week had shown how unforgiving the bike was, despite Taylor’s claims of increased stability. Prospector’s carts were never meant to race; they were designed to carry a couple out on the desert and back. They hardly ever moved faster than ten, fifteen klicks. Mechanical burros was all they were, not thoroughbreds!

Surra finally got used to the swinging rhythm of the bike as it bounced over the rough surface on its fat, limber tires. The pack was staying pretty close together, with no clear leader as yet. That would change in the next hundred kilometers, when everyone started to maneuver to avoid the rougher ground farther down the mountainside.

“Next turn coming up,” she told Taylor as they approached a bright orange cone someone had placed on the bare rock.

“I see it,” Taylor said and took them in a banking turn to the right, right on the boundary of too reckless, she thought. “Be careful,” she warned.

“Don’t worry,” Taylor responded with a laugh. “I’ve designed this bike to be stable on the turns.”

A few kilometers farther and the front group of bikes started to turn again. Taylor continued beyond their turning point and then, when he noticed that they’d overshot, turned sharply. Immediately Surra’s side shot up as the bike tilted hard to the left.

“Don’t turn so damn sharp!” she barked. But her warning was too late. The bike slewed around, spinning one hundred and eighty degrees. At the moment Surra thought they were going to tip over the bike slammed back down with a teeth-crunching shock.

“Sorry,” Taylor said calmly as he took the bike into a broad turn that put them at the rear of the pack. “Takes a little getting used to,” he explained.

“I told you and I told you; don’t take sharp turns. Weren’t you listening to me, damn it!”

“I said I was sorry,” Taylor repeated. “How soon to our next turn?”

Surra glanced at the inertial. The red dot showed them about ten kilometers from the spot where they would leave the main route to go on a different course. “Twenty or thirty minutes. We need to make up the time we lost back there.” The bike shot forward before she completed the sentence.

The ride became easier as the surface changed from the younger to the older flow material. The ground here was still hard rock, but more heavily pocked with small craters.

Surra hung on and prayed that Taylor wouldn’t hit one of them.

They had caught up to the rearmost bikes when they neared to their departure point. “Start heading south and take the turn nice and easy,” she told him as he did so. “That way they won’t notice that we’ve left the main route… Shit!”

“Yeah, I see him too,” Taylor replied. Ahead of them an orange bike had turned parallel to their heading.

“Why did I think that we could get away with this?” she said bitterly. “I didn’t figure anybody else would have the guts to follow, even if they did see us.”

“Well, it looks we’re in a real race, now,” Taylor replied. “How close are we to your mine?”

“Another five klicks. There’s going to be a cairn close by; pile of rocks about one meter high.”

“Claim marker?” Taylor asked.

“Grave,” Surra said, biting off her words. “Stupid jerk who thought he could beat the mountain.”

“Friend of yours?” Taylor asked, and then added, with surprising compassion. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We were only partners for a few years. No great loss.” Taylor didn’t respond, which was a blessing. She’d hate to have to explain why she’d said that.

“There it is,” Taylor said unnecessarily as the cairn came into view. “Right turn?”

“Right turn indeed, Mr. Blacker,” she replied in as bantering a tone as she could muster. She’d only visited the grave once since Gaspar had died, and that was only to get his ID so she could claim the oxygen debt they owed him, the bastards.

“Look carefully. You should see the ramp we made somewhere along here.” She watched the landscape carefully.

“That’s the spot,” she said when it came into view. “Damn!” She spotted the orange bike swinging toward them, right on their tail.

Taylor headed straight for the ramp without any further guidance from her and slowed as they approached the edge.

“Looks like an easy slope,” Taylor remarked. They flew down the broken rock to the bottom and, as soon as they were clear of the shattered gray talus, Taylor turned the bike to follow the fissure’s floor as it jigged back and forth.

“Keep your eyes open for that setback,” Surra prodded with one eye on the glowing map display.

“Are you sure about this?” Taylor asked.

“Absolutely,” Surra said positively. “Gaspar and I were the last ones to prospect this area. Nobody else was fool enough.” The dot in the display touched her small red tic mark. “Wait; we’re real close now. Right on top of it, according to your gadget! See anything on your side?”

The brakes slammed down so suddenly that she slid forward and hit her shoulder against the rim of the cradle. Before she could shift herself back into position, Taylor was already backing and turning to squeeze the bike into the narrow passage that ran back to the north at an acute angle to their original course.

They cautiously steered the bike down the narrowing chasm, alternating steering control to whoever had the best vantage for that leg.

“Are you sure we won’t get stuck?” Taylor sounded worried as they passed through a particularly narrow passage.

“Trust me,” she replied through clenched teeth as the edge of her cradle scraped the nearest wall.

Finally, just as the passage looked as if it might end there was the steep talus; a ramp of loose rock that had been dislodged from the shattered wall of the fissure. She could just glimpse the sinking Sun, a tiny disk against the star-studded black sky, above the edge. That meant that they had another six hours of “daylight” left. Taylor had no problem driving the bike up the slope and onto the flat plain above.

