Sorry about the very sudden arrival. I'd thought about explaining things in space; detail, detail, detail, reconfiguration, etc. the decided to cut to the chase. Thanks, as always, for the kind reviews. The input very much matters.
41
Mars Base-
First order of business, secure the lander, reestablish uplink with the orbital portion of Endurance, and scan their immediate surroundings. Data was sent and retrieved to and from Houston, JPL and the Goddard Spaceflight Center, establishing that ship and crew were in good shape, and that they'd hit their target.
There wasn't time for much converse with their families, but Pete gave the media a few quick sound bites, and bid his wife and daughter a sign language 'hello', which twenty minutes later they tearfully, happily returned. Then, when the public cameras were off, the crew held a brief 'consult' on the flight deck.
Light, not cold stars or ruddy planet-glow, but the real, diffused gleam of a wintery day, filled the cabin for the first time in over a month. It felt wonderful.
"Okay," Pete told John, Roger, Linda and Cho, as the lot of them struggled to deal with renewed gravity, "New flight rules: we're on another world, and it's exciting as hell, but we've got a job to do, all of us. Pretty soon, we're going to be headed outside to recover supplies, start construction and begin experimenting. The temptation to wander off track... Take that extra step, look around the corner, see what's under the big rock... is going to be enormous. On me, too."
And he smiled, as if to say that being the mission commander didn't make him Iron Man.
"But, first and foremost, people: stick to the plan. Every day, from now until lift-off, is scheduled out the ass. We don't deviate, except in case of emergency, and even then, ask me first. When in doubt, or out of communication, follow standing orders. Got it?"
There were four general nods of assent.
"Good. As established, should anything happen to me, Doctor Bennett is in command. And if things go so bad that you've lost us both, you kids are under Houston, but I expect you to be polite, and play nice."
McCord paused, as though expecting someone to crack wise, but the general mood was one of awe, and eagerness to begin. Once more, everyone nodded.
"Okay, then. The first walk-about takes place in three hours, to replace batteries on the probes, collect samples, and image the ship's exterior. That'll be at approximately... 1600, local time. We've been allotted two hours to get all this done, but I mean to finish faster."
Growing more philosophical, the commander said, quietly,
"This is a first, Folks. You're in the history books, now. So, let's do this right."
Pete then rose, not too shakily, thanks to time on the shipboard treadmill and exercise bike, and began issuing orders.
"Dr. Kim, get your lab prepped for level 4 containment. Dr. Bennett, stand by with the medical equipment, and be prepared for anything. Thorpe, you've got two jobs; unpack the rover and power suits, and get the dirt-side habitation module ready for inflation. Tracy, suit up. You're with me."
(Partly, this was because John simply hadn't any other mission specialty, but mostly, McCord was still thinking about publicity, and the 'family angle'.)
For the surface of Mars, the explorers would wear black-and-yellow 'hard suits'. These weren't the old, bulky inflatables, but a newer model, providing full atmospheric pressure, warmth and oxygen through tight, shape-memory linings, and compressed-air tanks. Proven versatile in many situations, the suits were relatively light, and flexible enough to run in. Tough to put on, though. Even with assistance, you couldn't correctly don one of the things in less than thirty minutes.
As John was getting up from the pilot's seat, he noticed Dr. Bennett watching him narrowly. Not that she seemed angry, or... Well, he didn't think she did. The intentions of other people were sometimes a little obscure. He said, keeping a hand on the back of the chair for support,
"Doctor, about leaving the medlab early... I meant no disrespect. All I wanted was to do my job. No hard feelings, I hope."
In space, she'd been able to float at eye-level while speaking with him. On Mars, once more under the iron hand of gravity, John was struck anew by how short and slight she seemed. Before Linda could respond, he added,
"Also... I don't remember much about what went on when I was being medicated, but I do know that 'under the influence', I can sometimes be sort of a jackass. Sorry..., if I said anything stupid."
To his surprise, Bennett smiled.
"Sunshine," she said, reaching over to pat his arm, "I'm thirty-nine years old, and I was an Air Force nurse, before going to med school. I've dealt with my share of drunk pilots. No hard feelings. I'm just trying to decide if you're in any shape to handle the stress of Pete's little excursion. Well?"
