He looked up through the mist-clouded visor in hope of seeing the top, but the landform above was blocked from view by the slope. The route, superimposed on his visor, led off at an angle to the left.
For another hour or so he again saw little more than the rock in front of his face. Finally, exhausted, breathless and perspiring profusely from every pore on his body, he lay down to rest. He could feel the sweat cooling between his shoulder blades.
He rolled onto his side, then sat up, feet downslope, and looked around. To the east across the dusty, pockmarked plain he could make out the stark line of the Cliff, and to the west, the City, both named from their appearance in the grainy images of Viking I.
From here, in this light, they were laid bare, stripped of their magic. Words from somewhere, imagined by another in another time and place came to him: "The lone and level sands stretched far away."
Urged on by the chill he continued. As the theorists had long declared, the Face was a clearly a mesa eroded by wind, the constant scrubbing of the sand and anciently, a freeze and thaw cycle that had shattered rock and given shape to the very slopes. To his uneducated eye this was true Martian bedrock, a bedrock that at some far future time would meet the plains, themselves rising from below. The slope was now more gradual and he knew that the summit was near.
Exhausted by the effort, he reached a point that, while not the highest point of land in sight, was at least a local high spot. It was otherwise unremarkable: crumbled rock, polished ejecta, and, in every sheltered place, dust. He was by all indications 650 meters above his starting place. It had taken four hours, twenty minutes of hard and at times dangerous climbing. To the north he could see a peak, other rounded knolls, and a rocky ridge running almost north-south.
He called up the Sat photos and superimposed his MGPS position onto the display. He was further west than he would have guessed, but still, he had placed himself on the 'chin' of the Face. It was an historic moment. He knew the helmet cam was getting it, complete with curses, gasps of pain and panting breath, but there was no substitute for the human eye.
He looked around at the panorama. He looked towards the sun, and Earthward too, and remembered having clearly seen a human face in the blurry Viking orbiter photos, and later, in the starkly clear MGS images, a less mysterious, silvery mesa.
It occurred to him that he knew exactly where he was right now. Well not exactly, but certainly with a precision of a meter or so. Anyone on Earth who looked at the Face would see him. He searched the available dubs to see if a satellite was in position. There was none and would not be for several hours. He couldn't afford to wait.
Hurriedly, he gathered rocks, and fully aware of his blasphemy, built a small inukshuk about waist high. It was proof that he had been here, and anyone who followed would know that another had been too, but it was all déjà vu.
He had once built a similar structure on an ancient sea-cliff south of Inuvik. Then, as now, as he walked away, he looked back, expecting to see it outlined against the sky, but it could not be seen from more than few dozen meters—he had set it too far back from the edge. A real inukshuk stood out against the sky, was a giver of direction and, sometimes, comfort. He was tempted to rebuild it much larger, but time and consumables waited for no man. He left it as it was.
That done, he considered the return trip. They had determined that he could have a better time of it by traversing across the chin to the east. It was as steep but the footing appeared to be better for his descent. In the end it was tough going in places and without the highly detailed maps he would have been forced to retrace his steps many times.
Going downhill was less strenuous, but the visibility was poorer and it was harder on his legs. Several times he fell on the loose scree and slid down on his butt, accompanied by the faint clatter of falling rocks and a cloud of dust. He arrived at the bottom dirty, pooped-out, with knees and back aching, but pleased with himself and proud of his sins.
Short on O2, he summoned the Rollagon to meet him where he sat resting. The sight of it coming around the base of the Face was one he would not soon forget. He slept well that night and no dreams haunted his sleep.
27
Maybe it's All Right After All
The next day they drove a few kilometers east to the City, parking in the empty square. He looked up the fabled avenues and down the streets that were mere ruts in an otherwise pulverized surface. Dozing in the sunlight streaming in through the window, he pondered what might have been.
They'd had such hopes: a Mars with water tumbling and flowing in blue streams across golden sands bordered by lush vegetation; of towered villages wherein resided lithe, beautiful creatures who masked themselves to conceal or project their emotions.
He looked, but saw no natives cautiously crossing the streets, mindful of the time, ducking at the mid point. No moons passed swiftly through the city, zipping through the low buildings with their accommodating round holes.
Later, he moved north across town to where the City met the dune sea. He had waited for this moment all his life. There was something in the air, but it was a cold wind, bearing a dry abrasive dust that satisfied no dreams. He looked, but found no sand ships waiting at ancient docks, tugging at their lines in the freshening breeze. Just dust, eroded hills, rounded rocks, and more dust.
He waited a day, then two, then reluctantly another. He waited for the magic, but no lights moved through the ruins, no empty marble village sang to him in a strange tongue, warmed him on its hearth, or bathed him in precious water drawn from its very self. And no miraculous conversion of matter and mind could change him into something that revelled in the clogging dust, that embraced the cold, thin winds, which drank the frozen crystals that passed for the water of life and which basked contentedly in the wan and hopeless sun. The City was cold, empty and quiet.
