In those early days there was something moving around the Station wherever you looked. The same could not be said for the rest of the planet. There was nothing young on Mars and movement was rare, and usually, but not always, glacially slow.
The tectonic forces that had driven the geological evolution of the planet had stopped three billion years ago. Except for some sporadic and weak activity caused by the cooling and shrinking of the core, the planet was seismically dead. Enormous quantities of water and even the atmosphere itself had boiled off into space.
With the exception of a minuscule quantity of brine that remained in liquid form deep in the sub-surface and a trace in the whisper thin atmosphere, the remaining water was locked up in ice. Anywhere you went, anywhere you cared to look, you could see that the dominant forces at work were the endless cycle of thermal expansion and contraction and the sandpaper effect of the windblown sand. Sharp edges were soon worn down. One breath in and out per day, slowing in the long Martian winter.
Smells
There were some smells he never got used to.
The first was the all-pervading scent of fresh blood, the same scent that had puzzled him on his first day on Mars. Despite the passage of years it stayed with him, or at least he imagined it sufficiently well that it seemed to be omnipresent. Other odours came and went with the day's activities—cabbage, the sweet musty smell of an environmental suit, other people's body odour, overworked chemical toilets, flatulence—but for all of those, the dominant smell of Mars had for him become inseparably associated with blood. Few others let on that they were as aware as he, but all had at one time or another acknowledged its presence to him.
The second was shit. In the first years, a hint of human feces in the air of a habitation module meant a malfunction of the sanitary facilities and was a call to immediate action. Later, in the immense quarters in which they in time came to reside, the smell became associated with age and aging.
So, incredible as it may seem, even life on Mars was capable of settling down into a routine. People got up at the appointed hour, went to work, filed their reports, ate their meals, watched tri-vids or indulged in their personal form of escapism from the essential monotony of Station life.
Days passed uneventfully for most. Teams left to commence research at outlying posts, did their time and returned, to be replaced by others. AIs completed the installation of Station support systems, gas extraction plants, and communication facilities, and fabricated new vehicles. They came and went. New buildings, with functions unspecified dotted the landscape. Sam's dish, not required initially, began to show up on project management schedules.
He could see a date in the future when he would have a real job.
4
2300MST 14 February 2043
Impact
Later they said there had been a flash, but he never spoke to anyone who had seen it. He was in the dining hall having a late snack with a couple of the Russian hydroponists when the floor began to vibrate.
At first the movement was barely perceptible, but within a few seconds the decking and everything else was jumping. Some very long moments later the floor stopped shaking and, eerily, it seemed as if nothing had happened. Nothing was out of place.
They looked at each other in disbelief, but not fear. A strong quake on Mars? The relief was palpable. Someone remarked that at least the aresologists would be happy. Sam had been through a major quake in Alaska many years before and that was the nearest thing he could relate it to.
Then, without warning, there was a short, sharp shock—the short, sharp shock of a powerful seismic event, a building leveller, a pressure seal breaker. It was so abrupt that it seemed everything and everyone had leapt instantaneously up six centimeters, and then at once fallen back down. They held their breath waiting for the inevitable alarm. Nothing.
Their respite was brief. There was a loud boom, like a sonic boom, in fact, that was felt in the marrow, and as the sound diminished everyone got up, sandwiches and coffees forgotten, and headed out of the dining hall. Alarms or no, they were on the move. There weren't enough suits.
But nothing happened. No pressure loss alarms sounded. No reassuring PA announcement of cause and effect was made. He followed a growing group headed for Martian seismology to join a mob quickly forming around the cubicle that served the mission's three aresologists.
In the time it had taken them to get to the research area the Geo AI had determined the location and assigned a value. Someone called out: "8.3, epicentre 350 kilometers northwest, in Tempe Terra."
The hard facts were followed by a less professional but equally valid opinion: "Damn, that's a record—by a mile."
Someone else offered, "Probably a strike. Better get more data."
Sam heard the AI add tonelessly, "Approximately 50 tonnes, has struck at a steep angle. The debris field will fall primarily west of the strike. There is a less than 5% probability of any material landing in this area. All personnel should remain inside for the next eight hours, those outside must return to the MHM immediately. I will issue the alert." There were people outside?
Before anyone could relax, Sam heard the CAO say, "What about Lava 1?" Lava 1 was in Tempe Terra. It was inhabited, and it was close to the fall location.
"I have been in contact with the unit AI. They felt much the same magnitude shocks as we here at the MHM. They report no casualties and no damage. All are all present and accounted for. They are taking precautions, and will report further."
The CAO could suddenly be seen in the center of the mob. He put a cap on it. "Well people, it looks like we dodged another one," he said with a finality.
The crowd hesitated, and then began to slowly disassemble. People departed in small groups, many mumbling.
Sam went back to the dining hall alone and sat in the near dark to finish his snack. Everything looked fine. That done, he passed by the Aresology Department enroute to his sleeping quarters.