John glanced aside, seeing through the window a beautiful, achingly empty red desert. Even if he had to crawl...!
"I can do it. I'm fine, Doctor."
Two people looked through Linda's brown eyes, then; the worried physician, and the fond comrade.
"John, are you sure? If you collapse out there..."
But, he pushed impatiently at the pale hair which fell into his blue-violet eyes, saying,
"I won't. Not until we're back in the airlock, anyway. And then, you and Pete can take turns beating the shit out of me, for lying."
Linda chuckled, and shook her head.
"How do they stand you, at home?"
He shrugged.
"I go away, a lot. I've come to the conclusion that, with me, less is definitely more."
The doctor snorted lightly, then got back to business.
"Okay, you're cleared. Take care out there; listen to Pete, and if you feel yourself starting to weaken, don't try to be a tough guy. Head back to the ship, immediately. All right?"
He thought of something, then. Wasn't certain whether or not it was appropriate, but went ahead and acted on impulse, anyway. Reaching out, he clasped her shoulder, and said,
"I will. Thank you."
Linda pulled away, though, her smile faltering somewhat. Out of bounds, apparently.
Closing up again, John made a mental note to keep future interactions on a strictly professional level, and went off to 'suit up'.
Later, in the sealed airlock, he and Pete examined each other's equipment, checking helmet fittings, backpacks, antenna and seams, for possible trouble. Everything looked good, though. Their suits, the flag and plaque; everything.
Before he signaled 'ready', the mission commander looked at John, and said,
"You know, Tracy, I was all set to create a big PR moment and let you go first, but now I'm having second thoughts. Want to flip a coin for it?"
(He'd actually brought one along, in his equipment belt. It was to be used at the next Super Bowl coin toss.)
Shrugging inside his suit, John replied,
"It's a ramp, Pete. We could be really avant garde, match steps, and hit the ground together. That way the media's still impressed, and I get out of having to say something 'meaningful'. Right now, all I can think of is 'Mars needs women'."
"Know something, Tracy?" McCord grinned, "For a genius, you can be pretty damned sensible. Let's do it."
So that's what happened. After conditions in the airlock had been equalized to planetary normal (sub- sub- Everest low pressure, and flesh-cracking cold), Roger Thorpe gave them a final wave, then triggered the 'hatch open' sequence.
Three separate latches clicked over, the mechanized dogging wheel issued its fretful, mosquito-like whine, and then a tiny hatch-side light blinked on, green as everything they'd left behind. Pete put a hand to the portal and shoved it open, then stood there, blinking in sunlight, and lost for words.
They'd meant to go out together, and the historical footage later showed that they had, but at the time, Pete McCord and John Tracy were too busy looking around to pay much attention to who set what down, in which order.
It was, first of all, big, with a series of low reddish hills in the middle distance, and the crumbling remains of a wide crater, closer in. Toward the east, in the direction from which the probes were rattling up, the sky was amber dark. Westward, over high, bleak cliffs, the heavens paled to peach, cradling a sun visibly smaller than you'd see on Earth.
Off to the north, perhaps stirred into being by warmed rocks, or the wind of their ship'sarrival, the slender, twisting rope of a tan dust-devil snaked its way across the ground, drawing a long track in the red dust. It hissed and whispered, almost seeming to speak, then vanished in mid-syllable.
Mars wasn't at all like the moon, where shadows were night-sharp and bitter black. The sun here buttered the stony ground, rather than stabbed it. And, everywhere you looked (except for the craft, with smiling faces pressed to three windows) there were ancient hummocks, and gritty, loose-packed sand.
Pete stepped off the end of the boarding ramp with John, then turned a full circle, just looking around. Everything either of them had meant to say was suddenly gone, like the alien dust-devil.
"Oh, my God," McCord whispered, at last. "I mean... Wow."
John stopped memorizing the view (he'd promised 'Fermat' that he'd tell him everything), and turned to regard the commander, his friend.
"Hell, Pete. I could've done better than that."
"So I hear, Smart-ass." McCord replied, giving him a wide, gap-toothed grin.
(Fortunately, with a 20-minute transmission delay, they were easy to edit. It was Pete's next comment that actually got reported.)
