Death Trap by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

those words of panic was static.
    I stared at Rawling. Rawling stared at me.
    â€œTo make matters worse,” Rawling said, “we’re expecting the spaceship late tonight, with dozens of newcomers to the base.”

CHAPTER 3
    Some of you on Earth might already know about me. I’m the kid on Mars who was writing a journal about the final days under the dome, when it looked like everyone here would die.
    Even if you didn’t read the long e-book of that journal sent by satellite back to Earth, you can probably guess that everything turned out fine in the end. Otherwise, I wouldn’t still be writing, would I?
    So why this new e-book, starting today, June 26, AD 2039?
    Mom figures anyone my age might be interested in a Mars journal, so as part of my ongoing homework, she’s making me add to the first journal. If you feel sorry for me because you don’t like to write, either, I’ll thank you now. I wasn’t happy with being forced to do it.
    â€œTyce, are you cleaning up your room?”
    It was Mom, calling me from the common living space in the middle of our tiny minidome.
    â€œNo,” I called back. “I’m at the computer. Doing homework. Remember? The homework you gave me?”
    I guess if there’s one good thing about writing my journals, it’s this: an excuse to avoid other things, like cleaning my room.
    â€œAll right, all right.” I heard her laugh. “Can you wrap it up soon? I need to give you a haircut.”
    Like that was a good reason to hurry up and finish. I’d almost rather get poked by a needle than squirm under a sheet while she clips my hair and comes dangerously close to clipping my ears. And let’s just say her haircuts are not a work of art. She’s a scientist, not a stylist. Worse, because we can’t waste water under the dome, we’re only permitted showers twice a month. The rest of the time we use an evaporating deodorant soap. My next scheduled shower wasn’t for another week. If she gave me a haircut tonight, I wouldn’t be able to wash the itchy hair off my neck and shoulders until then.
    â€œHaircut?” I hollered. “I just had one!”
    â€œIt was three months ago,” she said in an amused voice.
    â€œNo way! It’s been only six weeks! I sure don’t need one this soon.”
    Mom walked through the entrance into my room. With hands on her hips, she did her best to look stern. “Don’t lie. Three months. I marked it on the calendar because I knew you’d try to get out of it.”
    â€œI wasn’t lying,” I protested weakly. It figured as a scientist she’d keep track. “It was six weeks. Mars time.” Here on Mars it took 687 days to circle the sun. Which meant a Mars year was about 1.9 times longer than on Earth. So my six weeks’ Mars time and her three months’ Earth time were about the same.
    â€œVery funny,” she said, unable to hide a smile.
    â€œWow,” I said. “You look great.”
    â€œDon’t change the subject.” She smiled again.
    â€œIt’s true,” I said. “You do look great.”
    Normally, Mom didn’t care much what she looked like, but tonight her hair was done nicely. I could smell perfume, and she wore a dress I hadn’t seen her wear since …
    â€œI get it,” I said. “Dad’s coming home.”
    â€œExactly. In about four hours. Which is why you’re going to clean your room. And after that I’m giving you a haircut.”
    I pointed at my computer.
    â€œYes, yes. Finish what you were writing.”
    â€œMom …”
    In my mind, I heard Timothy Neilson’s voice as Rawling replayed the audio. “Help! They’re chasing me! Dozens of them! Help me! Help me! Help—”
    â€œYes?” Mom asked when I didn’t finish my thought.
    I really wanted to tell her about the aliens. Rawling had said I could if I wanted, because he