At last those who wished to do so were permitted some local sightseeing. Following refresher training on the use of the pressure suits and safety protocols they were allowed out with strict instructions to remain together and within sight of the MHM.
The Station was located on a featureless piece of Chryse Planitia, a flat, dusty desert, red and reddish, peppered with small rocks and mini-dunes. In reality, being outside offered little more view of the planet than could be seen from the observation window and "getting out of sight" of the MHM was beyond the ability of most. It mattered little. Their attention soon turned from the horizon to the ground in front of them.
Sam watched with interest as the first few bobbled awkwardly about on the surface. Each group acted in the same way. Initially they were fully erect, moving together in a herd from place to place under the direction of a more experienced tutor, but soon they separated and could be seen bent over, pecking and poking at the ground like a flock of grotesque chickens. It was a picture worth taking: there, under the immense tan and pink sky, white specks were intently examining their own footsteps while all around was Mars.
On the first of his own hikes around the Station Sam too had wandered, at first with a purpose, but eventually, that purpose forgotten, he had moved aimlessly, shuffling from spot to spot, head down, studying the ground intently, stooping awkwardly in the bulky suit and finally on all fours, poking at the sand with a gloved finger and picking up small rocks and pebbles that caught his eye. He kept all of them in the small collection basket slung from his waist and then, as it filled, discarded the less interesting for new ones. A day at the beach.
It was not long before those whose work did not require them to go outside ceased to do so. It was a relief from the crowded and oppressive confines of the Station, but not enough. The physical effort required and the accompanying risks overcame mere curiosity, for walking on Mars was not fun.
Many advances in suit design over the years had made them lighter, more flexible and more user friendly, but for most of the Colonists, even those who still retained their Earthly musculature, the suits were still too bulky and stiff—and heavy. A lot of that mass was positioned well above the waist, and if through inattention things got moving in the wrong direction there was a fair to certain probability of toppling over. Sam had seen more than a few people leaning too far forward, feet flailing, dirt flying in all directions as they tried to get their legs back under them. Everyone soon had a horror story of falling and being unable to get up.
The helmet visor restricted sight to the sides, and up and down. It was useless to turn your head in the helmet, the range of motion was very small. To see your feet you had to bend at the waist, and seeing your feet could be very important.
The footing was often difficult. Out on the flats the going was okay, but when it got interesting, such as on rocky slopes or in the shaded valleys—when you really wanted or needed to look down—the restricted view made every step an adventure. It took practice, as well as a certain degree of faith. The worst was the sand dunes. On Earth, walking uphill on sand was usually a two step forward, half a step back exercise. On the same gradient on Mars it became a two for one, and sometimes less. Sometimes, as Sam had discovered on his first foray, the easiest way was simply to crawl on all fours.
Venturing outside meant inevitable exposure to dust—it was everywhere, it got into everything, and it was a major problem to remove. It was a peculiar dust that, despite repeated brushing and blasting with CO2 to clear joints and crevices, could still be loosened by the undoing of a zipper. A poor job rewarded the inattentive with a hacking and persistent cough if they were lucky, and a condition resembling pneumonia requiring bed rest if they were not.
In year three they solved the problem once and for all, in a fashion that previous explorers could never have employed—washing. Upon entry to the MHM decontamination chamber, the occupants were sprayed with plain water. Often, the dust reacted with the water, releasing bubbles of gas in brief explosions, and then it was over—a quick rinse and out. The water was recycled, the gases were vented, and eventually the dust was unceremoniously returned to the Martian surface as a brick of reddish clay.
Finally, the urge to explore on foot passed largely because, at least for the area immediately surrounding the Station, one patch of red dirt looked pretty much the same as the next. After several trips about the Station on foot, most ceased to venture outside unless it was truly necessary, and were content to leave external work to the AIs.
Then too, there were the distractions available to all affluent societies—booze, drugs, gambling and sex. Whatever it looked like on the surface, the colony was no better, no worse than any other society; there were neither saints nor innocents, and age did not purify.
Extract from the personal log of S Aiken:
Current Location (common name): First Station
Latitude/Longitude:
Date/Time of Departure: 0115 MCT June 34, 2041
Destination: local area
Time/Date of Arrival: 0300 MCT June 34, 2041
Distance Traveled: .7 km
Great Circle Distance: N/A
Points of Interest: Nil
Comments: Today was my first opportunity to go out onto the surface in an envirosuit and explore the local area. The suits are heavy and stiff, but the deficiencies can be overlooked as the surface is fascinating. It is composed of a platy crust covered with fine red dust. They are many, many small rocks, and large boulders (ejecta?) are scattered everywhere. The large ones make convenient places to sit. I note that the suits are too bulky to allow one to cross one's legs when sitting, except at the feet.
You've Got Mail…
In time communication with Earth became very good, apart from when it was impossible. Relay satellites in orbit around Mars and the Sun ensured that a path to Earth existed except when transient planetary alignments got in the way. Unlike previous exploratory missions, they were never truly out of touch. After all, this was the age of miracles and wonders and there was adequate bandwidth for both official traffic and personal communications via voice and edoc on a full-time basis.
