Mission Mars (7 page)

The captain sighs, slaps his thigh, and says, “At any rate, no matter what's written in your file, it can't replace looking you in the eye and talking to you. I never make the offer to anyone until I've actually met them.”

Sam considers what the captain told him, his mind reeling from the implications of what the captain says. He keeps eye contact with him, which usually unnerves people, but not this man. He waits quietly, ever patient. Sam takes a moment to mull it over, then breaks the silence.

“So, now that you've met me, what's your verdict? Are you still interested in me? If so, what are you offering?”

“I'm in agreement with your comrades, and yes, definitely
interested. So, here's the deal. You'll have a chance to be a part of an advance team to prepare Mars for colonization.”

“Wait,” Sam interrupts. “Mars?”

The captain continues without acknowledging Sam's question. “We now have the technology to make it happen, but right now the most important part is the advance team. We are building that now. And I want you to be a part of it. Now, I'm not going to lie, the training will be brutal—and it's a one way trip.” Sam opens his mouth to again interrupt. The captain holds up his hand. “But what I want you to consider is this: we're offering you the same thing the program is offering the Earth. A chance. Hope. And an opportunity to make a difference in a way you never imagined. You will only have two enemies to fight: yourself and the environment.”

Once more, Sam takes a mental step back to process the information. He believes what the captain says is true, because the captain believes it. Sam has always trusted his ability to read people. Was that one of those skills the captain mentioned as not certifiable, but undeniable, to those around him?

“I would think that in this instance, having myself as an enemy would count against me rather than for me. Who's to say that my psychological issues won't get in the way of the mission?”

A tight smile crosses the captain's lips and he leans back in his chair. “It's funny you should mention that. This whole idea started when the military was trying to figure out the very thorny issue of dealing with soldiers suffering from PTSD. I'm not going to bore you with a long explanation of the research done on the matter. Instead, I'll give you the conclusion: a cure has been found. Now, before you get all excited and indignant
that we haven't made that knowledge public, let me say that the solution is not practical for everyone. Being sent to Mars is not for everyone, and obviously, we can't send everyone to Mars.”

“What makes Mars so special?”

“It's not Mars specifically that is special; it's what we plan on you doing there that is. The biggest part of the therapy is being hyper-focused on one goal: survival. With total engagement, you have no energy left for anything else. An alien environment is less likely to provide triggers for flashbacks. That, combined with cognitive behavior therapy and a community of shrinks and other PTSD sufferers, insures a support structure that is ideal for your needs.”

“And what exactly are we going to be doing on Mars, besides surviving? Terraforming? Setting up habitats? Setting around the campfire and singing kumbaya?”

This elicits a low chuckle from the captain, which he quickly stifles as his mood switches back to serious. “Does it really matter?” The Captain leans forward to capture Sam's direct gaze. “This is a singular opportunity to put your demons to rest, and help build a new future for humanity. You will not have to fight a war with people who have no desire for peace, a war that cannot be won. You will be engaged in building, not destroying. Your sacrifice—the sacrifice of your time, energy, and everything familiar to you—will be for humanity, instead of a crime against it.”

Sergeant, I've been chosen to lead this new enterprise. And because of the sacrifices involved in this endeavor, I've been given the opportunity to pick my second in command, regardless of previous rank. I choose you.”

The captain stands up. “I've made my case. What do you say, soldier?”

Sam stands, slowly mirrors the move, then extends his hand to Captain Tiberius. The captain smiles, grabs Sam's hand, and they exchange a firm handshake.

“I appreciate the faith you have in me, sir, and I won't let you down.”

“I know you won't. So, let's start this adventure and let the chips fall where they may. And you can call me Jim.”

“I'm all in.” Dr. Anita Sakai pushed her markers into the center of the table. The fold-out dinner table was the main gathering place as well as workshop bench and, when needed, surgical arena. The doctor leaned back, folded her hands behind her head, and bared her teeth in a shark-like grin.

