The helmet seemed too insubstantial for the task and, oddly, it appeared to have no seal. He dropped it over his head and heard a slight hiss. Fully two thirds of it was transparent. The faceplate had the usual HUD. The word "Initializing" was projected onto the visor. He saw his vitals displayed. In a moment the word "Ready" appeared. There was no hiss of air. Suddenly conscious that he had to pee, he wondered about bodily functions. He should have asked more questions.
"How do you pee?"
"You just do it. The suit will take care of it."
Sam had a vision of standing in a cold, wet suit and decided to leave that experiment until it was unavoidable.
"What's the temperature outside?"
"Minus 65C."
"Well, is it ready?"
"Apparently so."
"I think I'll go for a short stroll and try this out."
He moved into the air lock and ran the decompression cycle. "So far, so good." The door opened and he stepped gingerly onto the surface, finding that the lack of substance inspired no confidence. He could feel the individual pebbles through the material on the soles of his feet, but amazingly, there was no sensation of cold—not on his feet, nor anywhere, for that matter. He looked down and could see his feet; the outline of his individual toes was visible. He took a few tentative steps. It was like nothing he could have imagined—the material moved without restricting him. He walked away from the Rollagon. In his ear he heard the AI, "Well, how does it feel?"
"It's like wearing nothing—lightweight, flexible and no sensation of cold. It's amazing." He continued walking away from the Rollagon. It was effortless. On impulse he increased his stride until he was bounding from step to step. The lack of a bulky and heavy LSU allowed him to move easily and freed him from the necessity of considering every step.
"Follow me," he called to the Rollagon. "I think I could do this forever." And so he continued his leaping across the terrain towards the crater. It was as he had seen in vids of astronauts on the Moon: the appearance of effortless bounds. Except that his strides were effortless and his landings made in full confidence. He went on so for a half hour and still the suit had not warned him; his stats were only slightly elevated.
The AI broke into his reverie. "I have been reviewing the documentation. The material can assist your muscles if necessary. This a great leap forward. You must be pleased!"
"Yes, this is fantastic, and there is no sweat running down my face." He stopped, turned and waited, expecting the rapid onset of cold to which the old suits had been particularly susceptible. Nothing happened. He waited until the Rollagon caught up to him and re-boarded. In the decontamination room he looked at his feet and legs. There was no sign of dust. Despite that, he decontaminated as per usual and stripped off. The suit was dry inside. He hung it in a locker. His skin was covered in myriad fine lines that matched the pattern of the suit. By the time he dressed they had faded.
That night he sent a cryptically worded message to Ross, in kind with his hand written note: "The new shoes fit well and give no blisters. Many thanks for your thinking of me. Regards, Sam." And then he had the AI call up B203 and thanked him in person.
It Could be Worse
Holden Crater may have held great appeal to two generations of aresologists, but to Sam it seemed like every other he had seen—full of debris and much, much too large to appreciate from within. If nothing else though, it had the potential to be another extravagant photo op for those back in the Tube. The sunrise and sunset across the crater as seen from the southern rim were spectacular, but that, he had learned long ago, could be said of a lot of sunrises and sunsets on Mars. They entered through the smashed and chaotic ravines of Uzboi Valles.
On the morning of a day that was like so many others the Rollagon picked its way cautiously over the edge and proceeded down onto the crater floor. They drove to and around the famed multi-layered sedimentary buttes that still satisfied all theorist's dreams for their creation and halted for the night just to the south of the central mount.
Atypically, Sam did not go out for his evening walk. He sat in the command chair, feet on the console, watching the last rays of the setting sun disappear from the peaks, deep in thought. Head held rigid, he kept his eyes fixed on the scene before him in a constant, unblinking stare, until the colours faded to grey. By this quirk of human vision, he could see nothing in his visual field that did not move. He held the image for a full five minutes and saw nothing. He was lonely, he knew, and that always led to depression. And depression led to doubt, and then, unless he rallied, rebuke from the voices.