"You have 437, 203 edocs. Would you like me to categorize them?"
"Yes, please do."
"401,566 are from children of school age seeking advice and information for school projects. 33,107 are from undergraduates seeking advice and information for school projects. Twelve hundred and thirty-seven are from persons currently incarcerated seeking pen pals. Seven hundred are from credit card companies offering you term insurance at no cost for the first three months. Five hundred and sixteen are from communications carriers offering to switch your service at unbelievably low rates for the first three months. Forty-seven are from persons indicating a desire to marry and/or otherwise bear your children."
"How many are females?"
"37."
"Ask the females for pictures. Continue."
"Seventeen are from family members seeking personal discussion. Two are from your estate lawyers. CAO Fenley wishes to dine with you tonight. Ross wants to know if you have any pure grain alcohol left for cleaning lenses. He needs it before twenty hundred hours this evening."
"Accept the offers of term insurance, then cancel them all at the end of the free period. Send the usual replies to all but my family, the CAO and Ross. Tell Fenley no, not tonight, and tell Ross to go to hell."
Streaming video was rarely used. It demanded a lot of bandwidth only to provide a brief flurry of activity interspersed with long periods of embarrassed waiting. The problem was a transmission delay that varied from three to twenty minutes and could take up to forty minutes for a round trip. The mind could wander a long way in that time.
Edoc with video clips was the preferred method of almost all personal communication. Initially, Sam kept in touch with his daughter on a weekly basis. There was no shortage of faces in those early images from Earth. The children still found the novelty of having a grandfather on Mars to be of inter
est. Sam had been the subject of many of their school projects, but every conversation with the children ended in the same painful question, "when are you coming home, Grampa?"
To that question there was no satisfactory answer.
***
Despite the high ideals of scientific inquiry, everyone knew who was paying the tab for this lark and the presence of corporate logos on the coffee cups, dinner plates, walls, tables, and vehicle doors had to be accepted as part of the cost. A continuous storyline was being assembled and sent back to Earth to be shown on nightly news shows and TV features.
The cameras were everywhere, recording the comings and goings of the rovers, the rising and setting of the sun, the diners at their evening meal, the passage of personnel down a hall. The past thirty years had seen surveillance of public spaces become so commonplace that it was best to assume that everything and everywhere was under continuous watch.
These were not bulky cameras projecting from ceilings and walls, mind you. They were not whirring cameras hiding behind black plastic domes. These cameras were built into the walls, doors, and table legs. Since you never knew if and when you were being watched, you soon ceased to care about it.
If asked—and it was considered impolite to do so—most expressed a feeling of comfort knowing that someone, or even just some thing, was watching. Some colonists—certainly the Brits, Russians and Americans—had lived in this state of undisguised surveillance since the turn of the century and took comfort in it. Officially, sleeping quarters and lavatories were exempt, but no one believed it.
Late at night, if one were very quiet and attentive, and sufficiently motivated, and if the thumps, bumps, bangs, and whines of the fans and blowers that moved the air through the nooks and crannies of the MHM to sustain their lives could be ignored for the moment, one could just make out the ambient music—music that had a far greater place in their lives than most were willing to acknowledge. It was so faint as to be barely audible, but the mood of the listener was subtly altered by the whispered multilingual subliminal messages embedded in the electronic covers of familiar tunes, and this, like the surveillance cameras, was seen by most as a good thing. After all, it was reasoned, if one was in a sound, unaltered state of mind, and if one was lifted from a foul state, only good could come of it. Besides, while the music was omnipresent, listening was not compulsory.
The best and most widely implemented defence was to inoculate oneself with a personal player of music, video, or some other stimulation. Most had availed themselves of this indulgence. Hard core gaming and music enthusiasts of sufficient means (and there were many in our select group) had cochlear implants to obviate the need for earpieces. Once connected, it was said, one never wanted to be without it.
3
December 2042
A Self-guided Walking Tour of the Station
Once he got the hang of it and could handle moving on the surface well enough to avoid being a hazard to himself, he quite enjoyed walking about. Whenever he had free time he would wander the area around the Station on foot, poking into things and taking images of the Station and its supporting infrastructure juxtaposed against the Martian sky and plain.
Despite the risks and annoyances, there was something wondrous and exciting about the uncertainty of what he might find at each step. As it was almost a given that every meter of the ground was unexplored by humans, he knew that, at the very least, no living eyes had ever seen what he was seeing. He gradually expanded the radii of his walks until he was at the limits of the Station.
Beyond the tank farm and down into a slight depression that put it out of sight of the MHM was the Hybrid-FF power plant. There wasn't much to see. Except for the cooling fins and a massive black plastek shield all of it was underground.
On a Sunday morning walkabout he stopped near the small building that gave access to the complex. Surprisingly, the door was not an airlock. Surely the building was not unpressurized? He pushed the access door open and entered. Lights came on instantly.
