THE ARGUS PROJECT
Captain Foss opened one of the shuttle's cargo hatches; they saw a square of outer space fold out above their heads. They locked their boots into the sky-surfboard, and Keaton gave the captain a go-ahead signal.
Moravia took control of the cargo-section's robotic arm; it slowly lifted the surfboard above the cargo containers, and twenty meters outside. The sun glared like a bright spotlight at the shuttle's left-hand rear. The reddish-brown disc of Mars beckoned in the distance to the right of the ship's nose, brighter but only slightly larger than the surrounding spray of point-like stars in different colors.
This was the first trip to Mars that Venix - or Venice, in her previous existence - had experienced.
"Is everything all right out there?" Foss asked over the com-link. "I can only hear one of you breathing."
"She's plastic, Cap," Keaton cut in. "She forgets to fake it sometimes. Bet it's her first time in a suit. At least she can't puke in it... I hate it when beginners do that."
Venix tried to ignore Keaton's sullen hostility. She concentrated on keeping a sense of balance when the surfboard automatically folded itself out - not an easy thing, since her internal gyroscope didn't work in weightless free-fall.
The center platform they stood on - three feet wide and fitted with control-handles on thin metal-wire rods - was dwarfed by the canopy of kevlar foil. The foil now unfurled into a curving bird-shape, eight meters wide and thirty-five meters long. This was the actual "board", on which a skysurfer could "ride" and glide through the upper atmospheric layer in the most dangerous sport ever invented.
The mortality rate in the annual Grand Prix had risen to 10% - for every year, the "surfers" took greater risks to perform death-defying stunts and break new speed-records.
"I've seen skysurfing contests on the screen since I was a kid," Venix told Keaton, who stood in front of her on the board, "but I can't recall ever seeing you in the top league. What's your best ranking ever?"
Keaton did not answer for six seconds.
"Seventy-eighth in the tryouts. Three years ago. Just fifty-seven places from the chosen Grand Prix twenty!"
"Oh my God," she said, "I'm going to die."
"Now, wouldn't that be a shame," he replied. "You told us you're a dancer. That's a good start, actually. Skysurfing is a lot like dancing. Your partner... is the atmosphere. It has its own style and flow, and you gotta go with that partner, go with the flow or be fried. Feed us a basic jetstream and rub the right way, Moravia."
Moravia punched in the program for the robotic arm that held the board and simulated the uppermost atmosphere of Mars.
Immediately, the entire board began to bob and vibrate. The simplistic gauge-plate in front of Keaton signaled their simulated atmospheric entry, gave wind velocity and their own relative speed.
"This is what we call 'rubbing the right way' or 'going downstream'," Keaton explained, while working the control-handles. "I'm skimming the stratosphere, in the same direction as a jetstream - which, by the way, is visible when you use a surfer's special goggles. But this is a perfect vacuum, so fark that for now."
"So 'rubbing the wrong way' means going the opposite of 'downstream'?"
"No. Pay attention. Going downstream is the beginner's path, but it doesn't score bigtime in the Grand Prix, because your board tends to be carried by the jetstream and then takes a longer time coming down to the goal-zone. The pros have to play hard and fast, so they generally surf against the jetstream and try to... cut through it with the tip of the board. That's called 'making flames' or just 'cut'."
He made the canopy and the platform dip by ten degrees. The simulated temperature gauge jumped into the danger area. A small laser at Keaton's feet produced a simulated glow of heat along the curved edges of the canopy. Now the whole vehicle vibrated intensely.
"The faster the cut, the lower the risk of burning up the board against the friction. Some sponsors have better heat-shields. A Barton board broke the cut-time record last year, by three seconds, but the rider got a few second-degree burns himself. The heat reached around the board and hit his suit. How much heat can that plastic bod of yours take, inside a surf-suit?"
Unlike Argus, Venix lacked access to internal data on her stamina and heat resistance; whatever she knew, came from experience and instinct. Once, in her cyborg state, she had stepped into a flaming forest-grove to pick up a trapped animal. The temperature readings on her internal display had read 600 degrees at most, but she had gone virtually unscathed, with her hair wrapped in wet blankets.