He had never liked dealing with Fenley. Now, he was beginning to see that behind the enthusiastic rah-rah support was little more than the fawning encouragement of a carnival barker. He had been played; he was still being played. That was bad, but worse was how he had let his conceit blind him to what was actually happening.
Christ! If they were going to fake it, fake this whole Martian thing, then why not fake it all? Why should he even be out here? Why not build a sound stage on Earth—why not fake the whole thing with Visi-Stim. There had to be more to it.
Undoubtedly it had something to do with the conversation in the Tube, the one in which he had struck a deal. The CAO had wanted him out of the way and now he had been gone for three years. Well, it had worked. That he was being used to provide entertainment for those back on Earth was secondary. He had been too busy and too out of it to think about the goings on at the Tube. He spent a restless night and awoke with a headache—a thing from which he seldom suffered.
The next morning, at his urging, they crossed the dune field and ascended the northern slope of Holden. They sat on the edge of a nameless and ancient outflow channel for several days while Sam planned the next step, or at least pretended to. He walked along the scalloped edge and when he was out of sight of the Rollagon, he idled away the time by tossing rocks onto the slope far below—a blasphemy for sure.
Underhand. Sidearm. Overhand.
The new envirosuit was a marvel. It was lightweight, flexible, and impervious to temperatures. He was able to throw rocks without fear of falling. Had they had this even five years ago many more Colonists would undoubtedly have spent time on the surface. It could have changed their fate. But it was too late, much too late. He propped himself up against a conveniently placed boulder and dozed.
He dreamed of a sandy beach. It was late summer, yet still the sun's rays were warm in a cloudless sky. A scented breeze blew through the poplars, rustling the leaves noisily. Small waves lapped at the shore. Lying on his towel he found the air still and the sun hot enough to raise a sweat. Sitting up brought him into the breeze. It was much cooler just above the surface. One side of his body was warm, the other uncomfortably cool as the sweat evaporated. A bronzed girl wearing Wayfarers moved through his field of view. A herring gull landed near him and occupied itself first in looking about and then in a close examination of its feet. He rose to go wading, but somewhere close by a wind chime tinkled rhythmically in a familiar pattern, diverting him from the water. He awoke to the sound of a communications alarm. Urgent news had been received from the Tube.
Later he stood in front of the Rollagon. The sun was setting to his right, but it would be light for hours. It was almost a kilometer to the crater floor below. He was safe this close, the AI had made sure of that. Besides, he was tethered.
He was again tossing small rocks over the edge. Underhand seemed to get the most height and overhand the longest distance, but even his best sidearm attempt failed to deliver a hint of a curve. The suit helped, but nothing could overcome the rarefied air.
He watched them fall until they went out of sight, but he was thinking about the crisis at the Tube half a planet away. He should return, he knew, but by which way, and when? It would take months to complete the trip over the unfamiliar ground ahead. He looked for a smooth rock.
The news was bad. The DO had reported in a muted voice that a fatal sickness was spreading through the Colony an
d that many of the Colonists were dead already. He had anxiously scanned the list of the deceased, fearful of finding Ross or Mei-Ling. The people from Lava 1 were gone—Doctor Yang, and the others—gone as if erased. He recognised the names of course, but he could not put faces to all of them.
He put in a call to Ross, fearful of what he was about to hear, and Ross came on vid immediately from the kitchen of his home. Mei-Ling was not there.
Ross's face wore a look Sam had never seen—the look of a desperate man. He quickly brought Sam up to speed. The symptoms were similar to poisoning: fever, hair loss, vomiting, shedding of skin, rapid onset of collapse of the body's systems, liver and kidneys especially, degraded mental capacity, delirium, death. It had started at Lava 1, then appeared at the Tube a day later despite there having been no personnel swaps. So far, in two days, forty-three had died. The doctors, human and AI, were baffled. Isolation protocols had apparently succeeded in limiting the spread. There had been no new cases.