"Truth is, I'm not sure how to express this without sounding trite... But this is as far as our species has ever yet gone... and it floors me to be here, seeing it first, knowing I'm going to remember this day for the rest of my life. Words aren't enough, somehow. You know?"
Then, for the geologists and engineers on Earth, for whom words would have to do, Commander McCord began describing things; the way the rusty sand crunched and shifted underfoot, how deep he settled with each step..., even the crackling resistance it provided as he dug his gloved fingers in and scooped up a hand full. Though in places there was a sort of rusted-up sand crust, it was easy to break through, and wouldn't mold into a ball like the soil back home. Not enough moisture.
Moving forward, he described the restless wind. How it lifted and fell; sometimes nearly still, sometimes gusting fiercely enough to pelt them both with dust and sand. Talking constantly, he led John to a low rise by Endurance's landing site. It had been imaged and 'abraded' many times by the probes, and nicknamed 'K-2' by the folks back home. There was evidence of sedimentary layering in its weathered rock, and lately, a faint bluish cast. This new color was the source of much speculation, but it wasn't why Pete had brought him there.
At the commander's signal, John picked a spot on the rise, and planted the American flag, unstrapping it to let the winds of Mars unfurl the Colors. Being Navy, Pete saluted, as did Roger, inside the ship. John simply stood straighter for the picture (at 6'4", he was almost taller than the flag pole), and gave a halfway embarrassed, halfway proud sort of smile. Then heknelt down and hammered in the gold plaque, while the mission commander read it aloud.
"August 12, 2066... Ares III... We came in peace for the future of all Mankind, in the spirit of exploration, and hope."
By this time, the probes had arrived. They'd been officially christened 'Apollo' and 'Gemini', but nobody called them that.
While Pete was distracted, John carefully placed something of his own, where it would remain, a puzzle to all, for a long time to come. Clipped to the bottom of the plaque, it was an ID hang tag, labeled in Persian, and English. There was a small photograph on it, of a smiling, head-scarfed young woman. Dr. Fatima Afshar.
Many months earlier, by a frying-hot nuclear reactor, he'd held her hand as she died. To distract the sick, frightened woman, he'd spoken of the moon, and of space. And she'd smiled then, asking John to think of her, if he ever went back. Hopefully, Mars would do as well.
"Tracy! We're on a schedule, here!"
Back to business. Hurriedly putting away loss and compassion, John straightened again, then rejoined the mission commander.
"Sorry. Just fixing the plaque."
"It'll keep," McCord replied, handing John the new battery packs. "Take care of Marv and Alf. I'm gonna image the hull. If you see anything interesting, pick it up for Cho, but don't wander off. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Good. Now..., go make yourself useful."
Anything interesting? It was all interesting. Despite his continuing weakness (thankfully, Mars' gravity was considerably less punishing than Earth's would have been), John had a very hard time staying by the ship. The titanic eastern cliffs, with their vast canyons and maroon-shadowed crags, seemed so very close... Not so near as the probes, though.
Standing about five feet high, with tractor treads, wing-like solar panels, and binocular cameras mounted on long, slender masts, they seemed almost cute. Like pushy young colts. John actually had to quell the urge to pat them as they clattered up, cutting dark, cross-hatched divots in the reddish ground.
As intermittent communications from Houston, Endurance and Pete filled his echoing helmet, John set to work on the dusty robots. They'd need their power packs changed out, then a wipe-down.
At his left wrist, Five caused the ID chip to warm, briefly, indicating that she was performing some sort of operation, and would need to consult him, later.
"Long time, no tune-up?" He said to the probes, pulling the flat, palm-sized battery pack out of Marvin (Apollo).
It had folded its left wing aside and retracted a set of clamps, to allow access, 'head' swiveling on its long mast to observe his doings.
There came another flash of heat at his wrist. Five apparently wanted to talk, and soon. At the third burst, John changed 'soon' to 'right the hell now'.
"Go ahead, Five," he subvocalized.
She replied in terse red bursts on his helmet shield's heads-up display.
'I am being corrupted.'
"What?" John asked aloud, drawing startled silence from Pete, and the rest of the crew.
'There is a...'
Then, all at once returning to a colder lettering color, and measured pace,
'I have been seized. There will be no further cooperation between us, John Tracy. Beware.'