Perhaps, he thought, looking at the emptiness, it was just him. Perhaps this was a projection of his mind, a reflection of this time, of this culture that made him see what he saw here and now.
And then, perhaps not. That night he dreamt of sad things, of endings and of poor beginnings.
***
Passing the Face, he travelled to the base of the Cliff. Without the imaging enhancements of the IR photos it looked like countless other scarfs—a fracture, raised to prominence by the subsidence of the surrounding surface, and blessed with a favorable shadow line. There were no telltale tracks where Spender might have taken refuge while waiting to come down that first night to kill his shipmates as they partied drunkenly by the canal. There were no canals of clear water; no marble pillars, no plazas, empty or otherwise. Some things, it seemed, had never been.
He left that place strangely saddened. The AI was silent throughout.
***
Several weeks later, during one of Sam's calls, Ross mentioned that the colony vid of the climb of the Face on Mars had been shown globally to a large audience and to wide acclaim.
"I suppose Fenley carried the whole goddam group to the top under his arm?"
"Not quite. I believe you have a small part in the production. Did you really slide down that hill on your ass just for fun?"
"Not bloody likely."
"Well, I did corner him one day and ask why they kept dropping others into your scenes."
"And?"
"He said they were concerned that the public would see one man trips as reckless and put pressure on the Sponsors."
"Ha! He worried about that, but he sure as hell isn't worried about me."
"D'oh."
Sam watched it that night in his cabin with the door closed. The vid opened with a voiceover giving the background as the controversial Viking picture was slowly transformed into a high res image of the Face taken from orbit under the same lighting conditions. The science was sketchy. Only a bare minimum had been inserted to ensure no one was scared away.
Then, there was the Rollagon, parked, pointed uphill at the base of the slope. As in the other vids of his treks h
e was not alone; there were two other suited figures, one of which was Fenley. The climb sequences were essentially factual and made no attempt to minimize the effort or danger. After all, in retrospect, he had to admit it had been dangerous. The incident in which the suit had intervened was used to show how the General Environments spacesuit had enforced safety protocols.
Sam had expected the inukshuk to be there and was therefore not surprised to see it. However, in the Colony's version, it had been built by the combined efforts of the three and was enormous. They had taken the helmet cam shot when he had looked back and enhanced the image to make it stand out against the backdrop of Cydonia. In reality this was an impossible shot, but in fact, as he watched the vid play, it was hard to tell what he knew to be real from what was fake.
They played up the minor inconvenience of running low on O2 into a major crisis. By now he had come to expect such histrionics. Fenley's voice-over narration grated on him—and there really was a scene of him sliding down the scree on his butt, accompanied by music more suitable to a circus sideshow.
The final sequence showed the three strolling up to the Rollagon arm in arm. He turned off the screen and then the room lights.
That they continued to do this upset him; there was something fundamentally wrong with the very act of fabricating anything purporting to be science, but he had to admit that it was good imagery and maybe good drama, too.
Maybe, it occurred to him, what he was doing wasn't science, either. The voices seized upon this thought and gave him a rough ride until he finally fell asleep.
28
February 2047
Back in the Tube
As agreed, after four months of travel Sam returned for a review of the mission's progress with the Science Committee. To prevent any surprise, while still a day out, he had taken the precaution of having the Rollagon run a self-diagnostic. There had been nothing of interest or concern. The AI had seemed somewhat miffed at the suggestion that something could be happening without it knowing.
"You need not concern yourself with these matters. I am fully aware of the condition of the Rollagon and I would have advised you of any performance deficiencies."
"Well, I'm the one going in front of the committee and I need to be sure. All I need is to look unprepared and they could put an end to the whole thing."
"I have already filed a status report with the Science Committee. They are aware of the Rollagon's condition, of the locations that have been visited, and of the science that has been conducted in each case."
Sam started to speak but stopped mid-syllable. He knew better than to get into an argument with someone upon whom his life depended, and so he let the matter drop. The AI was undoubtedly correct. In any event, the state of the Rollagon would not likely be a factor. He should have known that they would be watching.
They arrived about mid-day. Sam parked in the Adit and went immediately to his apartment, intending to hide out until the appointed hour, but there was nothing in the refrigerator. Driven by hunger he strolled down to the assembly area where he hoped meals were still being served to those who were unwilling or unable to prepare their own.
He met no one in the street. There were the usual numbers in the lounge chairs at the waterfall—two were asleep, another was obviously engaged in a Visi-Stim and several were passing around a joint. They waved at him as he passed.
During his absence a number of empty spaces between the rows of apartments had been filled in. In one, where there had been only bare plastek there was now a patio complete with marble walkways, flowerbeds, bushes, and overhanging trees. Curious, he followed the walkway and came quickly upon a small, low ceilinged building, constructed entirely of a dark stained wood. The door was open and a faint light shone within.
He walked up the steps and entered a foyer. It was unfurnished. The walls, floor, and ceiling carried the illusion of teak construction to the point of apparent reality. He could hear voices from the adjoining room. Entering a smoke-filled darkness he found himself in the company of three men and two women. They stopped talking as he entered. One of the men was seated with his back to Sam. He turned.