"What do you think?"
Ross glanced away for a moment as if distracted by someone or thing not visible to Sam, then back. His voice was tinged with emotion and his face drawn. "I'm no MD, neither am I a pathologist, and I don't have a lot of faith in Cheoy's medical skills. A fat lot of good a bagful of hospital administrators are at this point, and of course, when Fenley the CAO gets here, everybody's going to jump for joy. He's issued some very reassuring press releases, though. Thank God the AIs appear to be on top of it."
"Is it infectious?"
"If it is, we're fucked. Except for you. Stay away Sam, at least until we get this sorted out. I'll text you something later today. Meantime, you should take your sweet time getting here. Maybe you should just stay away."
Ross's text message was brief. It consisted of three files, each a list of Colonists' names under three different dates. Each was named GAAP 2035-B. That was it. It seemed obvious what Ross wanted him to do. Not trusting the AI, Sam cross-referenced each list against the list of the deceased. The names matched. The dead were all from the first list. The dates were five weeks apart. He felt sick. In a few short weeks, if they did not find the cause and cure, they would all be dead. Ross and Mei-Ling were on the third list. He scanned the lists for his own name and felt a curious sense of relief and despair.
He did what he always did at times like this; he suited and went outside to think.
He tossed a heavy boulder over the edge and watched it bounce in slow motion until it was lost in the curve of the slope, then tossed another. The thought of being caught on video seemed unimportant. Who cared? Who would ever care?
He sat down and considered the options. He sat until it was too dark to see the valley floor below. He stood up and stretched. It was decided. He would go back, and by the shortest route.
He stood on the rocky edge of the crater, toes almost in free space. Nothing he could do would make the least bit of difference, but he would go back. It was the right thing to do. He scuffed the dirt over the edge with his right foot. He balanced on one leg and placed the other out front.
35
August 2048
Returns
From past experience the trip up across the Margaritifer Terra region from Holden could have been done in sixty days without breaking a sweat. Instead it was one of headlong sprints and fitful days of zero progress.
Sam was torn between rushing back to the Tube to assist in some unimaginable way and heeding Ross's advice for self-preservation. As expected, it made no difference—at the predicted time list two was dead. Moore was gone. So were many others. Dead.
Over the vid Ross railed of conspiracies—that the AIs claimed to be stumped but had a cure and were making a power play, but late night cryptic text messages soon gave way to daytime plain-text confessions, in which he revealed the truth: an experimental DNA reset was at cause.
GAAP, they called it. It had been innocuous enough—reset the critical genes to halt the aging process—but something had gone wrong, obviously. Seven persons had refused the GAAP and had no symptoms. Somberly, Ross confided to Sam that for Mei-Ling and him, their day was coming. They had marked it on a calendar the way one marked birthdays, anniversaries, holidays—with a red circle. He reaffirmed that there was nothing Sam could do. Sam wanted to tell them not to give up, but he could see in their eyes that they were well past hope.
"I'm glad you're not here to see this, Sam. Some people are not taking this well."
British understatement provided small relief to the guilt Sam felt. He could not be there for them, it was too far and he had left it too late, but they had one request of him.
They held hands across the table as Ross revealed their plan. They would not wait for the inevitable. They would choose the means and the time and place of their own end. Sam formed the proper words in his mind, but could not speak them. Head down, with tear-filled eyes he agreed to their request to see that they were buried together.
They spent some time talking about the past—their shared past, precious little that there had been—of Dmitri, the despised Fenley, of flowers and vodka, of love and hate and aging. Finally, Ross's tired and haggard face filled the screen, "There is something more, Sam, something you need to know. It's waiting for you here. Fenley was right when he said that he was doing you a favour by keeping some things from you. By the time you know the whole story we'll be long gone and you'll hate me. I'm not sure you're as lucky as you might think."
