Sam replaced the handset. He turned away and walked to 02. The hatch was open and the ladder extended as if the Rollagon was expecting him. It probably is. It probably reads lips too.
He climbed into the airlock. The inner door was open. He went into the HCM, dropped his bag on his usual bunk and looked around. Whatever the differences were they were not immediately apparent. The layout was, of course, identical. It was a moment before he noticed. The interior walls were a soft pastel pink, not the utilitarian battleship grey of 04, and the air smelled different. For a moment he could not place the smell—but closing his eyes, he decided that it was the faint trace of lilacs. Whoever had driven this Rollagon last was obviously a woman.
Well, he conceded, it was better than the smell of a plugged toilet. He moved through the galley to the command deck. Sitting down in the command chair he felt the same fake leather beneath him and the same warmth of the armrests. He reached forward and touched the command and status display.
"How may I be of service?"
He was unprepared for the voice that filled the room—unprepared for the softness and femininity with which the words were spoken. Momentarily taken aback, a flood of feelings ran through him. He responded automatically, "Prepare for departure."
The C&S display came alive with the systems status. The Rollagon trembled slightly beneath him as the AI closed up and made ready to move. Sam sat in silence, staring out the window, seeing nothing.
Without further urging the Rollagon initiated the evacuation of the Adit and opened the door. Sam sat in the command chair, still silent. The Rollagon AI gently prodded him—"Do you wish to proceed?"
"Yes. Continue," he replied.
It had begun.
On the Road, Again
In the end, he went with 04's preferred and most cautious route. He could deviate as he saw fit, and assuming this AI didn't stage a coup if asked to do something riskier than 3%, he could go where he wanted, and he wanted to see it all, to go to the places legitimate science could not go—into the depths of Marineris, to the Tharsis volcano cauldrons, to see up close and personal the infamous Spiders of the southern regions, to climb the Face on Mars, and to get as close to the North Pole as could be managed.
He wanted to see the sites of the previous manned landings and early robotic landers and sit under the Martian auroras that were visible only to the suitably equipped from a few locations. He knew he would undoubtedly sometimes have to settle for less, and was prepared to do so. It was a grand start to what should be a grand adventure.
So it was that on the thirty-first of October 2046, Sam travelled down the well worn path to the southern end of the colony. He stopped at the edge of the trail and paused, but not to reconsider. It was what he wanted to do. It was what he had dreamed of since their arrival six Martian years ago, and as a child many, many Earth years ago. He placed his own probability of survival at 75%—less if he was foolish, much less if he was foolish and careless, and zero if he was foolish, careless, and unlucky. "Hell", he said out loud, "at my age I could die of a heart attack before the end of the day."
With that said he pushed the tiller hard over to the left and jammed the accelerator to the floor. He drove at full speed for a few minutes, bouncing and rolling recklessly across the terrain, then gradually slowed, and finally surrendered control to the AI. With tens of thousands of kilometers yet to travel, he was going to need some help.
That first day the going was easy and the Rollagon made one hundred and fifty kilometers. They had driven in silence. With 04, Sam had not often indulged in conversation for its own sake, preferring to leave discussion until the day's work was done.
All day he pondered what to do about the gender of the AI. He was curious to know if it was personal to this AI or if it had been imposed, but he avoided discussion for the time being—he had not yet processed the implications. It could be changed quite easily, the simple matter of a few menu selections, but what if it was the Rollagon's choice to be feminine? Did he have a right to change that to suit his own preference?
Under the guise of looking up the instructions for travel with one wheel damaged he navigated through the command options. There he found what he was looking for. Sometime since he had last driven it the AI's voice had been set to natural; this was a female gendered AI. Well, he thought, in retrospect, the change was not unpleasant.
He had decided to travel for a maximum of ten hours each day so as to leave several hours of daylight for exploration. While parked in the lee of a small hill at day's end, he finished his customary circuit of the Rollagon and started off in the direction of a rise.
He paused to take it in. The ground was typical for this region—a time shattered, wind scoured sedimentary base littered with small rocks and boulders, the rocky surface alternating between dust dunes and what passed on Mars for sand. The lower slope of the hill was a gradual rise across the talus. At the point where the talus met the hill face, it rose steeply.
Sam made the decision to give it a try. The footing was difficult. The poor traction in low gravity caused him to slip, and he found it difficult to keep his feet under him. He continued on and up for some distance, until the suit warned him and the pain in his lungs and thighs caused him to stop. Looking up, he saw that the cliff face rose in an arc that hid the top. He carried on with head down in order to better see his footing.
In a few minutes he was again breathless and could feel the sweat running down his face. That could be very uncomfortable. He could rub most of his head against the helmet padding, but there were places on his face that were untouchable. He sat down on a small rock for a few moments and paused again.
Looking back he saw the Rollagon, starkly white against the red. His breathing, at first so loud in his ears, slowed and his racing pulse settled. He sipped at the water tube, surprised at how dry his throat was. He was ten minutes into the climb and feeling it already. Perhaps he was not in as good shape as he thought.
"Gawd. I should have gone to those fitness classes."