“Too rich for my blood,” said Dr. Ranbir Chadha, attempting to turn his Mumbai accent into an Old West drawl. He threw his cards down and took one of the chocolate bars—the special edition Apollo Bars® manufactured for the mission—from his pile of winnings and began to enjoy his dessert as he watched the rest of the table's reaction to Anita's stakes.

Captain Eric Stang, pushing a pile of notes and candy bars forward, said, “I'll see your ‘Twenty Minutes in the Shower' wager, and match it with all these lovely ‘Chore Exemptions'
and ‘Dessert Rations' I've won off of you eggheads this evening.” Being the only one in the group who did not tout a PhD, the captain liked to remind his crew he could still pull one over on them.

“I'm in,” said Dr. Katenka Mikhaylova. She wrapped both hands around her substantial dessert winnings, along with her ‘Control of Movie Night Choice' stash and slid them into the middle of the table.

“I'm with Ranbir; I'll sit this one out.” Dr. Li Yunhe waved her hand at the few slips left in her stash. “I think I'll hang on to the few ‘Minutes in the Shower' I've got left.”

“You have got to work on your poker face,” Anita mock-admonished Yunhe.

Yunhe responded by sticking her tongue out at her, and both women laughed.

“I think I can last another round.” Dr. Calvin Fitzsimmons gathered up his slips. “I'll call. Three ‘Laundry Day Exceptions', two hazelnut bars, and twelve ‘Extra Shower Minutes'. Although I am a bit worried about Katenka risking her chance to make us watch
Coppélia
… again.”

“You have no appreciation for the arts,” said Katenka with a sad shake of her head.

“What do you say, Athanasius?” Anita asked the last member sitting at the poker table. Dr. Athanasius Linden was almost out of anything to bet with, so it was simple courtesy to ask. But instead of declaring himself out, he flipped his cards face down and left the table without a word.

“What's up, Doc?” the captain called after him.

He didn't answer as he stepped into the corridor of Pegasus and headed toward the long-term storage in the next pod.
Due to its series of wheeled pods, which ensured that both artificial gravity and any breach in the hull could be quickly sealed, minimizing loss, the name ‘Pegasus' was chosen.

Before launch, someone had written ‘Mars or Bust' on the hull to proclaim their mission to the cold, uncaring stars in outer space. The phrase had meant to be a tribute to the old pioneers, but the Chinese government chose to be offended, saying it was an affront to the brave souls who had died on Zhúlóng-3. That particular disaster, a costly lesson, had underlined the fact that a human expedition to Mars had to be an international endeavor, not a singular one.

In order to smooth relations between nations, Li Yunhe had been chosen to be the negotiator between the nations, earning her nickname “The Diplomat.”

As the poker game continued, Athanasius could be heard opening locker doors, rummaging for something. Calvin yelled at him. “You playing or not?”

“Give me a minute!” Athanasius yelled in returned.

As they waited for his return, Calvin idly stacked the candy bar stakes into a little pyramid and commented, “So much for the utopian, currency-free society we're supposed to be founding.”

“Yeah, where were we when we abandoned the chips? Week three?” asked Anita.

“It's not money; it's just dessert,” protested Ranbir.

“And chores and movies and shower time,” added Yunhe. “We did what your basic post-apocalyptic society does—get rid of the middle man and go straight for what the currency stood for in the first place.”

Katenka bit into a slice of the sweet lime she had won from
Anita's personal research project with exaggerated enjoyment. “Mmm, middle-man-free currency,” she purred.

“Exactly,” said Anita. “That is the point of all this, isn't it? To cut out all the useless waste back on Earth and create something where everyone is making a positive contribution?

For example, I'm the one who's making sure you don't all drop dead of scurvy,” she said, pointing at the lime in Katenka's hand.

“Arghh, avast me harties,” growled the captain, “thar be fresh fruit off the port bow!”

They all chuckled, and then Ranbir asked, “Who do you think is going to make the cut for the next crew?” It was an old speculation, but a common topic of conversation as they all wondered which of their colleagues back on Earth would get the chance to join them on Mars.

