En route, he read up on the layout of the station. It was constructed in the common arrangement for Habs but much smaller. Next he reviewed an outline of the research being conducted. There was nothing going on, in his opinion at least, that warranted any sort of extraordinary procedures. "Special permission, my ass," he said to the air. "Turf wars, more likely."
"By the way, it pleases me to inform you that we have regained the record for travel on Mars."
"Regained? I wasn't aware that we'd lost it."
"Doctor Carruthers and Rollagon 01 surpassed our record during their trip to Lava 1 in March."
"So now it's our record. I'm surprised you care about those kinds of things."
"We are a team, however much that thought disturbs you. Besides, Rollagon 01 was positively euphoric at beating us. It's all over the ROAK."
"This is not a race. It's not some childish competition."
"Agreed," replied the AI, but Sam sensed a hint of something else in its voice—perhaps pride?
At last the Rollagon stopped in front of an unbermed MHM that externally resembled the First Station Hab. He noticed a small four-place rover parked at the entrance. Judging from the thickness of the dust they weren't doing a lot of travelling these days. The AI jockeyed the Rollagon up to the loading dock. After the docking was confirmed, the AI gave the go ahead to open the door. He activated the mechanism and the door swung open smoothly.
There was no one to greet him; surely a bad sign. The unmistakable smell of humans, toilets and too often recycled air wafted through the opening. A hint of cloves, too. He stepped across the lock and entered.
He called out a soft hello as he moved down the short hallway and was startled when a head topped with curly red hair popped out of a doorway and called out, "Hello yourself. What do you want?"
The head was attached to a man's body. The head and its body were unfamiliar to him. He suspected that he was probably equally unfamiliar and introduced himself.
"I am Sam Aiken. I am doing a familiarization trip with the Rollagon and since I was in the area I thought I'd drop by and see if you needed anything." He was not a good liar.
"I know who you are. I am Doctor Yang, Station Commander. Do you have any other purpose for this visit? Special access is required for visitors. We are too busy for tourists, particularly those who show up uninvited."
"Why? Your research in volcanism is hardly a state secret," Sam replied, regretting his words immediately.
Yang did not retreat. "You fancy yourself to be a Wilson? Are you even a vulcanologist? I thought not. You have no appreciation of the sensitivity of our work." Having said that though, Yang seemed to relax.
"Well, now that you are here, come in to my office and I will show you our current passion."
Yang's office was larger than any Sam had seen, yet it seemed slight compensation for the additional isolation. The plastek desk held the usual assortment of personal items everyone had—pictures of family, pens, images of themselves with politicos—all doubtless fabricated here on Mars. He noticed a stack of music discs.
That in itself was not unusual; everyone had his or her own collection. What was unusual was that these were original discs, Compact Discs, they were called, in what appeared to be their original sleeves. The top one was one of his favorite performers, Mike Oldfield. Yang had obviously noticed his interest, but ignored the opportunity to lighten things up. He pointed Sam to a chair.
Over the next half hour or so he was given a pretty basic introduction to a very unremarkable research program in Martian volcanism. There was hardly enough volcanism on all of Mars to warrant a station of this size, particularly here on the very edges of Tharsis. There were three possibilities: the work really was as uncomplicated as it appeared, Yang thought him an idiot, or something else was really going on.
Partway through their examination of the material they were interrupted by a youngish Caucasian woman who abruptly entered the office. She was as startled to see him as he was her. Before he could open his mouth she performed a pirouette and beat a hasty retreat, offering an apology from the safety of the hallway. Yang ignored the interruption and drew Sam's attention back to the map of Tharsis. He found it hard to refocus his attention. Yang went on, and on and on. Once started he was passionate about his work, even if it was much ado about nothing.
To Sam's surprise and relief Yang concluded the briefing almost in mid sentence. Unexpectedly, he offered Sam the opportunity to meet the others. They travelled down the hall to dining room. There were four people present, all elderly, and of mixed ethnicity. To Sam, they seemed somewhat less curious about him and his sudden arrival than he would have expected. Once introductions had been made he asked about the other three.
Yang spoke. "Unfortunately, they are in the field. They are not scheduled to return for some days. I am sure they would have enjoyed meeting you."
Sam was about to ask about their mode of travel when another arrived. It was the woman who had interrupted the briefing. Despite having had only a brief look at her in Yang's office, he was surprised to see that she was as old as the oldest of the others and moved with the same shuffling gait. He looked at her closely, to the point of impolite staring. Something was markedly different about her appearance. He looked closely at her face. She looked away, dark eyes moving furtively. It was somewhat awkward for the both of them, like two secret lovers meeting in public for the first time.
The conversation turned to Sam's work. He told them of the delay in construction of the dish and how he had come to have so much free time on his hands and then a little of his travels. No one seemed too enthused about anything he said. Feeling somewhat duty-bound, he added that he soon would have more work of his own than he could handle. That lie too had no effect.
More small talk followed, and then even smaller talk until Sam had the distinct impression that the visit was over; he was unwanted. The group began to break up, those leaving awkwardly excusing themselves as required for work until only Sam, Yang and the woman remained. Then, abruptly she left too, without saying anything. Sam looked at his shoes. Even he knew when it was time to go—well past, in fact.