Surra looked around. The landscape was flat enough that she could see at least five kilometers away in every direction, except left, where the bulk of the bike cut off her view. There were no other bikes in sight. Had the other bike found the set back so they could also make use of the hidden exit or was it now trapped in the fissure?

“Straight southeast for the next sixty klicks,” she instructed after Taylor had put them back on the right heading. “Keep an eye out for that bike that followed us,” she suggested.

“Might be something way up north.” he replied. “I see something shining. Could that be them?”

“I doubt it,” she said. How could the orange bike have gotten north of them? That didn’t make sense. “But keep your eyes open, just the same.” She resumed her own watch.

A few kilometers beyond the fissure the surface suddenly changed back to the rough, hummock dotted, younger lava shield. Taylor pushed the speed up. “Don’t get overconfident,” she warned. “This is only easier for a little ways.”

Since there was no major geology to worry them for the next thirty klicks, she lay her head down to get some rest. “Tell me when you’re ready for a break,” she reminded him. “And keep your eye on the map display. Don’t want us getting lost up here,” she added humorously.

Their plan was that she should rest first and then take her turn steering. Taylor would rest until they hit the next fissure so he could take them through it.

And so to sleep, perchance to dream.

Taylor sang a few bars of Danny Boy. His nice tenor voice came across badly on the intercom. Surra snapped awake as he sang “…The pipes, the pipes are call-all-ing…”

“I told you to hook up the relief tube before we started,” she joked as she took a sip of water from the nipple in her helmet to clean out her mouth. The light was becoming a little better. There was just enough atmosphere around them to scatter the weak rays of the late evening Sun and soften the edges of the shadows on the rubble-strewn plain. At this part of their chosen route the bike was back on the older shield material, stuff that had been bombarded by space junk for millennia. Craters and shattered shards were all over the place.

Taylor laughed. “Time to take over the reins, ma’am. Be good to her.” Surra could hear the tiredness in his voice.

She wrapped her gloves around the wishbone steering yoke. What with the restrictions of the suit and straps, there was barely enough freedom of movement to twist it half a turn right or left. “Got it!” she said as she felt the bike’s vibration on her hands through the yoke. “You can get some shut-eye now.”

“Zzzzzzz,” Taylor replied. Despite herself, she laughed. “Night, night.”

Taylor must have been running on adrenaline as well, for his snores came over the intercom moments later. When her husband had done that she’d poke him to roll over. Couldn’t do that here, with two suits, and the bulky body of the bike between them. Besides, with all the straps on Taylor, he couldn’t roll over anyhow. She keyed the intercom’s volume down and paid careful attention to the rough ground ahead.

The Sun angle was low enough to highlight the larger meteor dings in the scarp. Their bike just rolled over the smaller ones, bouncing a little as it did so, a gentle rolling motion. When the Sun dropped below the horizon she’d have to slow down so she wouldn’t overrun their lights.

She glanced at the map display. They were ahead of their planned time. Taylor must have really pushed them while she rested, probably faster than he should have. Must be that Earth background; most prospectors would be more cautious, more careful—there were too many cairns to those who weren’t.

Like the one they’d passed.

Why had she shut Taylor off when he asked about Gaspar’s cairn? The kid was just trying to be friendly; like when he asked her about the Jinx nickname. Shit, why hadn’t someone warned him back in Jovus? The other prospectors would have told him about the risks of teaming with her; told him how her men had a nasty habit of “contracting vacuum disease,” and then laugh self-consciously afterwards. Personally, she didn’t see the humor in it.

Why hadn’t Gaspar been more careful? They’d had some strikes, like that water meteor they’d found at Petera Major. That Strike had set them up with enough to pay for a bike, oxygen, and water for a year. Gaspar had a hell of a party with his part of what was left over, while she contributed her share to her sister’s family—their mine was in trouble and sis needed the money for the taxes, or so she’d said—so no party-time for Surra. The bright side was that she didn’t have a hangover when Gaspar and she had pushed up the mountain a few days later, him holding his head and groaning the entire way.

But water meteors aren’t that common and the partnership with Gaspar ended up where it began after just ten months; nearly broke. She’d wanted to use what was left of their money to check out the Maternis lode. Rumor had it that prospectors were finding iron-rich ore down there and making good money.

Gaspar hadn’t agreed and wanted to give Olympus another chance, stubbornly insisting there were hidden riches to be found. He’d made a stupid bet that he could beat the record oh the Chu San run to raise a stake; their bike against the cash. She swore and cursed him, swearing that she was going to go to Jovus with the pock train and arrange for their trip.

“I ain’t going to Maternis,” Gaspar had declared. “You’ll see; I’ll be waiting at the Point for you,” he boasted. “Won’t have any problem with money once I break the record!”

“You are an idiot, a fool, and worse,” she’d said. “If you’re that stupid then go ahead; but leave me out of it!”

