“Like the Seattle Space Needle,” I say. “And the Rutan Voyager.”
“The what?”
“The first plane to fly around the world without refuelling.”
“Ah.”
I buy our tickets.
There’s a poster next to the desk advertising a zip wire that runs over the length of the park. It’s the longest and fastest in Europe. Anouk catches me looking at it. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“I thought we’d just go and look at plants,” I say. “But I’m definitely up for the zip wire if you are?”
“Probably best we head for the plants,” Anouk replies. “Let’s be sensible.” There’s something about the way she says “sensible.”
“It’s boiling,” I say, as we enter the Rainforest Biome. I look up at the glass dome above us and can’t help thinking about the Subtropical Swimming Paradise at Center Parcs. I feel a sting in my gut. We shouldn’t have come here. We should have gone for a glass of wine or ten.
“This is the largest indoor rainforest in the world,” Anouk says.
I look around and try to practise mindfulness. Bananas, shamanic wall paintings, African totems . . . I don’t know why I feel so nervous. “There’s something I want to tell you, Anouk,” I begin.
“There’s something I want to tell you too,” she says. “Can I go first?”
I nod.
“That time you babysat Nike—”
“You know I’d happily do it again. But you said you didn’t want—”
“I didn’t go to yoga that night.”
“Oh?”
“I went night surfing.”
“Night surfing?”
“Riding the waves. In the pitch black.”
As we start weaving in and out of tropical plants, I say: “To be honest, Anouk, it sounds dangerous.”
Anouk’s eyes are shining. “It is dangerous. Unless you know what you’re doing.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Not a clue.”
“That’s crazy.”
We approach an area called “Tropical Islands,” and Anouk stops by a bush marked “Croton.” She twists one of the red buttons on her vest top. Her fingernail has been bitten painfully short. “I know your secret, Solvig.”
I stop breathing. Has Evie somehow been in touch with her?
“It’s a death sentence.”
A family with two young children passes us. Anouk smiles at the parents, then scowls at me. “I’m talking about you flying off into outer space, Solvig. I take it that’s what you were about to confess to me?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s right.”
“What are you thinking? What does James make of all this?”
More people are coming our way, so we keep walking towards a zone marked “Southeast Asia.”
“How did you find out?” I ask quietly. “I haven’t told anyone. Not even James.”
“There are links to this thing all over the internet. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? And James? Christ’s sake. Your photograph is online. And you don’t look happy in it, by the way. You look like you hate yourself. You’ve got two hundred upvotes.”
“Two hundred?”
“Yes. People are clicking a thumbs-up icon under your photograph, voting for you to die. It’s ridiculous.”
My cheeks are blazing. “I’ve got two hundred upvotes,” I echo pathetically.
I wonder how many upvotes Evie has. I’ve been too embarrassed to risk seeing my own face on the Mars Project website, so I haven’t looked. It’s mortifying but thrilling to think that it’s been there all this time.
Anouk stops again. “You think this is a joke? You find a one-way ticket to Mars funny? God, Solvig, I know we’ve grown apart lately, but this is madness. Where’s your head at?”
“This means a lot to me. I know how it sounds. But it’s a dream. Something I have to do.”
Anouk laughs. “You have to die in space? What a superb dream.”
“I probably won’t die in space.” I swallow. “I’ll die on Mars.” I look at a sign announcing that we’re outside a replica of a Malaysian house known as a kampung. It’s built from wood and straw, with a vegetable garden around it. “I want to build a home there.”
“Look around you, Solvig,” says Anouk. “Look at this place. Imagine living in the Amazon. And then multiply it by infinity. That’s how difficult life would be on another planet. Why are you smiling?”
“Because I find this place inspiring.”