Boulder Pi had told her the synthetic hair would grow back slowly to make up for wear and tear, but she had never dared to test that promise...
"800 degrees Centigrade outside the body, maybe more, but I don't know for how many seconds. My thermostatic system is many times more efficient than a... than organic tissue."
"Do you lose consciousness at lower temperatures?"
"I don't lose consciousness, ever. What about static charges? I have a bit of a problem with that. They can build up in my hair when I pass through a strong magnetic field, and short-circuit stuff that brush against it."
"She's electrifying!" Keaton exclaimed in mock astonishment. "The board itself protects you, no farking problem. But this ain't a brand-name board. I built it from parts. It's customized by me and a few secret collaborators in the industry, to fit the Martian atmosphere. Terran manufacturers are too fixated on the Terran market, they don't care Mars has a much thinner atmosphere. My secret backers and I are convinced that our board can break into the new colonial market, if we prove that thinner boards are better for Mars."
"So you've had it tested and approved there for the big tryouts?"
"Not over Mars, not yet. We're gate-crashing the Martian tryouts. Sometimes it works. The penalty fee is purely symbolic anyway, so I was going to gate-crash and secure a place among the twenty contestants."
Venix thought about it for a subjectively long second. She bore no personal grudge against Keaton; this was his big chance to break out of the unhealthy low-class smuggling trade. It wasn't right of her to ruin his life.
But... she could see right through the thin, inflatable helmet of his semi-transparent training-suit, see the way his brain-hemispheres pulsated with heat, with conviction and passion. There was no doubt in there, no chaotic patterns of self-delusion or madness, no darkness in the frontal lobes. He deserved a chance. If it failed, she would simply have to go in the cargo shipments that were dropped over Mars.
Only his heart worried her. She couldn't quite make it out through all the layers of fat around it, but it seemed swollen and out of shape. And its rhythm... she could hear it beating over the helmet radio with her acute synthetic ear membranes... sounded out of sync.
The man in front of her might not know or admit it, but Venix knew now: this might be his very last chance to be in the contest.
"Keaton - I could change my plan. You do the tryouts, not me, and show them that your board works. Then I take your place in the big race, and do the fake crash-and-burn to cover my escape. Once they find out you had a replacement, pretend you were injured or something, and claim the replacement was anonymous.
"In any case, you were acting under protest, so you go free. You may not win the Grand Prix, but you'll make a name for yourself, make a good amount of hits. I think your backers and crew would agree it's a fair enough offer."
Keaton turned about and glowered at her perfectly formed face, sharply outlined in the airless sunlight.
"You're taking a big risk, 'cybor-girl'. I could still fail the tryouts, burn the board and go splat. Then you have no cover. No place in the big race."
"I can read your mind. You seem to know what you're doing. Now show me how to make a fast cut."
The rotund, bearded man turned grave, measuring her sincerity, then nodded. "Typical Venusian, like the captain said. Moravia! Wake up. Let's run the expert simulation."
"We've got plenty of time, man. Why the hurry?" the crewman asked from inside the shuttle.
"Because me and this sulfur-breathing surfer chick, we're going for the gold. We'll show those Barton farkers how to cut a thin stream. Play that tune, stickman!"
Moravia let out a holler - the robotic arm began to twist and shake the skysurfing-board - and he switched on some loud, archaic rock music over the radio. Venix winced at the raw, rapid chords that exploded into her space-helmet; she thought she heard someone trying to play a staccato drum-solo on the wrong instrument.
"What's that noise?" she asked, grasping a pair of handle-rods to stay upright.
Keaton laughed. "Dick Dale and the Del-Tones, cybor-girl! Classic surfer music from the twentieth century, yeah!"
Venix let out her arms and let go of the handles, and let her lean body follow the bucking, vibrating movements of the board as they fell through space. She was beginning to enjoy surfing; it wasn't so different from dance, once she got into it.
"Show me how to spin the board!"
20: Gone Surfin'
THE ARGUS PROJECT INTERNET EDITION (c)A.R.Yngve 1999, 2000, 2004. All rights reserved. May not be copied without permission.
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