Missed Connections (55 page)

The next few months involved a flurry of face-to-face exchanges between MB1 and ISA headquarters. The influx of new people disrupted the carefully tranquil atmosphere the originals had cultivated, and the inevitable personality conflicts meant a lot of people were spending time with the MB1 psychiatrist and their personal therapists back on Earth. Cyril hadn't counted on Scottie being one of the people who needed that kind of connection, but when he got a call from Dr. Granger, who was still handling Scottie, he responded immediately.

"I'd like you to sit in on my next session with him," she told Cyril over cups of cafeteria coffee. "I want to assess the impact that seeing you has on him."

"Isn't it supposed to be a clean break from Earth-side personal relationships?" Cyril asked. The written word didn't count, as far as he was concerned.

"That's the guideline, but that's all it is. I'm more concerned for Captain Andrews's well-being than I am for being a stickler. Try to avoid talking about the news or current events, if you can. That sort of information is relayed through the channels of command and gone over in the mandatory group meetings."

"Oh god, I forgot about those," Cyril said with a grimace. "It might be a good thing I'm not there, I'd never be able to share personal information in a group like that."

"A lack of privacy is one of the many prices for breaking new scientific ground on Mars," Dr. Granger replied. "For what it's worth, I've always regretted how you left the program. I think you would have been a fantastic crewmember."

He didn't want to contemplate the impossible. "Thank you, doctor," Cyril said briskly, throwing his half-f coffee cup away. "When will you need me?"

"Tonight at seven. Captain Andrews will have just woken up, so hopefully this will set a good tone for his day. And for heaven's sake," she added, "call me Sabine. You're not my patient anymore."

"Sabine, then."  Feeling like saying anything else would be too much, Cyril walked away.

The anticipation might have killed Cyril if he'd let himself think about it at all. Instead he compartmentalized his feelings and went about his day, and that evening he went to Sabine's office and waited for Scottie's face to appear on the projector above her desk.

"There's a bit of a lag, so be prepared for things to be a bit stop and go," she advised him.

"I know."  Cyril had trained for this for two years and he wasn't an idiot, he
did
remember the basics.

Then Scottie's transmission came through, and all Cyril's irritation vanished. Scottie was in a light blue T-shirt, and his hair was shorter than Cyril remembered it but he was there, almost close enough to touch. A huge grin broke out on his face, echoed after a moment by Scottie's.

"I did promise you a guest today," Sabine said. "You have ten minutes, gentlemen. I'll be over here."  She would be listening, but not within Scottie's visual.

"Oh my god,
Cy
."  Scottie laughed delightedly. "You're a sight for sore eyes, luv."

"No, that's you," Cyril replied. "You look… "
Beautiful
. "Good. Really good."

"You still look like you moonlight as a model, Cy. Can't be less than perfect, hmm?"

"Not for you."

"Oh, I don't know, I rather like the scruffy version of Cyril Konstantin."  Scottie rolled the words on his tongue, like he was tasting them. His eyes never wavered, never even blinked. "God. It's good to see you. You've no idea."

Cyril saw Sabine frown and wave her hand.
Move it along.
"Tell me about MB1," Cyril said. "We've only got ten minutes and I want to know as much as possible, your messages are somewhat lacking in description."

"Oh, I'm a shite writer, luv, you know that."  Scottie launched into a description of the lab he was sharing, though, the experiments they were setting up and the nonstop maintenance work he had to do on all of their equipment. "It's ludicrous, really, how toxic this place is. Everything exposed to Out—that's the colloquial for everything that isn't in MB1, which is this whole bloody world, really—gets pitted and nasty within days. The materials guys brought a lot of new coatings to try out and some of them are having a positive effect, but we've got to test them with controls and do a lot of retrofitting and it's pretty much a waiting game for whenever the next supply shuttle arrives. The botanists have managed to grow carrots though, so we've got some fresh variety from tomatoes and beans now."

"I didn't think you liked carrots," Cyril remarked.

Scottie grimaced. "S'not a matter of liking, as Sally—she's the nutritionist—keeps reminding me. We've got carrots, I eat carrots. Sophie's happier about it, she's always liked 'em."