“Wish me luck,” he asked with a smile and spread his arms to hug her.

“Screw you,” she said as. she pulled away. “Go ahead and kill yourself!” she screamed bitterly. “I don’t care.”

The other prospectors had heard that. “Bad luck,” they’d said. “You’ll jinx him.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” she’d replied. “The only jinx he has is his own stupidity!” she said angrily and stomped out to jump the pack train down to the Point.

When she got to Rescue Point a week later Gaspar wasn’t waiting for her. She’d taken a burial party up to find him, there being no reason to expect that he could be alive, since the bikes only held a couple of day’s air and his couple were long gone.

They found him cracked up at the bottom of a deep fissure. “Jinxed him,” the other prospectors had clucked and edged away from her.

“Superstitious nonsense,” she protested as they buried Gaspar under a cairn. His suit and gear got her enough money for a ticket to Maternis. The bike was scrap, but they took it anyway—he had lost the bet.

She caught a glimpse of something moving on her right. When she turned she saw the orange racer. It came closer and closer.

Surra looked down and saw that she’d allowed their speed to drop. They were nearly on schedule. Damn, she’d lost all the lead that Taylor had gained while she was resting. With a conscious effort to overcome her caution and good sense, she pushed the speed up to thirty-five klicks and watched the orange vehicle drop behind. Yes, the bike handled nicely at this speed, Why had she been so reluctant to believe Taylor? She pushed the speed up another few klicks.

The Matemis ticket money had gone to her sister and that worthless husband of hers. Their stupid little mine had finally played out and neither of them would stoop to take a job with the Earth corporations; something about his Martian pride, sis’s husband had declared haughtily. Well, their pride hadn’t made them refuse her ticket money, had it? But, what could she do? They were blood, and family shared. Even Taylor knew that.

After that it was hard scrabble for anything touching on income, and half of everything went to her sister. Not that she made that much, what with the jinx thing dogging her. Damn lucky for all of them that Taylor had come along when he did, trying to prove himself to grandpa.

What was it he had said about his great-great-grandfather? Something about him flying in a hurricane, whatever that was. Growing up on Mars she hadn’t the opportunities that the Earth-born enjoyed; things like wind, open skies, fresh air that didn’t taste of silicon grease, food that didn’t come out of a processor, and filtered water that hadn’t passed through your kidneys, and others, a few hundred-thousand times. A hurricane was another of the experiences she hadn’t enjoyed.

Why the devil did Taylor think he had to prove anything? Didn’t he already have everything anyone could want; money, good education, great career, and, from what he had said, a family that wasn’t a bunch of whining losers and assholes. Not at all like hers.

Suddenly the orange bike was beside her and closing rapidly. She risked a glance and saw two figures in the saddle. One of them, who wore what she thought was Fleth’s checkerboard shoulder pattern, waved something over his head. From this angle she couldn’t tell what it was.

They were just entering an area of heavy flows. The fluid lava had flowed quickly over this section, forming waves that solidified into an undulating surface. Surra pushed the speed up and raced up the leading edge of one such wave only to have the bike leave the surface and fly a short distance before coming back down in a surprisingly gentle landing on the reverse slope. She cut the speed back, not wanting to risk such a foolish trick again.

The orange bike pulled beside her, only this time it didn’t try to parallel her course but seemed to be moving on an intercepting path. Closer and closer the side of the orange bike came to hers.

Then she realized what they were trying to do—crush her cradle between the two bikes. Sitting where she did, low on the side, and them atop the other, only she was in danger from their maneuver. She turned the bike away from them as they both topped another wave.

The orange bike was relentless and again drew closer, forcing her farther and farther to the side as she evaded them. She knew that these gentle waves converged into a narrow defile just a short distance ahead, a passage only wide enough for a single bike. Perhaps they just wanted to beat her to the defile, to slip through and gain the lead. If so, then she would let them. It was a straight shot back to rejoin the main path from there.

With a sudden twist of the yoke she turned away, slowed, and dropped behind the orange bike, watching it pull ahead and away. Let them think she was just taking a short cut to the main route, she thought. If she let them speed ahead maybe they wouldn’t notice that she was going in a different direction, a second short cut that was on the yellow line of the inertial instead of racing for the main route.

The waves of hardened lava began to close in as she approached the entrance to the defile. Apparently the orange bike had already gone through, for it was nowhere in sight. She headed into the narrow passage and increased speed, hoping to regain the lost time.

What was that? She was making a slight turn in the narrow defile when something suddenly appeared directly in front of her. She quickly yanked the yoke to the left to avoid it, but it was too late! The drive wheel struck with a sickening thump that sent the bike tilting precariously to one side as it ran up the side of the hill.