“You want to build a home on Mars?” asks Anouk. “You won’t have time for that. It’s a suicide mission. I’ll email you a list of ways you can die out there if you like. I read an article that sums it up perfectly. ‘10 Reasons Not to Apply for the Mars Project.’” She pauses. “You know they put your essay online, too? That thing you wrote to enter the competition? ‘I want to expand man’s horizons! Pain is part of the process!’ Well, it’s a good job you enjoy pain, girl, because it’s going to be excruciating.”
There’s an agave plant up ahead. “Agave americana” it says on the sign, and beneath that: Century plant. There’s one of these in the botanical garden in Falmouth. James pointed it out to me. He told me that each plant takes years to build up the courage to flower. James might have said “food reserves,” but I prefer “courage.” When it’s finally ready for its reproductive act, the plant shoots up a long stalk, much taller than the original plant, taller than a man. At the top of the stalk, it grows blossoms: daring gold explosions in the sky. Shortly afterwards, it dies.
“James is going to find out,” Anouk says.
I swear there’s a snake coiling around my ankles. I jerk away from it, reaching out for a palm tree.
“Solvig, why are you doing that? You’re acting weird. Stop it.”
Anouk’s voice sounds distant, as if she’s speaking through a long tube. There are flecks of light, and then there’s nothing.
27
10 Reasons Not to Apply for the Mars Project
1. There’s not enough money in the world . . .
The team behind the Mars Project wants to raise $10 billion to put people on Mars for the rest of their lives. NASA has spent over $150 billion keeping humans alive at the International Space Station for just twenty years. Bear in mind the ISS is 250 miles away. Between Earth and Mars there are 140 million miles.
2. What spacecraft?
The transit vehicle that will take the astronauts to Mars is a figment of the Mars Project’s imagination. It’s all very well talking hypothetically about this astonishing craft, but if it doesn’t exist yet, how does the Mars Project know that building it is possible? Then how does it know, without a series of highly expensive test flights, whether it would work? And how does it operate a safe landing? Two-thirds of the forty-four missions to Mars have failed. There’s a reason space experts call Mars the “death planet.”
3. Clothes make the man . . . or break the man.
Currently, there are no specifications for the spacesuits. How will they be pressurised? And cooled? What happens if they tear? How reliable will they be, day in, day out, all that distance across the solar system? Mars is a long way away from the nearest tailor.
4. Basic human needs are not so basic.
There’ll be no readily available oxygen, water, or food. Sure, the crew can take supplies, and with the right technology and enough money, they can try to deal with these issues. They can probably find a way to create oxygen from the carbon dioxide that’s already abundant on Mars. They can attempt to extract water from ice deposits or hydrated minerals. And hopefully, with research into the Martian environment, they can grow crops to feed astronauts in future years. However, each of these is a delicate process. It takes only one small setback, and the results could be catastrophic. Leaks can occur. Crops can fail. Let’s face it: currently, the Mars Project doesn’t even know how basic sanitation will work. How will the crew dispose of their own waste? This could get messy.
5. Rad
iation, radiation, radiation.
Space is full of particles released by the sun and stars. On Earth, we are protected from them by the geomagnetic field and the ozone layer. Space has neither of these things, and Mars’s magnetic field is low. To travel to Mars, stay for five hundred days, and then return would likely expose astronauts to around 1 sievert of radiation. This presumes that the astronauts wouldn’t get hit by a solar flare along the way, which could be fatal. The European Space Agency limits its astronauts to 1 sievert of radiation over an entire career. People exposed to this level of radiation have a 5 percent increased risk of dying from cancer. But the astronauts will not be living on Mars for only five hundred days. They will be living there forever.
6. Low gravity is, er, a grave subject.
The longest a human has spent in space is 437 days. The change in gravity during a long space mission has been seen to affect the body in the following ways: loss of bone and muscle mass, depleted calcium supplies, optical deterioration. It’s possible that by the time humans reach Mars, their bodies will be so negatively affected by the gravitational changes that they won’t be able to stand or see. The gravity on Mars is a third of what it is here on Earth. So even if the astronauts make it there intact, what next?