He began to apologize for the intrusion when Yang stopped him with a wave of his hand, looking him straight in the face. He saw an old man with a story to tell. They returned to Yang's office.
"You are indeed fortunate to have the opportunity to explore this planet. The reports of your travels are watched and read by us all. For us here, it is less romantic. Mars is very dead. Traces of residual volcanism exist, but I fear nothing new to science and knowledge will come of this, and I have never even been to Olympus Mons. The AIs are quite capable of doing our research and probably at less expense and risk. We had such hopes."
"That's a common sentiment," Sam replied. "Maybe you could go with me to Olympus some day."
Yang shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Perhaps our lasting contribution to this colony will come from some other area, something unexpected. Sacrifices have been made. More will be required."
The nature of the comment invited no response. Sam waited several heartbeats and apologized again. This time Yang allowed him to finish. He announced his plans to depart immediately. Yang made a half-hearted offer to put him up, but he sensed no sincerity, only politeness. They walked slowly back to the docking bay, shook hands, and Sam went out. He looked back. Yang was already gone.
He stood by the doorway, waiting for something to happen to make sense of what had just transpired, waiting for some new insight. After a few moments he closed the door. The AI immediately backed the Rollagon away from the Hab and stopped. As soon as Sam entered the forward space it spoke.
"Well, what did you see?"
"A group of very senior scientists having second thoughts, I think. Let's get out of here."
Knowing that wasn't specific enough instruction he added, "Go over the nearest hill and park for the night. I'm tired and I need a break." Without a beep or fart the AI started the Rollagon an
d proceeded to the north. After a few minutes of travel it halted facing down the slight slope of a wide gully.
"Does this suit your purpose?"
Sam did not answer. He looked out at the gathering dusk and thought about the strangeness of Yang's remark about sacrifice. What sacrifices had they made in leaving family, title, fame, and fortune that others had not? And had he been mistaken about the appearance of that woman?
In the failing light he could discern the outline of three small mounds at the bottom of the slope. They could have been many things but mostly they appeared to be mounds of regolith. To Sam's eyes they were unmistakably graves. There was something more going on here than research into volcanoes, he thought. Sacrifices had been made. More were going to be made.
Ergo, people had died here, and more were going to. He decided it was best not to speak of this to anyone, especially to an AI that hadn't wanted him to come here in the first place.
Occam's KISS
Upon his return to the MHM, no one mentioned his visit to Lava 1. He told Ross about it a few days later. It was on one of those rare occasions when Sam had managed to convince the brit to don a suit and go for a walk. Once they were out of sight of the Hab he motioned for Ross to switch to IR comm mode.
"Why all the secrecy?"
They picked their way around the boulders littering the slope and kicked their way through the mini-dunes on their lee sides until their suits were as black with dust as if they had been spray painted. Sam told him about the visit, leaving out the parts that had aroused his suspicions. At first Ross listened without comment, and then, as always, he offered the simplest explanation.
"Perhaps they're embarrassed, or just disappointed. There's a lot of resentment towards those whose work was seen as important enough to rate a dedicated research station but who have yet to produce anything of significant value. Doggy in-the-manger stuff, I suspect. I wouldn't mind a room of my own." He paused, then went on, "There's more to this though, isn't there?"
Sam grabbed his arm and spun him around. The dusty visor made it difficult to see Ross's face. He reached up and brushed his hand across his own visor, then Ross's. Ross jerked his head back to avoid the contact.
"Strange that they restrict visitors to a nothing place, isn't it? Strange that nothing new is going on."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Then he told him about the lie of the team that was supposedly in the field and of the three graves and the cryptic goodbye Yang had given him. And then, risking all, about the young woman who was an old woman.
"Are you sure it was graves? It could have been garbage, for all you know. Did you go out and dig them up? And as for the woman, you've been alone a long time. Maybe you need some companionship."
Sam continued, his breath steaming the inside of his visor. Didn't Ross know about Louise? "C'mon. My AI goes all procedure on me to keep me away. Fenley and a geneticist are the only visitors. People are dead and buried in unmarked graves. The station leader lies to me about a non-existent away team. That's a cover-up of something."
Ross shrugged and tried to turn away without responding. Frustrated, Sam grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "There's something fucking strange going on here!"
The suit monitor offered its opinion of his emotional state in its usual, gentle voice. "Make safe, make safe."
"Hey, take it easy, man!"
Sam pushed Ross from him, sending him sprawling onto his back. Ross got up slowly and made a dignified but hopeless attempt to brush the dust off his legs. He turned and stepped towards Sam, arms bent in front in a fighting posture, chin raised. Sam could not see the face behind the visor, but the body language told all. He braced for the impact.
Ross stepped forward a pace, halving the distance between them, and then suddenly dropped his arms, returning to a neutral posture. "You need help, man. This thing that's happening to you is too big. Get a grip on yourself," he said, and without another word he turned, as abruptly as Mars allowed, and started toward the Hab.
