Free Death Trap by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

of you are among the greatest scientific minds in the solar system. I made a decision that you must be spared to continue the Mars Project.”
    What?
    Director Steven glanced across the short space between the platform buggies. He caught me staring at him in surprise. “You too, Tyce,” Director Steven said. Surprisingly, he smiled at me. “We cannot afford to lose you. Not after what you proved yesterday.”
    A hundred and eighty people had been condemned to die just to save the few of us?
    â€œRest assured, people,” Director Steven finished in his smooth voice, “we do have enough oxygen. The tanks that were taken a few nights ago were hidden on these platform buggies. The two men who assisted in that task are the two security guards among us. In fact, one even pretended to resist entering the platform buggy, just to make it look more realistic that we were headed for death. Of course, no one else in the dome knows any of this. But those of us in the platform buggies will survive. None of you should feel guilt, as this was my decision and you had no choice in the matter.”
    The speakers in our platform buggy clicked off as Director Steven hung up his microphone.
    Back at the dome, time and air were running out for everyone. Including Rawling, the one man I trusted above everybody else.

CHAPTER 22
    On the other side of our platform buggy, the security guard was handing out nutri tubes for breakfast.
    I struggled to push my wheelchair over there. It had been getting more and more difficult to move. I wondered if Director Steven had lied to us about the oxygen, just so we’d die peacefully and without fear.
    When I reached the security guard, he gave me my choice of scrambled eggs and bacon or scrambled eggs and sausage.
    â€œLike there’s a difference,” I said.
    He grinned. “Good point.” He was square-shouldered, with a crew cut and a squashed nose, as if it had once been broken. “Scissors?” he asked.
    â€œNo, thank you,” I said. As usual, I just ripped open the top of the tube.
    â€œHey, muscles,” he teased, laughing, “promise you won’t get mad at me.”
    â€œHa-ha,” I said. I pushed away and found a spot near the edge of the observation deck. If breakfast had to taste bad, at least I could eat it where I had a nice view.
    I’d slept for nearly 10 hours, and the sun was already above the horizon, casting long shadows from the jagged rocks that littered the Martian sand.
    Then it hit me. If the reason I struggled to push my wheelchair was because of lack of oxygen, how come I could still rip open a nutri tube?
    I thought back over the last few days. Not once had I been forced to use scissors on the nutri tubes. So maybe it wasn’t my hands and arms getting weak. But why then was it still difficult to push my wheelchair?
    I thought about that as I slowly chewed and swallowed the gooey yellow paste that was called scrambled eggs and bacon.
    Mom moved beside me and sat on the floor to eat her breakfast. “I’m still in shock,” she said. “Director Steven had this planned out for a long time. Early enough to steal the oxygen tanks and pretend he knew nothing about it.”
    â€œYeah,” I said, my mind on my wheelchair.
    â€œI’m curious what you think,” Mom said thoughtfully. “Is what he did right? I mean, Director Steven—”
    â€œCan you help me out of my wheelchair?” I asked, interrupting her.
    â€œSure, but—”
    â€œNow?” I asked. I gave her what was left of my nutri tube.
    Mom set it aside and lifted me out of the chair by grabbing under my armpits. She set me on the floor.
    I leaned my back against the glass of the platform buggy wall. “Thanks.”
    â€œTyce?” she asked. “What is it?”
    I spun the back of the wheelchair toward me. There was a small tool kit underneath the seat that made it possible to take the wheelchair