"How's Sophie handling things?"

"She's doing brilliantly. This is her dream, she's fitting in like a pea in a little pod." 

Sabine made a
cut it short
motion with her hand. Cyril restrained his grimace. She'd given them thirteen minutes, which was more than Cyril had a right to expect. "I've got to hand you back to Dr. Granger, Scottie."

Scottie made a face. "Must you?"

"Yeah. But we'll talk again, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that, luv," Scottie said quietly.

"Good."  Cyril hovered awkwardly, not knowing how to sign off. Should he say that he loved him? Missed him? Scottie took care of his dilemma. "Until next time, Cy."

"Until next time."  Cyril made room for Sabine, who thanked him and pointed him toward the door.
He'll be all right
, she mouthed before turning back to Scottie.

Cyril hoped she was right.

Mortality rates for Evergreen crew members are projected to be two to three percent per year for the first five years, with a drop to one percent for the next five. Those who are mentally capable of handling the stresses of the mission will be well settled by this time, and those whose minds prove unequal to the task, or who are the victims of the learning process, will generally be weeded out by then. –Internal ISA command memo.

The first year was all right. Scottie's mood stabilized; there was always more work to be done on Mars, and the ebullience of a new mission and fresh blood into the established crew was good for everyone. The first supply vessel to reach MB1 was met with loud cheers fourteen months in, and the alcohol was swiftly consumed, as was the powdered milk, chocolate and dehydrated vegetables that weren't tomatoes, beans or carrots. Cyril had never seen someone transcendently happy over mushrooms before that video came back, and it made him smile. It was worth it, all of it, to make this great next step and for Scottie to be a part of it.

Cyril's pet project, which he devoted himself to without regard for his father's disapproval, was the Sapling. He wanted to make her worthy of flight, more than just a receptacle for experiments that needed a boost back to Earth. He modified the multi-stage VASIMR rockets to handle a smaller load with more stability, and even sent a few of them into production, just to have on hand. The solar arrays MB1 already had in stock could easily be modified to suit a more robust Martian takeoff, even a delicate one. Not for the first time since he'd been kicked from the program, Cyril questioned the wisdom of making the journey to Mars a definitive one-way trip. People could be brought back, they just
weren't
.

"Cost-benefit analysis," Sabine told him over another cup of coffee one day when he broached the subject with her. "It costs many millions of dollars to get a shuttle launched from Mars back to Earth, and the more elaborate your cargo, the more millions it costs. Private corporations are interested in scientific breakthroughs, not in the health and wellbeing of the inhabitants of MB1. It's easier for everyone here to pretend the option doesn't exist. It's better for the mental wellbeing of the crew as well, Cyril. This is still being billed as a one-way trip and rightfully so, I think. How can we ask someone to dedicate everything they are to a goal, if there's always the possibility of them being able to back out at a later date? The investment is just too high for that to make sense."

"So there really is a price tag for a human life," Cyril said sarcastically.

Sabine nodded. "Of course there is. There always has been."

Cyril was just fine with this remaining a purely speculative conversation, but two months after that one of the veterans from the last mission committed suicide. Worse yet, he did it while he was out in the Rover and the only person with him was Scottie, who couldn't keep his companion from shutting off his oxygen and suffocating inside of his own suit on the bright red soil of Mars.

Mission Control was concerned, incredulous, and sad. Cyril was angry as hell. "What kind of
jackass
decides to off himself in the middle of a repair run?" he demanded. "What kind of
asshole
puts the rest of MB1 in limbo while he jeopardizes a mission involving a crucial piece of equipment and one of his own
crewmembers?"
  No one had a good answer for him.

"Jonathan had thyroid issues as a result of toxic perchlorate exposure," Sabine passed along two days after the incident, when all they knew from MB1 was that one man was dead and Scottie was in observation. "The seals on earlier versions of the environmental access suits weren't a hundred percent secure, and he was exposed to too much dust. His body was starting to fail."

"And he decided committing suicide in front of one of his team was the way to go out?" Cyril asked. "How
selfish
was this man?"