Taylor came awake with a start. “What the hell?” he started to say as the bike slammed back onto the ground and drove his teeth through his lip. Then the bike tipped in the opposite direction and lifted him up, up, and up until…

…It slammed back down and came to a halt. He heard the sound of escaping air and saw that all of the helmet’s tell tales were in alarm red. No cracks that he could see, so his neck seal must have jarred open from slamming against the cradles’ side. He took a deep breath then blew all the air out of his lungs before he twisted the helmet to one side, lifted it to clear the gasket and then replaced and sealed it with a quick clockwise twist. The tell tales went green. As he’d suspected, the shock had just unseated the seal, was all.

But why wasn’t the air filling his helmet? In rising panic he checked the supply hoses. Both appeared to be all right. Quickly he unstrapped himself and scrambled up the side of the bike to reach the connections. He felt for the valves. They appeared to be secure.

His ears started to ring, the first sign of oxygen deprivation. With a practiced motion he switched to his suit’s emergency bottle and took a deep breath of the welcome flood of oil-flavored air. The bottle would keep him breathing for two hours, at least.

“Surra?” he yelled. “Surra, what happened? Are you all right?”

There was no reply. Fearing the worst, he forgot his air problem, climbed down, and raced around to the other side of the bike.

From what he could see, Haley’s helmet appeared to be intact; all her lights were green. There were no other signs of damage that he could see. He reached out to shake her shoulder.

Surra jumped as if he had shocked her. She twisted her head to look up at him. Taylor could see her lips move, but heard nothing. Damn, of course, how could he with the intercom disconnected? He switched on his suit’s radio. “Are you all right?”

“We hit something back there. Didn’t see it until we were right on top of it. Oh my lord,” Surra exclaimed and pointed toward the rear of the bike.

Taylor turned to see a plume of steam spraying from the rent in the fairing. “Fire?” he asked in a panic. No, that couldn’t be right, not in the near vacuum. But what…?

“It’s the ballast water!” she exclaimed.

A prospector bike normally held two hundred liters of water, enough to supply prospectors for the few days they’d be in the desert. Taylor’d filled the tank to capacity so they’d have the added weight for stability. When they got to the lower plains, where they would need the flat-out speed, he would vent it, lose the weight, and improve performance.

But now that the water was boiling away they would have to do without, which meant being a lot more cautious on the turns.

“Bad, but not a catastrophe,” he said with resignation. “We can do all right without it.”

He waited until the plume stopped and then walked to the rear to examine for further damage, checking the frame as he went. One of the side struts was badly bent and stuck out at an odd angle to the direction of travel. The radio dish had been ripped off and lay forty meters away. Its coaxial connection had been pulled completely out of the fairing and the torn end of the cable dangled uselessly, which meant that the dish was so much scrap metal, not worth repairing. There seemed to be no other damage that he could see.

The steam had come from a deep rent near the life support area. Looking inside, he saw a glint of rapidly sublimating ice where the water line had been torn. He opened the cover hatch. Just above the place where the line was severed were the broken pieces of the multi-tank oxygen regulator. Whatever had struck the line had sheared it off and vented not only his air, but the other two bottles—sixteen hours of air—as well. A quick check showed that they had lost half of their air tanks. A few centimeters farther and they would have lost the other four tanks as well.

“Look here!” Surra’s shout over the suit radio startled him. He turned around to see her holding out a large, wickedly bent piece of metal.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he wondered angrily as he turned it over in his hands. “It looks as if it had been machined yesterday!”

“Hard to tell. It could have been out here for years without changing—no weather, you know.” Surra didn’t sound convinced, but didn’t explain further. “How’s the bike?”

“Well, the running gear looks like it’s all right, but I’m afraid that we lost quite a bit of our air. We broke one of the regulators when we hit,” he explained. “My side of the bike can’t use the tanks.”

Surra looked into the compartment. “We’ll have to split the other tanks between us,” she said, and, matching actions to words, cross-connected their air supplies with one hand.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Taylor asked.

Surra shrugged. “Think I broke it when the bike skidded. Didn’t have my straps tight enough, I guess. Hurts like hell, but I can hold out until a rescue team can get here,” she said as she finished.

Blacker pointed at the missing radio dish. “No way to call for help, Surra. The only way we can get more air is to reach Rescue Point.”

“That’s still thirty-some hours away, even if we make the time you wanted. Shit! What do we have left?”

“We’ve got a little more than four tanks left,” he said calmly. “But with two of us sucking on it we won’t make it in time. Not both of us.”

“So only one of us can make it to Rescue Point?” she asked flatly. “Want to flip for it?” she added and laughed nervously.

Taylor looked at her. “Didn’t you say that we could cut off some more time if we crossed that steep lower set of fissures?”

Surra paused. “Nobody’s ever done that,” she started to protest. “Besides, that way’s a lot riskier, especially with me not being able to drive. But what the hell; I guess that’s a better option than flipping coins to see which one of us can learn to breath vacuum. Let’s go!” With that she climbed carefully back onto her cradle and allowed Taylor to strap her in.

Taylor returned to his own side and secured himself, shutting off his suit’s bottle and reattaching the air lines. He started the bike moving the instant he was done.

