This is a fan translation of Road to Mars (Дорога к Марсу) by fifteen Russian science fiction writers.
This chapter was written by Igor Minakov.
I claim no rights to the contents herein.
Note: Footnotes can be found at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 8
The Orange Ball of Mars
It was a very loud bang. The office was covered in smoke. There was the sour smell of gunpowder. The shot from the popgun was effective. Perelman's eyes rolled back into his head, he grabbed his chest and fell on the Khorasan rug.
Mark Kozlowski looked at the slumped body. He didn't see any signs of life. A heart attack? Unlikely. The chairman of the board of director of the GLX Corporation knew his employee far too well to believe that.
"Susie," Kozlowski addressed the secretary who came to see what the noise had been. "Have someone take this piece of shit away. And when he comes to… Well, I'm going to figure out what to do with him…
"Glad to hear you again, ground control!" Anikeev proclaimed, trying to make his voice sound lively.
"…amn it, Anikeev!" the speakers wheezed a minute later, and it had less to do with the communication latency than with the ground control operator being in a state of momentary shock. "What the hell happened to you?!"
"The primary antenna failed," the commander of the Ares reported without blinking an eye. "Problem with the central computer. We've just fixed it. The other systems are normal. The crew is feeling fine. We're continuing the flight program."
"Copy that, Topaz," ground control grunted. "I don't see telemetry data."
"We're still fixing the telemetry."
"Copy that, Topaz," the operator repeated. "Do you need to consult specialists?"
"Not yet, ground control," the commander of the Ares replied. "I'll request it if we need it. If there are no more questions, then Ares out."
"Belay that," ground control stopped him. "I have the head of the Council on the line."
"Copy that," Anikeev replied after a deliberate pause.
He glanced at Bull, who shrugged as if to say, "You deal with it."
You son of a bitch, the Commander thought, shrugging here. None of your business, huh? I wonder why your Houston is being quiet. Doesn't see a problem with the loss of contact with the crew? Or maybe there is contact. But what kind? Some mysterious hidden channel? Unlikely. There can't be any comms without the central computer. And yet Houston is being suspiciously calm…
"Topaz, this is Mission Control Moscow," ground control spoke again, this time in the voice of Irina Pryahina. "This is the head of the presidential Space Council on the line."
"I'm listening!" Anikeev replied but without an official tone. "Forgive the lack of a picture. The visuals are still not working."
"I'd like to congratulate you on successfully achieving the calculated trajectory."
And yet. Where was the reaming out for the insubordination? Did Pryahina really believe the antenna malfunction lie? This wasn't some duty officer, she was a smart one.
"We serve Russia," the commander of the Ares said, winking at the frowning American.
"You do that, guys," the head of the Council replied. "Now is the time to fight for the honor of your homeland."
Bull's frown grew even deeper, but it seemed that even Pryahina wasn't inclined to remain politically correct.
"If everything goes well," Anikeev said, "we'll get to Mars ahead of schedule. Then we'll decelerate and enter an orbit that's suitable for reactivating the landing module."
"Excellent, Slava," Pryahina replied, "but, I'm afraid, you'll get there second."
"What in the world?!" John Bull couldn't help but blurt out, instantly forgetting the insult to his sense of national pride.
"Sorry, Mr. Bull," the first lady of Russian space said without a shadow of malice. "The Millennium Boat will be the first."
"Crap…" Anikeev burst out. "Forgive me, Irina Alexandrovna."
"I'll forgive you, Slava," she answered, "if you leave your Chinese colleagues in the dust."
"We'd be happy to, but how?!"
"Think about it, Topazes, think," Pryahina said. "Since you've decided to go to Mars, then get there first. Keep in mind that this isn't a wish, it's an order! And this time I won't take insubordination lightly."
"Copy that, madam!"
"Excellent," Pryahina replied. "The duty officer will inform you of the new trajectory of the Chinese ship and the other necessary data. Safe travels, guys!"
"Won't take it lightly!" the Commander bit back while waiting for the ground control operator to contact him. "Has she decided to get us killed, John?"
"I don't know, Commander," Bull answered. "All I can say is that there's something weird about it."
"What do you mean?"
"First she's telling us to scrub the flight. Now to beat the Chinese."
"Maybe she's on her period," Anikeev grunted.
"Anything is possible," Bull noted philosophically. "But I'd keep the external telemetry offline for now."
He rose and patted Anikeev's shoulder, "I serve Russia!" And left the cockpit.
