I loved this book. When I was a kid, I was fascinated with anything about mars. I still am, but I'm disillusioned. I thought that we would get to Mars and have established a colony by the time I was an adult. Little did I know. How little I knew.
From the start, is Mars mission seems to be cursed:
"...not-well, if not, we'll have to think of something else."
Ryan nodded. "Okay, sounds good. At least it's a plan, anyway."
He would remember that phrase, later. "Sounds good."
Ryan toggled over to an exterior camera-still working fine, after sitting useless for almost seven years and watched Chamlong bend over and se lect a rough volcanic stone about the size of a brick. He picked it up, walked to the first of the booster tanks, and then moved around behind the tank to where the heat exchanger was.
"It's hard to get in close enough to see very much, but I think I see some ice," Cham's voice said over the radio link. "You ready in there?"
"I've got my eye on the gauge."
Steadying himself with one hand against the tank, Chamlong gave it a light tap with the rock.
The gauge hadn't moved. "Nothing," he reported.
"Okay. I'm going to try a little harder."
Chamlong drew back the rock and gave the side of the aluminum man-ifold a solid thump. A snowstorm of white burst out of the interior, settled on the ground, and then quickly evaporated in the dry air.
The gauge jumped, overshot, and settled down. 22.8 tons. Perfect!
"You did it," Ryan said.
"All right! Okay, let's try the other one." Chamlong went to the second tank.
There was a thump, and ice broke free. The needle jumped and pinned itself against the high end of the gauge. A moment later there was a shuddering that he could feel from inside the spacecraft, and then Ryan heard Cham saying "Oh, shit!" over the radio. He looked at the view from the external camera but could see nothing-the entire outside view was blanked out in billowing white. Red warning lights started to come on in the cabin-overpressure, flow-rate monitor, temperature alert.
"Shit!" he said. "Cham! Are you all right?" There was no answer. He jumped out of the chair and out the hatch. He ignored the ladder and jumped down into the sand, raising a plume of dust that momentarily ob-scured his vision. "Chamlong! Report!"
Through the haze of cloud and dust, a torrent of liquid oxygen was jetting out of a broken pipe. It was insanely beautiful, a foaming fountain that glistened in the most delicate shade of pale blue. The pipe was waving back and forth, spraying the precious liquid over the spacecraft, and he could see the panels bowing as they encountered the sudden shock of liquid oxygen at a temperature of a hundred and eighty degrees below zero. He heard a bang-it must have been incredibly loud to be audible in the near vacuum of the Martian ambient and on the other side of the ship, he could see that the second oxygen feed pipe had also burst. Both tanks were venting now, liquid oxygen foaming and bubbling like a torrent of blue champagne flowing across the sand, freezing and boiling at the same time."
The crew soon finds out that only two and possibly three members of the crew will be able to go back on the original Brazilian spacecraft. This causes a lot of competition I'm on crew members:
"...The fact that he had left it out frightened her as much as anything else. It showed that he knew that their situation was desperate, and that in his opinion sacrificing some members of the crew would be an improvement on their current situation. He was afraid that the crew would panic if they knew. At that moment, she knew that they must be very close to death. Could it possibly be that he didn't know? The specifications of the Jesus do Sul were not public knowledge. Could he possibly believe that they could cram five people into a ship that had been designed for two? It seemed unlikely.
Estrela turned her head to take a sip from the nipple of the drinking bottle. The suits had not been designed for long-term use; until she took her helmet off, the electrolyte-replacement drink would be the only nourishment she'd get. She reminded herself not to suck too much; it would have to last. But the thought only made her thirstier.
The alternative was slightly more sinister. Suppose that Ryan Martin did know that only two of them could return to Earth. Could he have a reason to keep this fact secret?
Clearly, he intended to be one of those persons.
A trek to the north pole would be an ambitious traverse even for a fully functional, well-planned mission. It would take the skills of the full team of five to make it. Once they got to the north pole, though, three of the five must somehow be persuaded to remain on Mars. The easiest way to do that would be to make sure that three of them were already dead.
She knew what it was like to have to kill for her life. When it comes to a matter of life or death, anybody would learn to lie and to kill.
Any way she looked at it, Ryan Martin looked to her like a killer."
The captain "accidentally"uses a rope that had been tempered with by Estrella, which was meant for the youngest member of the crew:
"John Radkowski lay on his back, on a slope of broken rock and sand, and marveled. He wasn't dead.
That was the surprise. He wasn't dead.
The fall had been slow, so slow. But he had been moving awful fast. He tried to calculate how fast he must have been moving when he'd hit, but he couldn't quite think clearly.
He didn't hurt.
In fact, he couldn't feel anything, just a comfortable warmth about his body.
The helmet hadn't shattered. It really did live up to its marketing, he thought, a technological marvel: light, clear as glass, and damn near unbreakable. He'd have to do a commercial for the company: "I fell off a cliff, half a mile down, hit rocks at the bottom, and the remarkable carbide hel-met still held air!"
He wished he could say the same about the rest of the suit. He could hear the shrill whine of escaping air.
He was laying at a crazy angle, half tilted toward the sky. The sky was a most remarkable shade of peach, brushed with delicate yellow clouds like feathers. He wished he could move his head, look around. Out of the corner of his eye he could see blood. It seemed to be pooling in the bottom of the helmet, somewhere around his right ear.
He tried to use the radio to call, but his voice wasn't working anymore. He doubted the radio was, either.
The pool of blood in his helmet was getting deeper.
He felt remarkably peaceful. He owed the universe a death, he knew.
One death.
His."
The youngest member of the crew, travis, isn't who he says he is; we find this out as he's dying:
"The water recycler had already quit on him, and his throat was dry and hurt like hell.
He was going to die on Mars.
With the geologic hammer that Estrela had given him, he scratched into the stone beside the fossils. It was soft, as easy to carve as soap. BRAN-DON WEBER WAS HERE, he wrote, and then tried to think of a witty line. He couldn't. At last he added I DID IT.
It would be his tombstone, he thought. The idea seemed vaguely funny, nothing to be taken seriously. But tombstones need dates, so he added: 2010-2028.
And then, he wrote: SO LONG, STOMPERS.
Brandon Weber sat down, rested against the sandstone ledge, and stared into the dark toward the sunrise he would never live to see.
There was no possible way that any of the others could get to him in time. And even if they could reach him, what could they possibly do?"
At the end there are only three crew members left.