What had they said about her being a jinx?

The ground had leveled out even more as they flew down the mountain, with the hounds of urgency nipping at their heels. Although he tried to stay calm, Taylor was close to panic. Each breath was a debit to their precious air, air that could not be replaced.

He cursed himself for his stupidity. What had started as a way of impressing his family had turned into a race for survival. It was amazing how his priorities had suddenly changed. Breaking the Chu San record suddenly became of secondary importance, if that high.

Damn, why had he let Surra talk him into going off the usual route? If they’d stayed with the others someone would have seen their distress and radioed for help. Why hadn’t he been more cautious, more concerned for what might happen? Of course, had they done that, they wouldn’t have hit the metal scrap. But why didn’t wasn’t a productive line of thought. He tried to think of something else.

Why, he reflected as he steered the bike around the frequent craters and scattered rocks, was this race so important to him? Was it all ego? If so, then he’d put two lives at risk for nothing. What a fool he’d turned out to be; trying this stupid, adolescent stunt to win the approval of his family, trying to prove that he was the equal of his father, his grandfather, and all of his greats.

He turned the bike to the right to avoid a moderately-sized crater and the bike started to swerve. “Careful,” Surra advised, “without the ballast we can’t take the sharp turns.”

“Right!” he bit back.

Was she angry at him for forcing her to come with him? Sure, she’d had the choice of refusing him, but with her financial situation had there been any real choice? No, he’d seduced her to this stupid race with money and the promise of the bike. Damn it, what had he been thinking? Did the approval of his family mean that much or was he just trying to prove something to himself?

Regardless of whichever it was, he wasn’t going to let this woman be sacrificed for the sake of his ego. He’d been a self-centered fool for trying this, ignoring the effect his own actions would have on others. When they got to Rescue Point (not if, but when!) he was going to call his father and grandfather and then tell them to get the hell out of his life. That’s what he was going to do!

The subtle changes in Olympus Mons’s surface came and went as Taylor drove into the long Martian night. He pushed the speed as high as he dared, balancing the need for speed against the need for safety, always running at the limits of his headlights. When morning came, he hoped, he’d be able to go faster. The night wore on as the red dot crept farther and farther from the planned yellow line, going straight down the mountain.

Morning brought the rising of the singularly bright star that was the Sun. The thickening atmosphere scattered her golden rays across a clear, deep violet sky. That color would change as they descended. At this time of year, when the dust storms swept the central latitudes, the sky down on the plains was usually a dusty rose at the horizon, fading to yellow-brown overhead.

The ground was becoming rough; dotted with scattered boulders that threatened to tilt the bike over more than once. There was a slippery coating of dust over the smooth, hard rock that made the steering treacherous.

Taylor hadn’t imagined that he could get exhausted so quickly. He’d been running for sixteen hours since the accident and was starting to tire from the strain. Surely it was the adrenaline-pumped tension of watching the landscape for axle-breaking potholes, rocks that could capsize them, and sudden dips and cracks too small to have shown up on the photomaps but still large enough to catch a wheel and give them a nasty, deadly spill. Lord, he wished he’d paid more attention to the smaller details.

“How are you doing?” he asked over the intercom. Surra had been silent for hours. He hoped that she was resting, conserving their precious oxygen supply.

“Isn’t easy to rest. Arm hurts every time you hit a bump.”

“Sorry. Do you want me to get back on the main highway?” he joked.

“Naw, let’s enjoy the scenic route instead,” she replied. There was a long silence. “Taylor,” she said at last, “it just might be true, you know.”

“What is?”

“This jinx thing. I mean, first Ed’s death, all the bad luck Sid and I had, then there was Gaspar’s accident.” She explained the source of her nickname in a few terse, emotionless sentences. “Two dead partners sort of sets the pattern, don’t it? Now it looks as if you’ll be another one added to my score. Hell, maybe I’ll be the final entry myself—a fitting finish, wouldn’t you say, kid?”

When he didn’t reply she continued. “Then there’s my sister. Every time I try to help her she gets into more trouble than before. Shit; she lost the mine because I didn’t give her enough money to cover the debt.”

“Was that your fault or hers? I mean, if you were helping her, why was it your fault?”

Surra was silent as she considered his words. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always felt responsible for her, like I had to protect her after dad and mom died. ’Course, she didn’t pay me much mind when she married that damned no-count husband.”

“So she has a husband as well? Lord, Surra, why do you take so much on yourself? Sounds to me as if you’ve been the smart one in a bunch of astoundingly selfish people.”

“Hey, that’s my family you’re talking about,” she laughed. “Yeah, I know you’re right, but what can I do? They’re family.”

It was Taylor’s turn to laugh. “Family! Boy, do I know that. Easy for me to tell you to separate yourself while I can’t do it myself. Gramps and pop still control me.”

“I think you love them as much as I do my sister,” Surra suggested.

“Yeah, you may be right.” Strange that he had never thought of it that way. Love—what an idea.

