The tour continued. The line they were now viewing was manufacturing what looked like fine wire mesh in long narrow rolls. At an unremarkable metal box the mesh entered one side, and exited the other embedded in a satiny black rubber-like material. The process was repeated at another similar box farther down the line.
As they neared the end of one of the rows, Sam recognized the finished product as the manipulator arms that were very quickly replacing mechanical arms in virtually all applications. The AI confirmed his assumption. Sam looked at the AI's own arms, currently held in the rest position.
"Are you getting outfitted with the new arms?"
Sam was startled by a surprisingly quick display of controlled but violent motion as the AI extended both arms to their full extent at the front and swung them over its top to the rear. It then slowly retracted them.
"I do not think so. The arms I have are quite suited to my purposes. The new arms are remarkable, but they are not for everyone."
Having arrived at the end of the line, Sam thanked the AI and let himself out. Without any doubt the technology being employed here under the control of AIs had greatly surpassed anything he had expected. He returned to the Hab with a newfound respect for the capabilities of the AIs, and in particular for the programmers and engineers who had created these machines.
He also had a new sense of the extent of the commitment of the Sponsors to the colony. He wondered what tune the piper would call in return.
April 2043
Life Goes On
There were but three options for getting about on the surface: walking, rovers, and Rollagons.
Walking satisfied several of Sam's needs. It allowed him to explore the outbuildings of the Station and as he gained more confidence, to venture into the surrounding terrain, albeit as drab and ultimately uninteresting as he came to find it.
His first trips on foot were slow, not only because he was still becoming accustomed to the use of the suit, but because he was constantly stopping to pick up unusual rocks and pebbles. He invariably arrived back at the MHM laden with these treasures, storage pouches and pockets bulging. So, apparently, did others. There was a small but growing pile of Martian collectibles near the main airlock door. After a few trips outside most walkers generally abandoned this practice.
The rovers were small four-wheeled vehicles that were little more than oversize ATVs. The Station had six, and they were constantly on the go. The two riders sat in an open cockpit exposed to the elements, and at any speed above ten kilometers per hour seatbelts were required to keep the occupants from being pitched out. Methane and O2 powered, they were suitable for distances of up to thirty kilometers, however they could not handle rough terrain and were thus limited to the flat areas immediately around the Station. They had the additional drawback of throwing up clouds of dust as they drove. Still, they had their place, and some of the higher ranking colonists considered them to be their personal vehicles.
His progression from rover to Rollagon was swift. He had walked everywhere that he possibly could and had seen enough of the local terrain to overcome his preoccupation with the ground at his feet. It was clear that while the rovers were fine for getting to the horizon, serious travel was going to require the use of a Rollagon. And serious travel was what Sam wanted to do.
The introduction to the Rollagon on Earth had been brief, and since they were too underpowered and fragile for operation in Earth's gravity, no one had actually driven one except in simulation. The performance capabilities, which far surpassed that of previous Martian vehicles, had been well documented by the manufacturer but were largely unproven in the field. A few hours in a simulator on Earth had not prepared Sam for the experience of driving one on Mars.
He had been told during indoctrination that the Rollagon could relieve him of the tedium of driving and had a hard time believing that boredom could become a factor. He did have, however, another more immediate concern than any potential ennui: Sam was not an enthusiastic proponent of automated systems in any critical application, and particularly not of those that might get him killed through some dull or slavish adherence to operating commands and parameters written by someone who, in the end, didn't have to depend upon them for their continued existence. He was reluctant to surrender control of any process to an AI, particularly one whom he did not know.
Given the curt and negative reply to his request for a Rollagon to visit the new crater he assumed that high value resources such as Rollagons would be meted out using the same system used for allocating office space—according to need and rank. He was therefore surprised when his edoc to the DO requesting the use of one Rollagon for training purposes was given a quick and an informal reply: "Have away." Go figure, jerk!
His first driving experience took place on a quiet Sunday afternoon. He suited and went outside. The Station's four Rollagons were parked in a neat row beside the MHM. He circled them, giving them the once over. None of the Rollagons had moved for several days, possibly longer. The tracks of earlier trips, while easily discernible, were filled in with fine dust.
Physically they resembled two fat sausage links mounted on eight four-meter diameter wheels. The tops and sides bristled with multi-band antennas and sensors. A meter wide deck ran around the middle of each segment. Attached to the deck rails were storage racks and cylindrical tanks of various types and sizes.
Affixed to the deck at the front and exposed to all of Mars was an austere flying bridge with a backless chair, a steering tiller, and operating pedals. At the rear and midpoint on each side were mounted powerful manipulator arms. The A-frame of a Ground Penetrating Radar system—or "GPR," as it was known—was installed at the mid-point of the front module.
He stopped in front of the access portal of 04 and activated the door. It swung open and a set of stairs unfolded. They led to a combined air lock and decontamination room. Sam activated the controls and turned around slowly to expose himself to the blasts of CO2. The LSU impeded his every move. He tried to imagine two persons trying to get in or out in a hurry. It was not very reassuring. He flexed each joint, stomped his feet, and ran a gloved finger down each of the zipper flaps. The blasting stopped and the room pressurized.