7. Life on Mars?Not for much longer.
The Outer Space Treaty of 1967 forbids the “harmful contamination” of alien environments. Yet if the crew don’t have the correct procedures in place to protect any living matter that might already be on the planet, chances are they’ll infect and/or kill it. And it’s entirely possible that if there is something there, it could do the same to them.
8. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Mars is dirty. Sandstorms last for weeks at a time. Dust can rip a spacesuit, clog a door seal, break machinery, or stop a solar panel from working. It’s also high in perchlorates: toxic salts that damage the thyroid gland, weaken the immune system, and disrupt the menstrual cycle. The astronauts had better cross their fingers that these toxins don’t find a way into their food or water.
9. What’s the long game?
How is the civilisation on Mars meant to sustain itself? We can’t keep replenishing the stock of humans on Mars from Earth. Isn’t the ultimate goal that they’re able to replenish themselves? Unless artificial gravity works effectively, intercourse is a massive hurdle (possibly the recent invention of the 2suit, an intimate spacesuit that accommodates two, could help with this), and besides, it’s still not known whether humans are capable of conceiving in space. Even if it is possible, there’s no scientific data on whether their foetuses can develop normally during the gestation period. And, if a human can be born in space, what will it look like? Will it make it to puberty, or die young and in agony?
10. Mad for it.
Astronauts find it hard to doze off in zero gravity, so sleep deprivation is a problem. Plus, there are the very real risks of living in confined spaces for extended periods of time. The MARS-500 project in Moscow, simulating a round trip to Mars, ended with four of the six test subjects suffering psychologically. And that was in the space of seventeen months. Even with the most stringent testing beforehand, it’s impossible to predict how people will react once they embark on a mission like this. How will astronauts cope with the idea of never returning to Earth? Leaving their families behind? Never seeing another tree, bird, or coffee shop? And if just one crew member can’t handle the mission, what happens to the rest?
28
First Response: two pink lines. Lloyds Pharmacy own brand: a blue cross. Clearblue Digital: “Pregnant.”
I always thought that when I eventually saw a positive test, I’d look back upon the act that had created the new life inside me with wonder. An erotic memory to savour forever.
Here’s what I recall. It was the first full day back from my dive. I was nauseous and exhausted. I didn’t realise that it was my fertile window because I’d switched off my app alerts, but perhaps James knew and that’s why he initiated it.
“It’s good to have you back,” he said in my ear a little too loudly, moments after I woke. “My sourdough starter has become sluggish, but I’ll nip out for some Danish pastries.” After we finished having sex, I said, “Actually, could I have a sausage roll please?”
It took me a while to put two and two together after I fainted at the Eden Project. I thought I’d started my period that day, but it must have been implantation bleeding. Ever since I took that first test, though, the symptoms have become obvious. Sore breasts. Constantly needing the loo. Headaches. I even convinced myself I had a heightened sense of smell this morning when I opened the fridge, but it could have just been that the milk was off.
Going by the date of my last period, I’m five weeks and five days pregnant. According to one website I read, that means the spinal column is in place, and the embryo may have a heartbeat. Already, so much about this baby has been predetermined. Its sex, its eye colour, its predisposition for certain diseases.
Even after I saw one positive test, I braved the first rain we’ve had in weeks to buy more. It was so strange, walking down the street with this enormous secret. I wondered if people could tell just by looking at me. I felt so responsible all of a sudden—so fierce—like a lioness protecting her cub. Every elbow and handbag became a potential hazard, and I put my hand over my belly, protecting the tiny spark inside me from harm.
Once I had the three positive tests lined up, I stopped testing and cried. All these months of beating myself up, telling myself I’d left it too late, eaten too much junk food, drunk too much wine, not been committed enough to the cause . . . was I finally allowed to go easy on myself?