There was an occasional puff of dust that indicated that they were in an appreciable atmosphere at last, at least enough to support a light wind. It still wouldn’t do them much good, considering that Mars reference level atmospheric pressure was close to a vacuum as far as they were concerned—and they were still far above a reference level that was only 1 percent of Earth normal.

The edge of a wide fissure appeared ahead. “Wake up, Surra,” he shouted over the intercom. “Here it comes.”

“I see it,” she replied. “God, it looks bigger than I thought!”

“Where’s the best spot to go down?” he asked as they raced toward the edge.

“The sides are really steep,” she said slowly, as if trying to remember. “Nearly sixty degrees most of the way. There’s a more gentle slope up ahead, but the bottom’s pretty tight there. We could get stuck.”

“Not much of a choice,” Taylor replied. “Let’s chance the steep grades and try to keep from tilting over.”

“Whatever looks good to you,” she said. He could hear the edge of fear in her voice.

“This spot looks as good as any,” Taylor said and turned the bike.

The lip passed beneath the nose of the bike and, for a heart-stopping instant, all he could see was the distant, opposite bank and the huge emptiness that loomed beneath. The nose of the bike dipped sickeningly onto the steep slope.

Then they were racing pell-mell down the slope, the walls of the canyon whipping by at ferocious speed as the bike rocked from side to side. There was a sickening lurch to the left and, as the bottom rushed up, he fought the steering yoke to keep the bike upright.

The impact slammed him against the side of the cradle, making him see stars. Surra screamed over the intercom.

“Are you all right? Still with me?” Taylor shouted as he fought the wheel.

Surra cursed in a steady stream for long minutes. “You did remember that there are brakes on this bike, didn’t you?” she said nastily.

“Now where do we go?” he demanded. “Come on, we’ve only got a few hours left!”

“There’s a grade you should be able to climb about four klicks ahead. The bottom is pretty smooth up to that point.”

“This is smooth?” Taylor answered incredulously as the bike shook and rattled its way along the rock-strewn bottom.

They were making a steady ten klicks, hardly a good walking pace, but necessary if they were to avoid the larger rocks. Taylor grew impatient at their slow progress.

“How about there?” he said suddenly and turned the bike toward the far wall.

“Wait!” Surra exclaimed as Taylor blasted the bike up the hill.

The front wheel dropped over the lip as the bike started to drop. All that Taylor could see was the emptiness beneath the bike’s nose. The bike rocked back and forth on the knife edge. He had managed to brake in time to avoid a fifty-meter vertical drop.

“Don’t… ever… do… that… again!” Surra panted.

“Yes ma’am,’ he replied, trembling with fear of their close call, and threw up in his face mask.

After cautiously returning to the bottom, they carefully crept along to the five hundred meter slope Surra had mentioned. It ran up to the plain on a breathtakingly steep angle.

“The only way out is to traverse it,” he said after studying the bank for a few minutes. “Cut back and forth.”

“Can you do that without tipping us over?” Surra asked with a worried note in her voice.

“I think so. The wide track of the wheels and low center of gravity should hold us to the slope. Turns will be a bit touchy, though. Hell, can’t be worse than climbing the fissures on Io.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked without hesitation. “Let’s go for it.”

Taylor attacked the slope on a shallow angle, heading toward the west at first then turning the bike directly uphill momentarily before heading back to the north. With each turn the bike rocked on the edge of tipping over backwards, the front wheel lifting slightly, losing a bit of traction on the hard surface of the slope.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, each traverse gaining them a few vertical meters on the slope. Taylor shook his head to clear it, knowing that any loss of concentration on his part could kill them both. Now that they were three-quarters of the way up a tip-over would send them plunging back to the bottom, a tumble that neither of them would survive.

“One more turn,” Surra cheered him on. “We’re nearly there!”

Taylor made the final turn and gunned the motor to drive the bike over the lip of the deep fissure and onto the flat, dusty plain. The Three Sisters—Archaeus, Arisa, and Pavo-nis—came into view as they emerged.

“Turn northeast about twenty degrees,” Surra shouted, “and gun this son-of-a-bitch!”

Taylor needed no prompting and sent the bike surging forward at fifty klicks. By his estimation they only had an hour’s worth of air left and Rescue Point was nearly a hundred kilometers away.

They weren’t going to make it.

Olympus’s lower levels were covered with dirt and small rocks. Down here even Mars’s weak weather had smoothed out the rough edges of the volcano, filling the craters with sand, thermally fracturing the rocks into smaller pieces through the seasonal freeze and thaw cycles, and generally making the lower skirts of Mons a less forbidding place. The bike rode easily over the relatively smooth surface.

“I’ve been thinking,” Surra said suddenly. “What if we started broadcasting a mayday on our suit radios? Maybe someone will hear us before we get to the finish line.”

“Great, we’ll do that as soon as we get within range—about fifty kilometers, I’d guess. Another hour, at least.”