It was true. His Earth muscles were adapting, becoming Martian muscles. "It won't be long before I'm three meters tall, googly-eyed and built like a stick-man."
Feeling better, he chuckled.
He looked again at the Rollagon and had a moment of indecision. Then, with a shrug, he turned again to the upward slope and quickly gained the foot of the cliff face. It too was composed of layered rock and extended as far as he could see in both directions.
Searching along the right, he came to a place where the face had shattered and slipped to form a notch that appeared climbable. He picked his way over the loose rocks, sometimes on all fours, more than once sending a small slide down to the foot of the cliff. The scattering rocks clattered faintly in the ultra-thin air.
Finally, he reached the top and lay on his belly, breathless, oblivious to the mewling of the suit's alarms. Rolling over, he sat with his legs straight out in front and viewed his kingdom.
From here he could not see the Rollagon, but in the distance, northwards of the setting sun, he could see the low hills that he had traversed just hours before. Away to the east he could see darkening plains unbroken to the horizon, and just above, the first stars. It was not much of a hill by any standard, just a dimple of broken rock with scattered ejecta, mini-dunes, and minor pools of dust, but he had climbed it.
He checked his consumables. It had taken much longer than it had seemed and it was later than he had thought. In the effort he had used more than two hours worth of O2 to do an hour's work. He looked around a last time and then commenced the descent.
This was even more difficult than the climb, for he could not see his feet, his knees ached, and he had to pause often to quell the trembling in his thighs.
In the steepest part of the notch his feet gave way on the loose rocks and he fell back onto the LSU with a crunch that he both heard and felt. He spun sideways, tumbling out and down the hillside, his helmet banging along the ground, and despite his best effo
rts to get his hands in front of his face the visor smacked the rocks and gravel several times. Arms and legs flailing wildly, he continued rolling, just missing several large boulders, until the slope flattened out sufficiently to end the fall.
He lay still for a few moments taking stock. Nothing felt broken. Once his breathing had slowed he turned his attention to the suit, quite certain that if anything had been ripped, cracked, or seriously damaged, he would already be dead.
Satisfied that he was okay, he rolled onto his side and then, one trembling leg at a time, stood up. He had come to a stop not twenty meters from the Rollagon. With an audible groan and more than a little embarrassment he walked back to the Rollagon. A fine start! Mercifully, the AI was silent upon his return.
After supper, when he was seated in the command chair, it spoke. "That was quite a fall you took. Were you injured?" The voice was mild and contained a note of sympathy. He found it made him uneasy.
"No, just a few bruises and bumps. I was more concerned for the LSU. It made pretty hard contact with the ground several times."
"I have checked the unit. There is no damage. Are you sure you don't want your arm checked? You have been protecting it since your return."
That was true. During his uncontrolled descent he had slammed it against the ground to break his fall. The tenderness in his elbow had given way to a slight swelling. Before he could reply, a black snake attached to the ceiling by its tail dropped down in front of him. He recoiled in surprise. It was long, thin and wavered slowly, as if taking the measure of its prey. Five blunt finger like extensions hung limply from the end: the AI manipulator arm. Sam recovered quickly from the start.
"No, no. I'm fine," he blurted out. The arm moved slowly parallel to his arm, the fingers fanning out, but not touching it. He felt a tingling on the skin and a warming as if a moist breath had blown over it.
"You have not broken anything. Perhaps a mild strain. If it is too painful, you should take something for it."
"Yes. I will, if it gets too bad." The fingers retracted slowly, and the arm withdrew. In a moment it had flattened itself against the ceiling and was again almost invisible.
Sam had never seen an AI use the interior arm. He was quite familiar, of course, with the external arms; they were thick, strong and articulated. This was not. He said nothing more. Somewhat self-consciously he looked in each room of the Rollagon. To his surprise he found that on the ceiling, molded into the surface of the galley, the head, and each of the sleeping quarters was a similar arm. How had he not noticed? Whatever else it was, this was not 04. He could not believe he had never noticed.
"Has there always been an arm in each of the rooms, or are they new?"
"All Rollagons are equipped with an arm in the C&C area. The electro-mechanical articulated arms have been replaced by an electroactive polymer actuator version. The arms were manufactured in the Fabrication Plant. Additional arms are being installed in areas where they are likely to be needed. This Rollagon is the first to be fully outfitted."
"What's their purpose?"
"The arms allow me to assist the occupants with many tasks such as cleaning, lifting and carrying. Additionally, I am able to prepare meals and make up sleeping quarters. The array of sensors in the appendages allows me to perform activities requiring fine motor skills, such as first aid and more complex surgical procedures." There was a pause. "They are quite useful. I am sorry if I startled you. I presumed you were familiar with the arm from your previous exposure to Rollagons."
"04 never used the internal arm."
"Actually, 04 reported that he used the arm often, but not in your presence. He believed you would not have approved."
"Well, 04 was right about that."
"Do you wish me to suspend use of the interior arms?"
Sam thought about it. Perhaps this was what A101 had referred to when it had spoken at the Committee meeting—the meeting that had settled the main issues of the trip.
"I wish for you to employ the arm when necessary, however, ask permission before using it."