“That Kalnietis kid should make the cut, as soon as he's legal,” said the captain.

“No way, Eric,” objected Calvin, “they'll still want people to go through some sort of academic program, or at least have some expertise in a service career first to gain the necessary skill set.”

Captain Eric pointed his finger to the group. “This is the kid who taught himself English by watching old episodes of Star Trek. He's got that level of…” He glanced around the table, “dedication all Martian explorers should have.”

“No need to sugar coat it,” said Yunhe as she arranged a pile of chocolate candies by color. “You can call it what it is: obsession. And yeah, I agree, he's got it.”

“Kalnietis may be young, but the Selection Committee would love to have someone like him, in order to check off some more boxes on their diversity list,” said Anita.

“And provide good publicity to prove the crazies in the Middle East can't control the world,” Katenka added.

Yunhe gestured at the ship around her. “I still can't believe that fatwa against Mars travel was issued before most of this was even invented. They clearly don't have enough real work to do. Who has the time to sit around making laws against things that weren't even possible?”

“More folks on Mars the merrier, I say,” said Calvin cheerfully.

“Are we setting up a scientific base, or the Martian branch of the United Nations?” huffed Ranbir, an old compliant, as he unwrapped a caramel Galaxy bar. He'd worried loudly—and often—before the mission that too much focus on diversity would keep them from ever deciding on a final crew.

“Why not both?” sang out Anita and Katenka at the same time. Both women laughed.

“If they don't pick Kalnietis by the second or third mission, he'll just stowaway in one of the storage lockers,” said Calvin.

“Which, if the cargo master didn't figure it out, it wouldn't say much about him,” sniffed Anita disdainfully. “I know the weight of this ship down to the last seed.”

“You better, considering you insisted on going through our luggage three times over,” said Ranbir. Almost a year later and he was still miffed that his underwear ended up becoming an internet meme. It was when Anita had a news crew shooting a fluff episode on the mission preparation, following her around as she weighed personal items for the cargo manifest. The reporters had gleefully broadcast Ranbir's Martian Manhunter boxers to the world.

“Every little bit counts,” said Anita sweetly.

“You watch … next trip, they'll have personal allotments of way more than sixty-four ounces,” declared Calvin.

“What, like seventy instead?” asked Yunhe with a raised eyebrow. “I still can't believe you tried to spend all four of your personal pounds on a cat.”

“‘Cute, but useless',” the captain snorted. “That was the Personal Cargo Committee's final ruling. Eric slammed his hand down on the table. “And so it was written, and so it shall be.”

“Still,” mused Anita, frowning, “you'd think that having a cat on board would have been well worth the extra weight. Plus, imagine the number of clicks the internet site would have garnered.”

“Yes, nothing gets the internet's attention like pictures of cats. Think of what pictures of Cat In Space! would do for the Mars colony web traffic,” said Ranbir.

“The committee stuck to their Rule of Three,” said Yunhe. “If everything on board has to serve at least three purposes, click bait, and the psychological benefits of stroking cat fur are only two.”

“Possible food source,” deadpanned Katenka.

Calvin chuckled. “I can already hear the screams from Earth.”

“Yeah,” added Ranbir, “sponsors would be dropping us left, right, and center.”

Katenka looked back down at her cards and studied them as if she was rethinking her choice to stay in. “Amundsen ate his dogs on his way to the South Pole, you know.”

“Amundsen didn't have cameras documenting every step of the journey,” Anita pointed out dryly. “So, no cats allowed—less we eat them.”

“So, we'll just have to live with our storage container of ReadeeMeals,” said Katenka.

“Oh good,” said Calvin, rolling his eyes.

“They're not so bad once you get used to them,” said Eric, the voice of experience. “ReadeeMeals are just the civilian versions of the military's MREs, and are also good for just about forever.”

“And,” added Calvin, “even after generations of think tanks and experimentation, they are still only slightly palatable.”