“We won’t make it, will we?” Surra said calmly.

“We might have enough air. My guess wasn’t that scientific, you know.”

“Then again, we could have a lot less,” she countered. “My jinx, y’know.”

“Stop that! You got us this close through intelligence and knowledge of the mountain. Luck hasn’t had a damn thing to do with it!”

“And you did it yourself as well,” she shot back. “I didn’t see your family helping you back there!”

“Know something? I think I just realized that what my family thinks of me doesn’t matter a bit. I’m doing this race for myself after all, for the acclaim it will bring. Yeah, and maybe, some day, I’ll tell gramps about it.”

As Surra broadcast their mayday Taylor concentrated on getting every erg he could out of the bike’s batteries, pushing the motors to their design limits, and beyond. The bike bounced unmercifully whenever it hit an outsized rock, forcing a muffled scream out of Surra, but that was better than slowing down and losing precious time. Every second saved put them that much closer to safety.

“No response,” Surra reported as he steered the bike along a narrow chasm formed by ancient, massive folds. “The hills ahead might be shielding us,” she suggested. “They run for another twenty klicks. I’ll wait until we get clear before I start shouting again,” she said, and then added, “Cutting it pretty close, aren’t we?”

“Maybe. How long do you figure we can breathe the stale air in our helmets after the air runs out?”

“Three to five minutes is all, by then the carbon dioxide buildup gets us. Say, don’t we have an hour or so in our suit bottles? Hey, maybe we can make it after all!”

“Good going, lady. But keep broadcasting just the same.” He didn’t remind her that he had used up half of his bottle already. Even optimistically, he’d be a half hour short of rescue.

“Surra,” he said at last. “Could you steer with one arm?”

“I guess I could if I had to, but it wouldn’t be at this speed. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” He hesitated. “But if anything were to happen to me, you’d be able to make it to Rescue Point, wouldn’t you?”

“What the hell’s going on Taylor? What are you trying to tell me?”

“I might need to take a rest when we get out of these hills, is all. Pretty exhausted. Don’t know if I can drive much more.” He hoped that explanation would satisfy her.

“You are full of crap. Remember what I told you about how I feel about liars? Still holds, kid. Come on, what’s the problem?”

Briefly Taylor told her about his estimation of the air supply and the status of his own suit bottle. “So you see, you’ll be able to make it, even if I can’t.”

“Well, let’s pray that it doesn’t come to that,” she replied. “Say, can’t you make this buggy go any faster?”

Taylor pushed the bike to sixty and watched the scenery flash by. Was it his imagination or was the air already starting to get a little stale?

Twenty minutes later he knew that the air was definitely getting stale. He decided to hold off using his suit bottle until he absolutely had to. Breathing began to come harder and he felt himself growing more drowsy. It would be so nice to close his eyes and take a brief nap that…

“Taylor!” Surra shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Huh,” he opened his eyes.

“The bike’s swerving like mad. Use your suit unit. The bike’s air’s gone now. Come on, Taylor, talk to me!”

He twisted his suit’s valves, took a deep breath, and felt the fresh oil-tainted air flush his system. “Thanks, almost fell asleep there,” he admitted. “Be ready to take over the steering in about twenty minutes. I figure that’s all I have left.”

“Listen to me,” Surra said calmly. “I’ll take over right now. The arm doesn’t hurt that much any more. Shut your supply to half and let yourself go to sleep. You won’t burn as much oxygen that way. That will stretch out whatever you have a little longer.”

“Waste of time,” he said groggily, but did as she instructed. Sleep came instantly.

Someone was shaking him vigorously. “Come on, wake up,” Surra said. “Damn it, kid; talk to me!”

Taylor realized that she was sitting on his back, straddling him with her knees. A flood of fresh air was flowing into his helmet. “What happened?” he asked.

“Decided we’d finish this race together or not at all,” Surra replied. “Hooked you into my suit so we’d share whatever’s left. Now come on, Rescue Point can’t be more than a few kilometers away.”

Taylor didn’t argue, but he thought it was probably the most idiotic thing she had ever done. Now they were both doomed. Nevertheless he pushed the bike forward at max speed.

They popped over the last ridge and started down the long slope to Rescue Point. As they came nearer he saw a small caravan of bikes heading toward them. “The rescue squad,” he gasped.

“Remember how I said we could survive about five minutes after the air ran out, didn’t you?” Surra asked calmly.

“Yeah, but they’re only a few minutes away.”

“I think we can make the finish line on what we have left,” she said in a rush. “Do we go for it?”

“Why the hell not?” he replied. “Yeah, let’s go for it!”

Taylor raced by the shocked rescue party and headed for the entrance to Rescue Point lock, the finish line. There were no other competitors in sight. Taylor looked at the clock as the Point’s lock cycled and realized that they had done the entire run in little over forty-three hours.

“We’ve broken the record, Surra!” he said wearily. “We’ve done it! We beat your jinx!” There was no answer. Her body fell limp from his back as he turned.