It was Ross. His face broke into a toothy grin. He rose unsteadily and grabbed Sam in a bear hug.
"What, not dead yet?" He released him and turned to the others. "I knew him, Yen. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy." The moment was lost on the others.
"Come and join us, Sam. Doctor Seto was just telling us of the history of the original of this particular hut. It is a reconstruction in the fashion of a late 19th century Java hut. Did you know that there are none left on Earth? Evidently they were all sold off stick by stick to collectors or burned when the owners decided to move into condos."
Sam was struck speechless. He had not been prepared to meet people—particularly people who were so completely preoccupied with themselves. They had obviously been drinking, or at least Ross had. Several empty bottles of wine and half filled glasses were on the table. He recognised the smell of cannabis. "No, I can't stay. I'm on my way to meet with the Science Committee."
Ross was suddenly sober. He led Sam by the arm away from the others. "The word on the street is that they have bigger fish to fry. Don't do anything to antagonize them. Everyone enjoyed your reports on the Viking and Pathfinder landers. Good video on the Face, too. Good narrative. Good ratings. Good for you. Keep your bloody mouth shut."
Sam looked at him quizzically. "But I never sent any reports. I have them with me." He held up his PDA.
Ross grinned broadly. "It's those damned AIs. Trust no one, man, trust no one. How many times have I told you? You'd better get yourself moving. Drop by my place when you get done."
"Will do."
What, he wondered, should he make of Ross's comment about the report and video? It implied a presumption on the part of the AI that he would never have suspected. He too, though, had bigger fish to fry.
He arrived at the administration building and made his way to the meeting room. The door was open. Looking in he saw the members of the committee seated around the table. Sotheby saw him, raised his hand in greeting, and gestured that Sam should wait. He took a seat just outside the door.
He could not quite make out what they were saying, but he was certain he heard Yang's distinctive voice. From its rise and fall he could tell that the discussion was heated.
The voices from the room fell away suddenly, until there remained only one. The voice was unmistakable—A101 was speaking. He strained to listen, but he caught only the phrase "…this discussion is over." The room was silent. A few moments later Sotheby came out and gestured for him to follow.
As far as he could determine all of the members he had briefed previously were present. Their faces gave no hint of the gravity of whatever issue they had been dealing with. Without delay or formality Sotheby invited Sam to present his briefing. He began with a projection of the route he had taken, showing the locations he had visited.
If they were aware of the reports Ross had mentioned, they did not let on. Tables showing daily average speed, Rollagon consumables and daily mission status evoked no response from the members except for a few politely nodded heads. Only the photos of the Viking and Pathfinder sites evoked any interest. All of the members were able to recall the landings, and it was apparent from the interest shown that they felt some connection. His suggestion that these sites were historic memorials and worthy of preservation was well received, and a promise to study the issue was made. All in all it was disappointingly anticlimactic.
When it was finished Sotheby thanked him mildly and asked the committee for comments. There were none. Out of politeness, Sotheby made a point to thank Sam for the high quality of his video and first person reports from the field. He encouraged him to continue to "put a human face on the exploration of Mars." The others mumbled concurrence. Then it was over.
Sam heard himself thank the committee for the confidence and trust they had placed in him to successfully undertak
e the mission and expressed a commitment to meet the committee's goals. No one followed him out, no one shook his hand, and no one patted him on the back. He was halfway through the door when he heard the voice of A101.
"Our faith in Doctor Aiken has been well rewarded. He and the AI will do the colony proud. Thank you, Doctor Aiken, for your commitment and sacrifice. May you and your companion have a safe and productive journey."
Sam turned back to respond. He looked, but he could not read the faces of the human members. For lack of any other option he addressed his comments to the box on the table.
"Thank you. We will do our best." He turned abruptly and walked out, but his relief was short lived. He met Fenley on his way down the boulevard and he had no doubt that it was not an accident.
"Sam, it's good to see you, and particularly good to see you in one piece. How goes your dangerous but apparently irresistible pastime? When are you setting off again?"
"Tomorrow. Early tomorrow."
"Can we have coffee?" Fenley led him to a table in an alcove. He could not refuse.
They sat alone, attended by an E-type. Sam felt a moment of déjà vu. The last time they had met had been eerily similar and a day of reckoning.
"How is the trip going?" They made idle chit-chat until, as Sam suspected, the CAO was ready to move to the root cause of their meeting.
"I have heard that the Science Committee has approved the continuation of the trip. While I don't share their particular motives and enthusiasm, I see the value in such an exercise. It hopefully will generate public interest, sympathy, and financial support for the colony."
"Yes. I understand I've inadvertently provided a few newsworthy moments. For God's sake, David, I hope that the trip will be presented as more than a convenient source of vid bites for the viewing audience. There is a serious side, a scientific basis to the travel—to all surface travel."
"Yeah, sure." Fenley paused, looking at his cup. "You were in the military Sam, for a good long time, and an officer, at that. There must be something you've done that was edgy, something to be ashamed of."