Aurora by David A. Hardy Page A

this alive, that is,” she muttered. She twisted to get a better grip on a rock, and winced as she realized that her leg also hurt. The rock shifted, came loose and fell—straight towards her helmet.
    She ducked her head out of the way as much as she could in the limited space.
    Then, with a crash and a shower of debris, the whole roof fell upon her.
    Her heart thumped as for a moment she thought she’d been buried alive.
    However, she calmed herself swiftly. She was on Mars, not Earth. On Earth her strength would have been unable to move the mass of rubble, but in the lesser gravity of Mars she found she could—with a colossal effort—wriggle free and clamber up the slope of fresh detritus to the surface.
    Only a thin line of sunlight now illuminated the rim of the canyon. A fine spindrift of dust from the desert caught the rays and formed swirling trails which twisted against the russet sky like cirrus in an Earth sunset. She located her trolley and grasped its handle with her right hand, changing her mind rapidly as pain shot up her arm. She swapped hands and triggered the little motor; so long as she was on a relatively flat surface, the motor would give her greater speed.
    I must look a sorry sight! she told herself wryly. Her suit was stained and dirty, though fortunately not torn; her helmet’s faceplate was scarred. She was limping. Although the temperature around her was already over 60º C below zero, she was sweating with effort.
    â€œHorses sweat. Men perspire. Ladies glow !” she told herself. It was something her mother had used to say. Thinking about her mother brought back the image she had seen when—was it only that morning?—the Blimp was taking off. She remembered that for many years her mother had been proud of some silk underwear she had made, she said, from a German parachute. The parachute from a—what was it? A land mine? The thing had landed on their house when Aurora was a tiny baby—too young to have any actual memory of the event. But memories of what she had been told as a little girl were returning.
    There was something about a barrage balloon—red-lit from below; a crackling roar—and a German parachutist who had helped them. And her brother Stephen, walking. Poor Steve. He had died of cancer only last year; she had not been able to go to his side, much as she had wanted to. How could she, when she looked like his daughter or even his granddaughter? She had been keeping in touch with him only by an occasional phone call and e-mail.
    She shook a bead of sweat out of her eyes and wrinkled her nose. Ugh. The inside of her suit was becoming decidedly smelly. Where was she? Her mind was wandering, and she was nearly exhausted. Oh, yes, Steve. As a boy he’d been paralyzed from birth, and then he’d got up and walked after being buried when the roof fell in on him, or something. (Well, it had been her turn to be under a collapsing roof this time!) The story had all sounded very unlikely; and yet, in the light of her own recovery from a severed arm, did it really seem so impossible now?
    Could there be something special about her family? Or was it—? Yes, that must be it. Stephen must have had some of the same quality she had. But no, no, that couldn’t be the truth. He had aged naturally, and he certainly hadn’t beaten cancer—though he’d been eighty-six when he died. Perhaps you got only one chance. Perhaps the—the talent, or whatever it was, burned out after one apparent miracle? Would she start ageing now, and heal no better than anyone else? But then she seemed to have had several lucky escapes already, to say the least....
    Her mind spun, in a turmoil. Her faceplate had misted up, the suit’s circulation and cooling system unable to cope with her exertions, and her eyes smarted as salty sweat poured down her face. She couldn’t go much further.
    A bright glow swam blearily across her visor, growing