"Not selfish enough to kill himself inside the base," Sabine pointed out, and Cyril wanted to shout at her, because it was Scottie who had taken the brunt of this offense, but he understood where she was coming from. He didn't care, but it wasn't worth arguing over. As long as Scottie was okay.

In short order they figured out that no, actually, Scottie wasn't all right. It wasn't just the depression, which certainly took its toll on him, but also the fact that he had driven his erstwhile companion's body back to MB1 at breakneck pace, dragged him into the airlock and then started doing CPR on him before the decontamination showers had a chance to wash away all the dust. It was strictly against regulations, but this was only the second suicide the MB1 colony had ever experienced, and they were more mournful than vengeful. Scottie had inhaled an unknown quantity of Martian dust trying to revive his dying companion, which in turn had seared his throat and lungs as though he'd swallowed lye. A week after the incident he was still confined to sickbay, and not looking good.

"No dumb deed goes unpunished," Scottie joked from his cot. The words came out rough, and Cyril tried not to wince. "I thought I could do it, though. Jon had only been without oxygen for five minutes, I really thought I could bring him back."

"Well, you were wrong," Cyril snapped over the feed, too scared and angry to be comforting. "I don't even know why you thought it was worth trying, the man went and fucking killed himself right in front of you, you ass! Why in god's name did you think he merited the effort of revival?"

"Jon had been here a long time," Scottie replied. "He'd just… had enough, I reckon. It does happen. I can sympathize."

"No, you cannot!" Cyril shouted, at which point Sabine took him out of the conference room and left him fuming in the hall.

"The last thing Captain Andrews needs right now is you telling him how wrong his actions were," she said firmly before heading back inside. Cyril paced and stewed in the hall, running a thousand different scenarios through his head before Sabine stuck her head out and finally invited him back inside.

"I'm sorry for yelling," he said stiffly as soon as Scottie was in the frame again, which made his friend smile.

"If you apologized every time you yelled, you'd never do anything else."

"Regardless, I don't want to upset you."

"You don't," Scottie promised solemnly, and Cyril felt tears rise in his eyes and absolutely hated himself in that moment. "Don't worry, luv. There's got to be something can be done for me."

Another few weeks' worth of tests concluded that the only thing that Scottie had to look forward to at this point was a slow and painful death. His mucous membranes were seared too badly to recover without surgical intervention and grafting, which the doctors on MB1 simply couldn't provide for him. Breathing went from challenging to outright painful, and he was given roughly six months to live.

It was incredible to Cyril, in the worst sense of the word. It seemed impossible that all of the sacrifices he and Scottie had made would come to nothing, not together or even apart, their long lives filled with discovery and friendship. How could it end now, with a medicated decline and death? One more marker placed on the wall of MB1, one more body turned into plant food. The crew of Evergreen would feast on his lover, and Cyril would be left with nothing. He couldn't bear it.

Neither, it seemed, could Sophie.

"I should have made him stay," she lamented in a brief moment of weakness when Cyril got her alone. "As soon as we knew you were still alive, I should have made him stay. He changed with you, Cy. He was so much
happier
with you."

"I'm sorry," Cyril said uselessly.

"Don't be sorry," Sophie said. "Help me figure out a way to get him back."

That was the crux it came down to, the crucial question that Scottie might be in a unique position to answer. Could he be sent back to Earth from Mars, and if it were possible, how would it be accomplished?

Konstantin International had the answer.

Breaking news for KIC, as they prepare to fund the first human round trip from Mars ever attempted. Sources are mum on Konstantin International's motivation for paying for a mission so far outside of their normal purview, but the global scientific community is abuzz with the prospect of a Martian's return to Earth. –Hong Kong Business Times, September 14
th
, 2073.

Vasily didn't like it. Naturally he didn't like it:  this effort was going to eat a full quarter of Konstantin's profits from the past year, and while there was a tremendous media value in the attempt, there was an equally huge amount of risk. Cyril had never enjoyed the feeling of turning the tables more than he did when informing his father that if he objected, he could find another son to take over his company.