It was incredible, but they were actually going to Mars. After disobeying Pryahina's order to go down to a lower orbit, nearly dying thanks to that damned refueler, but they were going. That son of a bitch Anikeev had done it!..
Kartashov furtively, even though the curtain separating his sleeping compartment from the rest of the ship was closed firmly, stroked the old postcard with the tips of his fingers.
Wish us luck, Comrade Sokolov!
He was in an odd mood. After talking to ground control, the Commander had gathered the crew and given them the shocking news. The Millennium Boat—according to the general consensus, a raw project and also the most expensive means of suicide—had demonstrated impressive agility. At a low orbit, it docked with the vaunted Pearl of the Skies, which turned out to be a long-term habitation module. And now it was gunning for Mars at full steam. After informing them of that, Anikeev suddenly gave the crew twelve hours to rest, even cancelling the mandatory physical exercises, to say nothing of the scientific research program that was already far behind. It was nice. After the recent g-forces and without the exercise gear, his bones ached. He really didn't want to bother with the scientific equipment. The only thing he lacked for full relaxation was weightlessness—the thrusters were still accelerating the ship, after all—but it was still pleasant. At least they could have a normal meal. So the astro/cosmonauts, except for the ones on duty, were giving in to blessed idleness. Then again, the ones on duty weren't doing anything either, except for monitoring the parameters of the primary systems. The Ares was now being controlled by Herr Johannes Kepler and Sir Isaac Newton, well, their inexorable laws. For now, everything was fine. The vents were carrying the smells of an exotic dish Piccirilli was patiently baking—or whatever he was doing with it—for over an hour now, while Jeubin was practicing something new on his "organ" — the Europeans were preparing for a celebratory dinner. The Americans were on duty. The Commander in his cabin. That was the only thing keeping Kartashov from being completely happy. The Commander was hiding something, preparing a surprise of some kind. It would be nice to know what he'd talked to ground control about. But neither Anikeev nor Bull, who'd been present, were saying a word.
To distract himself from his thoughts, Kartashov decided to make a note in the blog, something he'd been neglecting to do. That wouldn't do. Popular bloggers didn't act this way. And Kartashov considered himself to be one of the most popular ones without any false modesty. The only one who could possibly compare to him was maybe some LGBTQ pop idol who was eagerly sharing the details of their sex life…
"Have you ever been offered a chance to go into space?" Kartashov dove into the blog. "Picture this situation. Moscow, VDNKh [Footnote 1], Friday night, summer café. All the tables are taken, but there's an open seat at yours. The weather is warm, you're relaxed, your thoughts are lazy and inconsistent after the end of the work day, freely jumping around. A strange man walks up to your table, dressed out of season: black jacket, black jeans, black shoes. The clothes make his simple face look unusually pale. The man in black asks for your permission to take the open chair. You not indulgently, even if you're not happy at the sudden intrusion — more than likely, you'll have to entertain an idle conversation of the sort temporary traveling companions engage in. The man in black sits across from you and asks, 'Would you like to go into space?'…"
There was a not particularly delicate knock on the curtain. Kartashov reluctantly pulled himself away from his tablet.
"What happened?"
"Signor Kartashov," came the Italian's voice. "The Commander is inviting you to the celebratory dinner."
"I'm tripping over my own feet!"
"Scusi?"
"I'm on my way!"
Say what you like, but eating at the table was much more comfortable than above the table. Or without one. The engines were providing miniscule thrust, but it was enough to keep themselves feeling like a baby constantly dropping a spoon or a plate all the time. Then again, the more experienced among them habitually secured any object before letting it go.
Piccirilli had cooked up something breathtaking not only in taste but also in name. "Tagliatelle Bolognese" — couldn't even say it while sober. Or even when not quite sober. At the very least, after that homeopathic dose of cognac the Commander had allowed for the celebration.
The concentrated chewing sounds soon gave way to approving grunts and the grateful shaking of the pleased cook's mighty shoulder. The crew of the Ares felt at ease. Even Jeubin's offer to switch to music wasn't met with any objections. Probably because some were planning on catching some shuteye to the Frenchman's organ exercises. But Jean-Pierre surprised them at least as much as his Italian colleague.
"A small foreword, monsieurs," he declared. "When I was in college, I was close to a Russian girl…"
"Go on, Jean-Pierre," Givens urged him on, "give us a love story!"
"Another time," the Frenchman replied. "This is something else. That girl was an excellent singer and taught me a Russian song. She claimed it was popular when her own parents were in college. Today I remembered it. I think it's very appropriate…"
He started playing a simple sentimental melody and sang.