I always felt certain that if I could just get pregnant, I’d know that this was what I’d wanted all along. The problem was that I’d had all those months to stew over the pros and cons. Yes: now that I’m pregnant, I know. This baby is for me. James is for me. The future is laid out for us, at last. It’s a relief to surrender control. It’s good that I didn’t have to officially “quit” diving. The decision has been made for me.
Last night, I cooked James a special dinner. Newlyn hake with black olives, puy lentils, and a baked potato. All pregnancy-safe ingredients. I felt so maternal as I mashed the black olives and spread them over the pale flesh of the fish. I set the table with candles and a bunch of anemones from the garden, and then I laid out the onesie that I’ve been keeping balled up in my sock drawer for the last three months. There was something accusatory about the way the octopus’s tentacles reached out towards me as I laid it out on the tabletop, but I heard James opening the front door before I had the chance to change my mind about it.
“Are those beluga lentils?” James said when he saw the table. Followed by: “Ooh. Candles.”
Then he saw the onesie. He stroked the octopus’s tentacles, and I noticed that they didn’t seem accusatory with him. It was like they were beckoning him closer.
James looked up at me, tears in his eyes, and said, “Really?”
I nodded and laughed, and we hugged, and our kisses were warm seawater, and we were being baptised and reborn. It didn’t matter that there’d ever been any doubt, any obstacles. We’d been rescued from our shipwreck, and we were safe on board a new vessel together.
Today, I’ve been on my own all day while James is at work.
I went for a run this morning, though it was more of a jog. Knowing that there’s a baby inside me is a little off-putting. I know it’s silly, but I worry that I’ll shake it free of the womb lining or jolt it too hard and damage it. I’m focusing on tamer activities now. This afternoon, I did the laundry and took Cola for a walk around the park, although he lay down whimpering most of the time.
It’s weird how life goes on in the midst of something like this. Plates still need cleaning. Carpets need hoovering. My dad had a fall at lunchtime and had to go to the doctor’s. He’s fine, but it was weird chatting to him and not being able to tell him my news. You’re a granddad! I wanted to shout. You’re a grandda
d to a three-layered embryo, the size of a sesame seed! I told him I hoped his bruised coccyx felt better soon.
James will be back in an hour. Not too much longer until we can daydream about parenthood together again. We’re having leftovers tonight, so I don’t have to do any prep for that. The only thing to do is wait.
And look at my phone.
And check for updates on the Mars Project.
And reread the article that Anouk sent me about the project’s many dangers.
And accept that the dangers don’t put me off. The sesame seed in my womb doesn’t put me off.
Valentina Tereshkova happens to have a daughter, but she still wants a one-way ticket to Mars. Elon Musk, who has five sons, wants one too. Richard Branson has two kids, and has said he’d do it in the last ten years of his life. How he’ll predict that one, I don’t know, but I’ll happily meet him there. Me, Tereshkova, Musk, Branson. Think of the dinner parties.
I haven’t told Anouk what I made of the article. I haven’t told her about being pregnant either. James has promised he won’t say anything before I do. I know she’ll be pleased—but she’ll assume I’m giving up the astronaut stuff. I want to enjoy the pregnancy for a bit longer before Anouk starts trying to scare me again.
As for James, I’m going to tell him about Mars very soon. James is a supportive guy. I’m sure he’ll understand my reasons for wanting to go. I just don’t know if he’ll understand my reasons for not wanting to stay.
I switch off my phone and put it down on the coffee table. I get up from the sofa and plump up the cushions. As I do this, I feel a wetness between my legs. That’ll be the increased discharge I’ve read about. It’s disgusting having to get used to things like the texture and colour of the mucus that seeps from you during pregnancy. But surprising how quickly it becomes normal. I head up to the bathroom.
As I sit on the toilet, I look down at my knickers. But I don’t see any mucus. I see a bright red smudge. In the centre of the smudge is a clot. Looks like a slice of liver. It’s the size of a sesame seed.
Bright and Dangerous Objects Page 12