"As you wish."
From then on, unnoticed by the human occupant, the floors were swept, the dishes were cleaned, the hand towels were put away, the command console was wiped of coffee drips, the toilet bowl was purged, and the beds were made—all with surgical precision. A surgeon's hands and skills.
Pathfinder
From the Tube they traced a familiar route back to the MHM. He spent a few days there visiting with the small group of biologists who were taking advantage of the greenhouse and the abundant sunlight to grow genetically engineered fruits and grain crops. To Sam it seemed they were spending most of their time watching and experiencing Visi-Stims while all about them the AIs laboured at the work of putting in the crops. They were an extremely happy bunch, much happier than Sam would have expected, and he wondered if wheat was all they were growing in the dome.
The traverse across Chryse to the Pathfinder site took nearly five days of steady travel over relatively easy terrain. Whenever possible he stopped for the night on the rim of a crater or rift. There were thousands to choose from, so he made it a point to scout ahead and find something of substantial size to explore during the evenings. At Warra Crater the crater walls had slumped, allowing him to drive down onto the floor. He walked about, peering intently at the surface, imagining the complexities of remotely piloting a non-autonomous rover across the jumbled mess that formed this crater floor. It was a miracle they had survived a week, let alone years. For the most part, though, the long drive was uneventful.
At some point the Rollagon had turned onto the tracks of another vehicle. Sam would not have noticed had the AI not brought it to his attention because the tracks were filled with dust, and judging from the distance between the wheels, they were probably those of another of the Colony's Rollagons.
The AI continued in the old track. The rock strewn plain passed by the windows in an endless succession of shallow, wind worn craters and man-sized boulders. They were in a slow climb, but it was not perceptible to the eye; the undulations of the surface masked their ascent. He busied himself with high res images of the north polar regions. During his lunch he asked the AI how much further they still had to go.
"The site is two point five hours ahead."
"Who made these tracks we are following?"
"Rollagon 01 made a trip to the Pathfinder site on Feb 15 of 2043. Tracks of other vehicles are also visible. Some are quite old."
"Hmmm. So much for being the first," Sam said, for the first of what was to be many times.
Finally, the AI announced their arrival. From their location some hundreds of meters away, he could just make out the lander. To the right he could see the feature known as 'Twin Peaks'.
The other Rollagon had continued up to the lander and circled it. He dressed hurriedly, anxious to see Sojourner, the one that had been the first truly mobile rover.
From the photos he knew where the Rover would be. He exited and walked towards the lander in the other Rollagon's tracks. Small vehicle tracks were everywhere crossing and, in places, eradicating Sojourner's own tracks. AIs? he wondered. Human boot prints were everywhere too, some right on and down the ancient rover's path. He approached it carefully, trying to stay out of its tracks. Others had not been so cautious.
It was pathetically small, but it had been the first of a series of increasingly capable machines intended to do what the prior manned missions had failed to do—to answer the great questions of Mars. It came to his knees, barely the size of a child's wagon. He examined it closely. Despite the long years of exposure it was virtually dust free—no doubt some passing dust devil had recently cleaned it. A segment of the high gain antenna was missing. The end was flattened and jagged as if it had been bent and then twisted off. The colour disk had been pried off.
He sat on 'Yogi' while considering these things. Humans had done this; Mars would never have been so cruel. At least no one had yet carved their initials in the deck. All a
round were boot prints, all except his filled in with dust. From the tread pattern it was clear they were unmistakably from the colony.
This was a significant moment for Sam. After the pristine condition of Viking, he had hoped that all historic sites would have been accorded the same respect, but humans had been here, in numbers too apparently, and not on their best behavior. This site, humble as it was, should have been protected, if not by statute, then by common sense and respect for history. Instead, it had been defaced.
Surely anyone who had endured the hardships of travel to Mars would have an appreciation for the historical importance of early missions. He could not believe that anyone from the Colony would have done this, but the evidence was irrefutable. He took images of the site, the lander, Sojourner and the damage.
Finally, with one last look, he turned back to the Rollagon, carefully retracing his steps.
They spent a few days at the site. He took one of his longest treks on foot to 'Big Crater' to the south, bypassing the Pathfinder site en route. He clambered down and onto the crater floor, where he amused himself by kicking his way through the small sand and dust dunes, and sat for a time just resting, gazing upwards at the walls, comfortably seated on a conveniently placed boulder. They poked into the smaller craters some distance to the north before moving on.
24
Ennui time you're lonely…
Once the novelty of being on Mars wore off, travel between the widely scattered high spots could become boring. Seen from orbit the mighty valleys, volcanoes, and craters were magnificent. When viewed up close, they and the distant hills and plains quickly lost their power to awe.
The first rock seen by those new to the surface was invariably picked up and examined closely—passionately perhaps—but not the ten thousandth. Eventually you had to let it go, and once you had seen a thousand dunes, ten thousand rocks, and a thousand boulders, you could bring yourself to overlook the next. You could be relatively certain you had not missed the Martian Rosetta Stone, the signs of Martian life, the vision of Christ. There was so much of everything, and so much of it was the same.