When the lamp turned green, he removed his suit and hung it carefully on the rack provided, stowing the helmet in the small locker labelled 'Commander.' The door opened onto a narrow hallway leading forward and aft. The air smelled of pine scent and fresh blood. He turned right, towards the rear. Leave the best for last, hopefully, he thought.
He entered the Science Section through the short flex section that linked the two halves. Apart from the narrow hallway, there was scarcely room for a person to stand. People were obviously an afterthought.
A small fold-down table and seat were built into a nook in the wall. Above the table were visual displays and readouts, all currently dark and inactive, the purpose of which Sam could only guess at. He pulled the chair out from under the table and sat down.
Leaning back, he rested his head against the wall behind. It was difficult to imagine how one could work for any period of time here, particularly while underway. Harness straps affixed to the chair reinforced that assessment. The remaining space was crammed from floor to curved ceiling with racks of blank-panelled equipment. At the end of the hallway was a flat plastek wall with an improbably small door labelled with radiation hazard stickers—shielding for the fission power plant, no doubt.
There was not much else to see. He got up, pushed the chair under the table and went forward into the Habitation and Command Module.
The hallway opened into a combined galley and living space. Two love seats, a coffee table, and a single chair gave intimate seating for five. Their bright colours seemed out of place in the otherwise gray interior. This was human space.
Somewhere, he assumed, there must be a shower and toilet facilities. Sleeping quarters for four persons were provided, two as upper berths. Here, as in the Habs, it was assumed that the occupants would sleep
in shifts. The lower two were obviously intended for the Rollagon's crew, or VIPs—they had doors. Sam explored them both.
The outboard room was slightly larger and had a full length window. The inside room had two blank walls. Sam immediately selected the outer as his personal quarters, a custom he was to maintain henceforth, regardless of which of the machines he was in. The bed, with folded sheets and duvet and a fluffy pillow was narrow and inviting. He lay down.
Above his face a blank-faced monitor reflected his image. It was comfortable. It was more spacious than anything he had endured since their arrival. It was private and at least for now, it seemed, it was his. Reluctantly, he got up and returned to the task of exploring the Rollagon.
The clear plastek bubble gave a 270 degree view of the surrounding area, the surface immediately below, and the two front wheels. Within the bubble were a pair of Captain's chairs, equipped with restraining harnesses. Two sets of brake pedals, accelerators, and a tiller allowed control from either of the chairs. Sam sat on the left side and felt the chair meld itself to his body. It too was comfy.
There were no display screens as such; a HUD projected information onto the bubble. The words of the standard AI greeting 'How may I be of service?' floated in the air, backdropped by the reddish mound of dirt that covered the MHM.
He swiveled the chair around and looked back into the room. After the cramped confines of the MHM this space seemed enormous. Looking up, he noticed a scaled down version of the standard AI manipulator arm running fore and aft.
Still seated in the command chair he flipped through the pages of the Operator's Manual projected onto the bubble until he found the section he was looking for—Operating Instructions. Page one was brief and concise. In large block letters it advised the driver: "Simply speak the words and the vehicle will respond promptly to your commands."
So, the primary HMI mode was voice activated. The Rollagon could also employ a simple Point and Drive in which the operator had to reach out and touch HUD images. On the arm of the chair was embedded a keyboard. Sam began there, unwilling to surrender to the AI just yet.
He tried a few simple commands. With the current settings the vehicle was limited to providing audible advisories through the usual warning beeps and farts. He moved the gear selector to reverse. Immediately a view of the area to the rear appeared, sharing the screen with the forward view. He pressed gently on the accelerator. Nothing happened.
Somewhat sheepishly he looked about and, finding the parking brake, he released it. He tried again. Soundlessly, smoothly, the vehicle began to back away slowly from the MHM. He tried the brakes and it slowed smoothly to a stop. 'Jack-knifing is a hazard when backing in manual mode' flashed on the window.
The steering tiller was similar to the golf cart style of the rovers and presented no mystery. He backed up until he was clear of the others, mindful not to jack-knife the Science Section, moved the gear selector to forward, turned the tiller, and pressed on the accelerator. The vehicle began to gather speed. He turned the tiller back slightly to keep within the tracks ahead. It was responsive and light to the touch. So far, so good.
He continued down the track that led past the fabrication plant and stopped at the end of the road. He contemplated driving off into the boonies, but decided to keep to the beaten track—at least until he was certain of his own capabilities.
He spent the remainder of the day driving within the confines of the Station. At sunset he returned 04 to the same space it had occupied at the MHM. He suited and exited, and then he walked around the vehicle, examining the mesh of the wheels and the underside. Despite the slow speeds, every inch was covered with dust. As there was nothing he could do about that, he turned and entered the MHM air lock to decontaminate. He was immensely pleased with himself and already planning his next adventure.
Over the next few weeks he took several trips around the Station, and then finally, in a moment of extreme courage, he left the road and widened the radius of his travel until he was several kilometers away and out of sight.