One glance told him what had happened: she had disconnected her own hose so that he alone was connected to her suit’s bottle. Her thin lips were already touched with the cyanotic blue of suffocation.

In desperation, ignoring the signs that his own supply had finally run out, he twisted her helmet off to allow the now-filled lock’s air to reach her and smashed her chest in a desperate attempt to restart her breathing.

He passed out just as the medics arrived.

Surra watched Taylor walk toward her across the Marsport concourse. How would it feel to be that young again; to have your whole life ahead of you, free and unencumbered by family and a stupid jinx? She’d probably never know.

Taylor flopped down beside her in that loose-jointed way of his, stuck his hands in the side pockets of his suit and slouched. “Been a real bitch, tracking you down,” he said.

“Listen, Taylor,” she said. “I’m real sorry my jinx ruined your race. I guess I should have warned you about it before we started; that would have been more honest.”

“Honest?” he shot back. “What the devil is more honest than sacrificing yourself for me? It was my stupidity that sent us off the starting line half a second too early, not yours! That stupid jinx had nothing to do with it!”

“Just the same,” she answered, “I’m sorry about what happened, but, you’ll get over it. You’re young. Huh, at least you’ll be able to tell your grandfather that you broke the freaking record, even if we didn’t win the purse.”

“That doesn’t matter; I don’t need the money anyway! What I really want to know is why you pulled such a stupid stunt.”

“Short odds, kid. I’d only be out a few minutes at most if you made it. If you didn’t the rescue team was right there. Either way I’d come out a winner.” She hesitated, “And so would you,” she added softly.

“Damned asinine idea,” Taylor repeated, but his smile took the sting out of his words.

Surra put her hand on his arm. “Listen, my shuttle is leaving real soon so say good-bye. Been nice knowing you, kid.”

“Why did you sign a contract for wild-cat prospecting down in Maternis? Why didn’t you ask me for a stake—you know I would have gotten it for you.”

She held up three fingers. “First, Sid is an old friend; it’s a good contract, so I won’t get hurt. Second,” she put down one finger, “I don’t take charity, even from guys I like.” Before he could react to that she touched the remaining finger. “Finally, I need to get the hell away from here, from the jinx reputation, from a lot of history that I’d rather you didn’t know about, and a family that I’m not particularly proud to have.”

“I know, I saw that you signed my bank draft over to your sister. That was your money, not hers.”

“Told her that was the last time, and you know what? I feel free for the first time in years. Maybe getting a new start in Maternis will be for the best, much as I hate leaving all this behind.” She waved her arm and laughed.

Taylor didn’t blink. “There’s some real work to be done on Io, you know.

Gramps wants me to stake out some claims for him. Thinks it has great potential. I need a good prospector, somebody who has the guts and brains to explore some really risky landscape.”

“Good luck,” Surra replied. “Io’s far enough away. I think it’s probably out of the range of my jinx.”

“I doubt that,” Taylor responded with another of his boyish smiles.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Surra said. “My bad luck will probably stick with you the rest of your life, like the crap that sticks to the bottom of your shoe. Sorry,” she added quietly.

The wall screen lit up with the number of her flight. She stood up and reached for her pack. It was a pitifully small package. Taylor put his foot on top of it. “I really need to go,” she protested.

“No,” he replied. “I need you on Io, with me, to make this prospecting venture work. Wouldn’t be right to let you run away to the bottom of some deep Martian canyon because of some ridiculous reputation.”

“So instead you want me to come out to Io, in the middle of all that radiation, the volcanoes, the ice, and especially the poisonous atmosphere?” she asked incredulously. “Yeah, right. Sounds like a great alternative. Now move your damn foot; I’ve got a contract to fulfill.”

Taylor smiled, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet. “Here’s your contract. Paid Sid a good price for it, too. Man’s a natural-born pirate. Matter of fact, I think I’ll tell my grandfather to contact him. They’d get along great. Two of a kind.”

“Why did you do that?” Surra asked as she sank into her seat. “I know you don’t have any interest in Martian mining.”

“No, but I do have an interest in you, Surra. Hell, you just helped me defeat the biggest, baddest mountain in the Solar System! You’ve shown me what a damned adolescent I was being about my family. You made me understand myself, so how the devil can I let you go? Please, come with me. I don’t want to come back here some day and find your cairn in the desert.” He held out his hand. “I need you to remind me of what I was, and what I can be.”

Surra hesitated. “Why do you have to be so damned young, so idealistic? Don’t you know that people don’t change? What the devil did you think you’re doing; screwing up my life like this? Don’t you know that I’m too freaking old for another damn mountain?”

“Come on, our ship’s waiting,” Taylor said, holding out two tickets. He picked up her pack and began to walk toward the orbital shuttle. “Nobody’s too old. There’s always another mountain, always another chance.”

“Yeah,” she replied as she fell into step beside him, following his lead, taking his hand in hers, “and I guess you just have to take them as they come.”