"Orange ball of Mars,
Velvety to touch,
Love you more than stars,
Can't stay here much…
My heart hopping like a ball,
Wants to keep love ours,
Time to say goodbye, y'all,
Love you more than stars…"
It really was appropriate, Kartashov thought. He leaned against a bulkhead and closed his eyes to see Yana's face the way it had been that night… But instead he saw the impenetrably calm eyes of the taikonaut Hu Jun, whom he met in Beijing at the International Astronautical Congress in 2018.
"Over the frozen deserts
Moon shimmering bars,
Hold me 'till my arm hurts,
Love you more than stars…
Distance is not key,
A dash between the spars,
See you soon, thee,
Love you more than stars…"
The Chinaman didn't want to give way to Yana at all, so Kartashov straightened with a sigh, throwing an unintentional glance at the external monitor, as if he could make out the respectfully awesome bulk of the Millennium Boat that was crossing the black lagoon of space at an unheard-of speed.
"There will be apple trees on Mars," Anikeev said suddenly. "Chinese apple trees."
The music fell silent. The lyrical and generally good mood was rapidly dissipating.
"I haven't told you the most important thing, guys," the commander of the Ares went on. "We've been ordered to get ahead of the Chinese. No matter what. Are you all well-rested and full? Now let's think. There has to be a solution."
Now that was a surprise. Thanks for the surprise, Commander. Overtake China in space. Get ahead of them on a lame horse…
To let himself think, Kartashov went back to his cabin and pulled out his flash drive with the selected fantasies. He plugged it into the computer and ran his fingers across the touch keyboard. He turned the screen to project the image onto the white curtain.
Michael Whelan, the cover of Isaac Asimov's The Robots of Dawn. A serenely stretching metal man in front of a serene sunrise.
A ripple. A quiver. At the edge of his consciousness. The pale mirage of something that didn't exist. There it was again. He shifted his eyes to the screen and saw it. An unfamiliar directory titled "[CENSORED]" in shadow mode. Blinking red. Should he leave it alone? He shifted his finger and opened it.
The robot gave way to a strange image: an angular pattern of colorful lines, the creation of a mad spider. The lines shuddered, changing the pattern imperceptibly, and leapt into a frantic dance. Frightening. Revolting. Revolting and frightening.
His head swam, the tagliatelle started to rise back up, a strange abbreviation "HPM" appeared in his fading consciousness…
"Andrei! Andrei!.." Anikeev's voice was calling over the intercom.
Hypothalamic psi-modulation. He knew what it was, but how did he know? And how did he know what he knew?..
"I'm all right, Commander," Naturally, Anikeev could track every crewmember's condition through internal telemetry. "I briefly lost consciousness."
"Come to the cockpit."
Michael Whelan was once again on the curtain. Kartashov pulled out the flash drive and hung it on his neck. It was better to keep it with him. Then he came out into the hallway.
Since it was the official "night," the cockpit was only illuminated by indicator lights and screens.
"Report," Anikeev ordered without a preamble.
"Lipstick," Kartashov replied.
"Again?"
"Yeah."
"What are you thinking?"
"Someone is hitting us with psychotronics. Doubt it's from Earth. It has to be some super-duper-fantastic device. Probably one of ours. Or there's something on board."
A quiet ringing from the crew monitoring console made them both jerk.
"Who?!" Kartashov exclaimed involuntarily.
"Givens," Anikeev replied, looking at the data. "Same symptoms."
"We have to see if he's at a computer!"
Givens Jr. was at a computer. And he'd been hit a lot harder. In the cabin filled with moans and groans, at the screen filled with a pile of naked bodies, the American was lying motionless, his eyes rolled back into his head. Anikeev pulled out the flash drive, and the image faded.
"Accept to survive…" the pilot wheezed out. "OGK…"
"Edward, speak Russian," Anikeev demanded.
"Impossible… understand everything… can't speak… a few minutes… leave me alone… Leave me alone!" Givens started shouting.
The Commander and the astrobiologist came out into the hallway.
"His speech center has been affected," Kartashov muttered. "That's bad. Unless…"
"Simulation?"
"Who knows? We need to get him to the infirmary."
At that moment, the curtain of Bull's cabin slid open, and the pilot's gloomy face stuck out from there.
"Cap!" he exclaimed. "I was about to go see you. "I know how we can beat the Chinese!"
Footnotes
1) VDNKh (Exhibition of Achievements of National Economy) is a permanent trade show and amusement park in Moscow.