Following some deep score marks in the regolith he came by accident upon the lander. The modules in which they had spent those first few disoriented hours, days, or was it weeks, he wondered, were gone. Too valuable to be abandoned, they had been skidded away.
He circled the lander. It seemed too small to have borne them all to the surface. What fate awaited it? It could, he supposed, be refueled and used to return to the Orbiter, but then what? There was no possibility of return to Earth. Probably the lander too would be converted into something else of use to the Colony. He circled it again, and then started back to the MHM in a reflective mood.
The trips were becoming routine. Not boring, just routine, he told himself. On those first tentative trips he had stopped to suit up and peer into every crater and boulder of significant size, but soon he learned to overcome petty temptations, in part because of the insufficient reward for the effort required. Too many, too much, the same!
Upon his returns no one challenged his right or justification, not even an edoc asked what he was doing. This, given the swift and negative reaction to his request to visit the Barrow-Neilson-Nelson Crater, seemed odd. Out of a minor feeling of guilt he discussed it with Ross.
"But that's what they're there for, man! Have away. Besides, the AIs know where you are and what you're doing. Others are doing it, too. Don't you ever talk to your roomie, Carruthers?"
Sam had, but Carruthers's brusque manner and taunting humor had put him off. All of their conversations ended abruptly.
"Canadian, eh? Hey, Huang, know what the national sport of Canada is? Treading water! It took them a hundred years to agree on the words to their national anthem and ninety-eight to choose a goddamn flag! An American jumps out of a burning plane, falls ten thousand feet, and lands on a Canadian. The Canadian's last words before he dies are to apologize. Hello, goodbye!"
Crunchy, crackling, peppery words, Sam thought.
The Lone Rangers
Unable to contribute to most of the other disciplines and not yet needed for his own, Sam and a number of others in the same situation—including the annoying Carruthers—found themselves serving as taxi drivers. It was no great sacrifice; indeed, they felt privileged.
Sam was glad of it for several reasons. One: it got him out of the house, so to speak, and two: when he was not required to perform a specific mission it allowed him the freedom to travel at will, unencumbered by things like schedules and destinations.
Thus far in his jaunts around the Station he had given into his prejudices and left the controls in terse conversation mode with Point and Drive enabled. It wasn't until his first extended trip that, perhaps becoming a little complacent, he fully explored the command capabilities of the Rollagon AI. While travelling across the flat plains of Chryse, he played with the lower level menus.
A whole range of voice inflections was available, from the Warning, Warning, style of Robbie the Robot, to a fair attempt at Majel Barrett's mildly-neutered female voice from the timeless Star Trek saga, to familiar voices one might hear on the streets of any village in any land. It was only later, after he had driven all of the Rollagons, that he discovered that there was always one that seemed unforced—call it natural—for each machine, some male, others female, all non-artificial and all disconcertingly human.
One Sunday morning, after driving for several hours, he decided his time would be better spent reviewing the data for the target area than in driving and so he turned the task over to the Rollagon. It continued to pick its way across the cobble-strewn plain under the control of the AI. Curious, and maybe a bit cautious, he called up the charts of the terrain in front to see what route the AI was following.
It was essentially straight. There was nothing of potential danger and even less of potential interest for the next twenty-five kilometers, but without the reassurance gained from his review of the charts he would not have trusted the AI for more than a few minutes. It had increased to a slightly grea
ter speed than he had used but there was no real change in the movement of the Rollagon. He began to relax, and he gripped the arms of the chair less tightly.
A speed of thirty kilometers per hour could easily be maintained on the relatively flat terrain around the Station and at that rate the motion was not uncomfortable. He found he was able to read and even prepare a simple meal without becoming ill. At anything faster than that, or on rougher ground, the motion became unpredictable and the vehicle was sometimes on the verge of becoming airborne.
Upon his return he filed what he considered to be a comprehensive report on the performance of the vehicle. He discussed it over dinner with Ross, who was his usual mocking self. "So you've found your true calling?"
Sam ignored the bait. "It's quite easy. You should join me sometime. I think you'd enjoy it."
"Perhaps I will. But not yet. Too busy."
"Well, maybe you're afraid."
"No, I'm just too busy. You should try work sometime. It will make an honest man out of you."
***
His first extended solo trip was to be into the barrens of Chryse Planitia to the north-east, and he planned for five full days of travel. With the others so immersed in their work a trip such as this seemed somewhat self-indulgent and for a brief moment he considered calling it off. Instead, he let it be known that he was going and welcomed others. There were no takers. Undaunted, he rationalized that someone had to drive and if it was to be him he owed it to his passengers to become as proficient as possible. Besides, he concluded, any opportunity to escape from the Station was not to be passed up over feelings of mere guilt.
The Rollagon trundled down the road past the power and fabrication plants. At the end of the worn path it turned without changing speed onto the course that Sam had programmed. He watched intently from the command seat. The AI picked its way around small obstructions, choosing the smoothest path for the current speed. The meter and a half ground clearance and huge tires made it unnecessary to drive around most of the rocks that peppered the landscape or the smallest of the dust filled craters. When it saw something ahead large enough to strike the undercarriage it altered course without slowing.