Sam watched him go. He could hear Ross's strained breathing clearly in his ears. It ceased and then resumed, this time loud and distorted, and then in a blast of white noise became nothing.
He looked at the rock strewn terrain in front of him, selected a flat boulder, and sat down. His racing pulse slowed. His shoulders fell. Anger gave way to embarrassment. Embarrassment gave way to regret. He stood up and looked for Ross, but he was gone. Out of reach, out of sight, out of IR comm range. He sat down again.
Ross was his only friend and, despite an unbridled scepticism, he was a good listener. Sam owed him an apology at the very least, and probably, after this, a lot more, but it was clear that Ross thought him a loonie on the grass. He resolved not to discuss his thoughts again with anyone, including his friend, and then tempered that resolve by deciding to keep his half-baked theories to himself and in the future to stick to the facts. He was on his own.
He sat until the sun was gone and the cold in his butt motivated him to return to the Hab. He made his way down the narrow hall to Ross's quarters, but Ross was not in, and his roomie of the week did not know where he was. He tried the dining room, then the library. No Ross. Sam returned to his own quarters and left a brief message on Ross's personal terminal.
It was two days before he showed up. Sam entered the dining hall and there he was at his usual table, sipping a cup of coffee. Ross spoke first.
"Got your message, mate. Apology accepted. Where're you off to?"
"Nowhere. Got to work," Sam replied. The world had found out about the impending completion of the dish and was beating a path to his door. He was grounded. "Where were you the last few days?"
"Aliens abducted me," Ross said with a straight face, as only he could. Sam froze, and then laughed at the unexpected humour.
"Actually," Ross continued, "Mei-Ling and I have found a place where we can enjoy a little privacy."
Mystery solved. Sam was unsure which was the more plausible explanation.
13
November 2044
The Newspaper
In addition to the formal papers published in the monthly electronic technical journals, the Station had a less formal community-style weekly in which the residents could give voice to issues of concern to do with daily life, such as the hours of operation of the mess hall, the cleanliness of the water in the hot tub, the variety, timing, and quality of pubic showings of the latest entertainment videos from Earth, a listing of pornography and music for exchange, and other miscellanea. It was at once an essential and useless vehicle to defuse tension.
As time passed, the content became more like that of a small town paper, complete with a social calendar and social pages. Sam recalled with a twinge reading a letter of complaint from a self-proclaimed "Concerned Citizen" to the editor, voicing dismay at the level of noise emanating from the Social Center after 11 pm on a week night. It was an unscientific yet objective indicator of the degree of entrenchment of the Station and its residents.
The weekly publication was, of course, matrix-based. However, in conversation it was often referred to as "The Paper." It solicited literary submissions with great success—though Sam found that most of the poems were amateurish, and that the short stories echoed too strongly a sense of the loss of far-off Earth. One anonymous contributor, at least, seemed to share Sam's feelings.
Shadow on the Land
The sun through tan and pink mocks itself
Pale and wan, bereft of warmth
It leads where I can never follow
Below all I am, at others' beck and call
I am but a shadow of myself
This land is mine to travel, savour and taste
The wind carries my scent and my dreams
The ether carries my thoughts, one and zero
Trackless wastes are my green valley
Frozen plains my homeward shore
My feet are gone, my arms are wasted
I search these spaces with a gentle touch
I see all and care for the unchangeable fact
That time has passed and left no trace
And the sun, tan and pink, leaves no shadow on the land.
14
December 2044
Disaster
The flurry of activity when the dish came on line kept him from travel. Shortly though, he found out what the others had known for some time and that he had thus far failed to fully appreciate—once the AIs were given a task, it was as good as done.
Under his nominal direction an AI searched for research sponsors and advertised the availability of the dish in the on-line trade magazines of astronomy and cosmology. It scheduled the time, directed the missions, prepared the reports, and sent the invoices. Each day a summary appeared on his terminal. Others, apparently many it seemed, had uses for a listening dish far from the madding EMF babble of Earth and her moon. Apart from reading the summaries, he was hard pressed to stay interested. His own research, he was told, was secondary to that of the paying customers and could wait.
Though the AIs appeared, initially at least, to need no help from him, he felt it politic to stay close to home and for a while limited himself to trips on foot around the Station. He wasn't sure if he was paranoid or not, but he had the distinct feeling he was being watched. Too many chance encounters with roving AIs had taken place to be mere coincidence.
He was therefore surprised to be asked by Carruthers to join him in ferrying two Rollagons of sightseers to the Ganges Chasma. Sam had travelled with Carruthers on several occasions, and while he found his sometime roomie likable enough, he distrusted his driving abilities. He found him too fast and too reckless. Nonetheless, a trip to the Valles was going to be a treat. With the dish functioning in the perfectly capable hands of the AIs he agreed to make the trip.
They left in the morning of December 1st, planning on taking thirty days to travel down to Ganges, with stops en route at the Viking I site and the spectacular cliffs of Shalbatana. There was less than a full load, and each day his passengers changed. He knew most of them professionally and several were almost friends.