That said, Ross and Mei-Ling ended this as they had so many conversations: they told him to take care. Mei-Ling waved goodbye and left the room. Ross's face again filled the screen as he told Sam again, for a final time, "Trust no one, man. See you on the dark side." Then the channel went dead. Sam held his face in his hands. He remained still for some long moments.
He did something next that he hated to do under any circumstances: he called Fenley.
The CAO came on-line immediately. His face showed surprise, then a wry smile. It was obvious that he was expecting someone else. "We'll, I guess you heard, he said. His voice was full of contempt.
"Yes, Ross has told me all about it. What are you doing about it?"
"All that can be done. Let me rephrase. All that should be done. The AIs think they're on to something, but it might not help. It might not be in time to help, anyway. That's c'est la vie. If I were you I'd hang back for a while and see how it plays out. You may turn out to be the last man standing after all. A dream come true! Or you can come in and join the rest of us. Better hurry, though!"
"Why David? Why? For a few more years of life? For some more days cooped up in that hole, playing shuffleboard, smoking dope and doing porn?"
"Get real, Aiken. Living here the rest of my days doesn't appeal to me any more than it does you. I have other plans."
"What the fuck are you talking about? It's a bit late to play the religion card, isn't it? Life eternal on Mars doesn't seem a better sell than it did on Earth. Or did you pass on the procedure?" Sam paused, feeling suddenly enlightened. "You did, didn't you?"
"Is that what you think? Man, you are in for a surprise. You are such an eternal twit. A fucking Martian handyman. I can't imagine what they saw in you to let you come along for the ride. You've missed the point, again, just like you always do. You and your holy grail of pure science, off exploring Mars like some fucking 19th century fop, looking down on the poor working slobs. We are here to build a Colony, Sam. Nothing has changed. One way or another, one form or another, we are here to produce results, results that will make this whole charade worthwhile. One day you'll wake up and see it for what it is. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you kept the fuck quiet. This is difficult enough without you stirring things up. Don't go calling Earth and spreading some fantastic conspiracy story or before you know it you'll end up buried on the hill with the rest of them, and you'll be out of options. Hear, me? You hear me? Now get out of my face, Aiken."
Bitter, sour, salty words.
"You fucking pencil pusher!" Sam screamed
, but Fenley was gone. He sat looking at the blank screen until all images had faded.
"Well now," he said to the air. Fenley had either not taken the procedure or was somehow immune. Fenley and likely a select few. Jones, certainly. Who else? Moore? Who knew? Was it some kind of power play? But why? He was already running things. Ross and Mei-Ling had seemed genuinely distressed, had seemed truly saddened by it all. And how could he ever come to hate Ross, his only friend? What else could he have meant? A power play, while things were crashing down around the Colonists, based on things no one could control or influence? It was too much to take in.
Bitter, sour, salty words. Pickles.
What a difference a few weeks could make. Now, here, sitting in the Rollagon so close and yet so far from the Tube, the things that had made leaving and the slowness of his return justifiable seemed insufficient. His friends, the only ones he had on Mars, were about to die and there was nothing he could do to prevent it or to ease their pain.
Add to that Fenley's personal anger, directed towards him. Why such anger at a time when he should have been concerned with things less trifling than personal invective? It didn't make sense.
The voices re-played the scenario over and over again from different views, in different voices. In no version did he meet with understanding. Finally, to silence them, he donned the suit and went outside.
He walked a short distance from the Rollagon and sat on a convenient boulder, legs crossed at the knees. How many times had he done this, this act of fleeing, of seeking sanctuary? He must have sat on half the rocks on Mars.
Tonight the voices were more persistent and they followed him into the darkness. He waved an arm and brushed them aside. He looked at the sky and picked out the constellations. Jupiter hung low in the west, a dull leaden star. The Milky Way was a silver cloud stretching across the sky. He picked up a handful of pebbles and tossed them from hand to hand. With each toss the number of pebbles decreased, until there was just one. The voices were stilled. He tossed the last into the darkness and went inside to try and sleep.