The CAO was bent over a terminal, hunting and pecking at the keyboard. Flanking him on both sides were Jackson and Caulders, both of whom were power generation types. The aresologists were nowhere to be seen.
The three were talking in hushed tones as Sam approached. Fenley saw him and stopped in mid-sentence. He looked at Sam, then to the two others in turn, "Looks like the plant is okay. That's a relief. Odd about the lack of alarms, though, isn't it?" Looking glum, Caulders nodded silently in agreement. Feeling distinctly an outsider, Sam continued to his quarters.
The CAO's pronouncement about their luck turned out to be premature. The next morning it was announced that three American engineers were dead. Their small rover had been thrown into a ravine by the seismic event. The bodies had been recovered overnight by an AI. The MHM population was stunned. Inevitable death was one thing, but accidental death always exacted a toll. A service was set for the second day after the incident.
Although he barely knew any of them, Sam attended, and as far as he could tell everyone else did too. The entire group crowded into the dining hall. Latecomers stood to the sides and rear. Of necessity, the shiny plastek coffins were stacked atop each other in the front of the chamber.
Several of the Colonists were lay clergy. Charles Gordon, a Christian lay minister, presided, and the service proceeded as these sorts of things did. A quartet composed of Fenley and several close friends lip-synched their way through a rendition of "People Get Ready" and the entire group stood, swayed, and sang "Amazing Grace." At the end, Fenley rose to speak.
Sam often tuned off-channel when the politicos spoke. He found their tendency to call those taken merely by bad luck 'heroes' distasteful. He rankled at the cheapening of the word, and he found Fenley particularly prone to this misuse. To his surprise, however, this time he found the CAO's plea for perseverance and renewed effort as good as any he had ever heard.
The service was brief and shed no new light on the events of the previous night. Sam remained in the dining hall afterward with Ross—he of multiple PhDs,
with a street-brawler's body, close shaved head, tattooed arms, and scarred knuckles. The Brit had been asleep when the impact had taken place and had only wakened when the sharpest jolt was felt.
"Damn near pitched me out of bed," he complained.
"Did you know any of them?"
"Not really. All Americans. Worked at the fission plant. Met them at indoctrination, but little since. You?"
"No, not at all. You know, I thought Fenley was surprisingly good though. Have to admit that. I think he said the right thing at the right time. Always a difficult thing to do."
"You think he made that stuff up right on the spot?"
"Well…he had a few minutes. All I'm saying is that he handled it well."
"That was Jones. Master of Communications to go along with the PhD in aresology."
"Go on."
"Yes. You watch. Everything will get the treatment. No bad news that might reflect poorly upon the corporate sponsorship. I'll bet they are being sold to the masses back home as martyrs to the cause."
"Jones? And others?"
"Probably a couple of others. It's not a secret, Sam. Read their bios on the Matrix. Yours says you have extensive experience in the harshest and most unforgiving environments on Earth."
"That's a load of BS. You just made that up." He paused, "Strange though, them being outside in the middle of the night."
"Why?"
"'Cause most people are afraid to go out during the day, let alone at night."
"Afraid? Well, not everyone has the luxury of AIs to do their work. Don't tell me you see another of your bloody conspiracies?" Ross and Sam had been down this road before. Sam was convinced that Ross thought him a bit of a nut.
"Of course not!" Sam paused, "But why didn't the AI know they were outside?"
"Wha?"
"Why didn't the AI know they were outside when it happened? They should know these things. They do know these things. And why on a rover? It's an easy walk to the power station. I've done it myself several times. And what's more, where the hell do they work at the plant? The AI told me it's unattended."
"I don't know. Maybe they were tired of walking." Ross collected his thoughts and then continued. "Of course there are people working at the power plant. I've seen them leave in the wee AM hours. Many times, in fact. Where in the hell else could they be going?" He shifted gears. "Someone is jerking your bling. Maybe the AIs aren't as smart as you think. Maybe they're only human and they forget things."
That drew a sardonic laugh from Sam, "Now you sound like me."
"Not bloody likely." Ross rose from his seat. "I lack your inclination to paint things with a brush dipped in conspiracy."
But there was something not right about the meteorite incident. It didn't add up. A request to use a Rollagon to go up to the site had been met with a resounding "No. Too many other pressing requirements and too few resources"—the usual bureaucratic explanation for this type of thing. Besides, he was reminded, the AIs had already looked it over. "Read the reports, the newsletters on the Matrix." It was the modern advice for everything that ailed you.
The following week it was announced in the MHM on-line paper that the remains had been buried in the hills west of the Station in a service attended only by the CAO and a few others—close friends of the deceased. In the same edition were hi-res photos of the new crater. A plain vanilla crater, it seemed to Sam, who by now had seen his share of them up close. It had been decided to name it after the three dead Americans. He noted with interest that the signs of a fresh disturbance—rough edges, blood red soil—were already gone. Jesus. There were mini-dunes on the crater floor already.