He found himself in a small anteroom. Directly ahead a shallow ramp led down into the darkness. To his left in the wall were two doors with small porthole windows. He noted the absence of dust and became aware of his own dusty condition. Sure enough, the left hand door provided access to a cleaning room. As soon as the door closed behind him, jets of gas blasted him from head to foot with sufficient force to rock him on his feet. A few moments after the blasting ended, the second door opened.
He descended the ramp but before he had gotten very far his way was barred by an A-type unit with its front articulated arms held crossed in the rest position. He saw that it was mounted on smaller than usual wheels. Through his suit commer the AI greeted him with the standard salutation, "How may I be of service?"
The lack of an obvious center of intelligence was disconcerting; one did not know where to look when addressing these things. He thought about ignoring the AI, but considering that he had no valid reason beyond curiosity for being there, he felt it best to reply honestly. "I am curious as to the function of this building."
The AI replied obliquely that there were few visitors to the facility. Not put off, Sam asked for a guided tour. The AI paused for what seemed an extraordinary period time before replying. He would be shown around, but only to areas safe for humans.
They descended past another level before entering a darkened corridor. The lights came on as they proceeded down its length. A large plastek door of substantial thickness was at the end. The AI paused at the door and waited silently. Sam grew impatient, "Aren't you going to open the door?"
"No. Radiation levels are too high beyond this door for humans. You would die within a few minutes after only the briefest of exposures."
"Where are the human operators?"
"There are none."
"Where is the control panel, the monitors, the control room?"
"I serve all of those functions."
"You serve all of those functions? Are there other AIs?"
"Yes, there are two AIs, modified C-types, in the reactor room, but other than us there is no one else."
"So is that the tour?"
"Yes, all other areas are too dangerous to visit."
Sam was perplexed. The Power Plant was essential to their existence and there were no humans present. "Surely the plant is monitored by someone at the Station."
"Perhaps, but I am not aware of anyone who monitors continuously. Of course, the Senior Engineer receives reports on a daily basis."
"What if there is an emergency?"
"Oh sir! There can be no emergencies."
Sam thought about the pithiness of that statement. Of course, there could be no emergencies. If the plant blew, it would take the Station with it. It would be a merciful death compared to waiting for O2 and food to be exhausted while the bitter cold crept in.
Apparently they were finished. He thanked the AI and returned to the surface.
Strange, he thought, how dependent they were upon the AIs for their existence. They did everything from the simple task of setting the menu for the dining hall to controlling the fission plant. Life support systems controlled by AIs ensured that the shelter environment was kept safe. They tended the hydroponics gardens where fresh vegetables and grains were raised under the Martian sky and stirred the unseen vats where proteins self-assembled into slabs of chicken, beef and pork. Other systems monitored the Sun for activity, maintained communications with Earth and the outlying Stations, sampled the Martian atmosphere, dug the holes at research sites, and conducted scientific research. Each morning, department heads found summaries of the previous day's work waiting for them on their screens.
Before any Colonists had set foot on Mars AI-operated construction machines had dug the trenches, erected the MHM, assembled the power plant and connected it all. That task done, they had been disassembled and reformed into new machines for new purposes. Mobility, adaptability and precision replaced brute strength. Their direct descendants could be seen in the
compact maintenance units, with their multitude of articulated arms, that day and night scurried about constructing roads, erecting outbuildings, and performing routine upkeep tasks. If you were careless enough to get in their way they stopped what they were doing to wait, silent and motionless until you passed, before resuming their work.
The colony was comprised of two solitudes: one of flesh and blood that seldom ventured outside, and one of plastek and steel that for the most part never came in.
Like its human counterpart, this society of machines had a hierarchy. At the top were the A-types that roamed the facility and controlled the most complex systems. At the bottom were the tiny, mouse-like Ds who swept the floors of the Habs. Within the first year they reportedly outnumbered the Colonists nearly two to one.
Sam had little to do with AIs. One day at dinner he asked the Senior Systems Engineer how they communicated.
"Each is pretty well autonomous. For most tasks we just tell them what we want. If we need a new storage tank built, I just say to the nearest A-type, 'Erect a thousand litre chlorine tank at the South Camp,' and soon a group of them will be hard at it."
When had this great leap forward happened, he wondered, and why hadn't he known?
Extract from the personal log of S Aiken:
Current Location (common name): First Station
Latitude/Longitude:
Date/Time of Departure: 1800 MCT December 11, 2041
Destination: local area
Time/Date of Arrival: 2100 MCT December 11, 2041
Distance Travelled: 1.3 km
Great Circle Distance: N/A
Points of Interest: Nil
Comments: While walking about the Station, dropped in on the Power Plant. Was given a tour of the plant by the Artificial Intelligence unit in charge. Due to the high radiation levels there are no humans at the plant itself. Am looking forward to getting out to the other support facilities. I resolve to take every opportunity to walk about. It is a great relief from the confines of the MHM. The lack of privacy is making things very difficult for everyone.