He had edoc'd the head of Aresology requesting inclusion in the team he assumed would be travelling to the site. The reply advised that as a site survey had already been conducted by AIs, the human POV was considered unnecessary. The reply directed him to a Matrix page summarizing the findings.
Ross, as usual, was reluctant to find fault with the situation. "The AIs are far more effective and thorough than a bunch of doddering old folks looking in from the edge, with their butts comfy in a Rollagon," he had replied.
Sam had to agree with Ross's argument, but he found himself unable reconcile the apparent lack of desire to see things for oneself with the spirit of exploration that he believed had brought them on this long journey.
Item from the humour section of the Station newspaper attributed to a writer identified only by the initials 'KV.'
The New York News reports that despite persistent rumors to the contrary, there is absolutely no truth to claims that ninety-nine per cent of the Mars Colonists were given amnesia upon arriving on Mars, their memories cleaned out by mental-health experts, and radio antennas installed in their skulls by Martian surgeons in order that they might be radio-controlled.
In slavish adherence to the reporting principles of its founder, the News informs the public that these operations took place on Earth prior to the mission's departure.
5
March 2043
Walkabout
On a walking trip around the Station Sam came upon several of those otherwise unremarkable outbuildings whose functions were essential to the colony.
The materials plant was located out in the same area as the fission plant and, like it, except for an access portal, was entirely buried beneath the surface. The Matrix had informed him that the plant could create any element of the Periodic Table below Iron. It required only a small quantity of the desired element to "seed" the process, a sufficient supply of mass and enormous amounts of electrical energy. He was aware that the technology existed, but was unaware that it was being used on Mars. It was to Sam another indicator of the commitment of the Sponsors to the permanence of the colony.
The process had been developed on Earth in the 20's, but it was not in widespread use. On Earth, recycling and a still relatively abundant supply of raw materials for existing mining and refining technologies made the process uneconomical. On metal-poor Mars the lack of sizable and readily accessible ore bodies, and the complexities of establishing a Martian mining, refining, and transportation system had apparently made it cost effective.
In his discussion with the AI in charge Sam found that the largest quantities of elemental material being produced were of hydrogen, carbon, and chlorine—the primary components of plastek, the miracle substance that had replaced virtually all other materials in construction and fabrication, and which, in addition, was a highly effective radiation shield.
The AI observed (Sam was sure he had detected a haughty sniff) that although the plant had been intended to be operated only on an as-required basis, the volume of work was currently such that it was yet to have a moment's respite. While in operation it consumed 80% of the capacity of the power plant.
As he had found at the power plant, there was little to see. The AI halted the tour at a sealed door. The real workings of the plant which contained the magnetic field that channeled the plasma were not accessible to humans. Sam wished to avoid the awkward moment he had felt with the fission plant AI. "Well, I suppose that's it then," he said. "Thank you for your time and consideration."
"You are quite welcome, Doctor Aiken. It has been my pleasure to serve."
The other building he encountered was the fabrication plant. It too was manned by AIs, but at least the working parts of this facility could be seen. Sam was led proudly by the only mobile AI in sight through a long assembly line production facility.
The building was divided into two parts: manufacturing and assembly. The AI explained that given the materials in raw form, the appropriate programming instructions, and sufficient time, the plant could manufacture anything in use at the colony. His curiosity was aroused by the AI's use of the word 'anything.' To show interest, Sam tried to come up with something challenging.
"Can the plant make Rollagon wheels?"
The AI explained that as the wheels were composed of many small pieces that were assembled into one large piece, it would
simply be necessary to make the small pieces separately and assemble them into a complete wheel. If necessary, the pieces could be shipped to a Rollagon in need anywhere on Mars and assembled by the vehicle itself.
"Can you manufacture an AI?" he asked.
"We can manufacture all current models of planetary rovers, Rollagons, domestic service and special purpose machines. Of course, the rate of production is low, but the plant never stops." The AI went on, "We will soon begin manufacturing new models of planetary rovers that are faster, more rugged and more mobile than the tracked and wheeled versions currently in use."
Sam tried to get back on point, "Does that include the AI portion? Say, the carapace?"
The AI uncharacteristically hesitated a few seconds, then replied. "The carapace is an extremely complex processing unit. An additional supply was provided as spares to make up any losses due to accidents and for installation in the higher functioning machines to be produced by the plant."
"Are all carapaces of the same capability?"
"All carapaces are of the same potential, but are instructed according to purpose. That is except for the D100. They are much smaller in every respect. Their tasks do not require much in the way of intellect. They are slightly more intelligent than the typical canine."
"What will we do when we run out of carapaces?"
There was a long pause.
"I am only authorized to advise that it is planned for this plant to acquire the ability to replicate sufficient carapaces for all future machines, when the requirement arises. I suggest that you direct further queries regarding these matters to the Chief Administrative Officer."
The moment passed with an awkward silence. Sam had been referred by AIs to Fenley before. It seemed they had all been programmed to defer to the CAO whenever they were asked questions beyond the scope of their knowledge. He let the matter drop.