Losing Mars

by Peter Cawdron

  “Cory? Are you reading us?”

  My voice is croaky. “Yeah. I’m…” I don’t know what to say. I’m swinging in a wide circle centered on the Huŏxīng Wu but, with my back to the craft, all I see is Phobos drifting by to my right and the enormous sphere of Mars to my left. With each revolution, the Redstone appears briefly above me, probably not more than five meters away, so close I feel as though I could reach out and grab at the open hatch. Each revolution lasts twenty seconds and leaves me feeling disoriented and a little sick. I’m caught in a cosmic washing machine but, for now, my body goes limp as my mind rushes to catch up with what just happened to me.

  “What was it? What did you see?”

  “Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  “I don’t understand.” Jen is kind. I’m not sure what I feel right now. Relief? Loss? Exhaustion? The mix of conflicting emotions is overwhelming. On one hand, all this was over—gone. No more Mars. No Phobos. No spaceships and spacesuits. Was that moment real? Sure seemed real. If something perfectly mimics reality, how is it not real? Jen brings me back to myself. “You said you saw her. Did you see Hedy in there?”

  “Yes… I mean, no. She’s not inside the craft, but she is in there.”

  “You’re not making any sense. In where?”

  As I swing in yet another arc, I sail past the Redstone again. The craft is just beyond me, but the original tether is still there, drifting to one side. Because it’s inline with the hatch on the Chinese vessel, I can reach it on the next revolution. I detach the tether connecting me with the Huŏxīng Wu but dare not let go, wrapping it around my hand. I’m no longer clipped in, which is stupidly dangerous. At the moment, I have significant angular momentum. As soon as I let go, that’s going to translate into me shooting off in a straight line. If that particular line doesn’t intersect with the Redstone, I’m screwed. I’ll sail off into space only to be lost in some crazy orbit, soaring around Mars until my oxygen supply fails. There aren’t any Iron Man jets in this suit or anything I can use to maneuver. I’ll be lost. A popsicle. An artificial satellite doomed to circle the planet for tens of millions of years before eventually colliding with it as a meteor, but if I can grab the original tether as I swing past, I can switch back to the Redstone.

  I turn, with my arm outstretched, focusing on timing and reach. What’s important now is to avoid panicking and overthinking.

  Again the Redstone comes into view. Shepard has fallen silent. They know. They’ve figured it out. They’re holding their breath. Not this time, though. This is a training run. There’s no rush in space. I watch as my hand passes within inches of the other tether. I could reach for it but I resist the temptation. If I bump it, I’ll send it careening away from me. Patience. Next time. I know exactly where to position my hand. I need an open glove, a gentle touch. A tight grip. Release with one hand, grab with the other. Just like switching vines while swinging through the jungle, only in space. Eat your heart out, Tarzan.

  There she is again, the Redstone. I grab the original tether with my right hand but the strap linking me to the Chinese vessel is still tangled around my left glove. Shit. Fuck. I shake my wrist, flipping my gloved hand. If I can’t free it in the next fraction of a second, the momentum of the spinning Huŏxīng Wu is going to wrench me away from the Redstone, throwing me in a chaotic tumble. I’ll lose the original tether. It’ll recoil away from me, while there’s a good chance I’ll lose the Chinese tether as well. Damn. I whip my arm around, feeling the strap come loose, being pulled away from me by the spinning craft.

  I’m tumbling as I sail off in a straight line, passing in front of the Redstone. The original tether flexes and coils, being pulled along with me. Within a second or two, it’ll be fully extended and will jerk out from beneath my fingers. I madly fiddle with the cable. Thick gloved fingers struggle to open the tether clip. I push, trying to get it hooked onto the carabiner by my waist. There’s no sound. That’s the frustrating thing about all this. Everything’s happening in complete and utter silence, punctuated only by my frantic breathing. I crunch over, wanting to get a good look at the clip. Phobos whips by as I tumble. Mars is a blur. The tether goes taut as my fingers pull away from the locking mechanism.

  I’m jerked to a halt some fifteen meters from the Redstone, hyperventilating under the pressure of the moment. Phobos is unmoved. Dark shadows stretch across the craters. The terminator passes, plunging me from light into darkness. Night falls within seconds in orbit.

  There’s a pensive, “Cory?”

  “Yeah. I’m here. I’m good. I’m okay.”

  There’s something horribly unsettling about there being nothing solid in space. It’s hard to feel grounded when there’s no ground beneath my feet. Being in orbit is physically akin to falling, something Homo sapiens are acutely predisposed to hate. On Earth, a fall of more than a story is often fatal. I’m not afraid of heights, but this is different. It’s psychosomatic. No amount of rational thought can displace the terror of feeling as though I’m constantly accelerating. It’s as though I’ve plummeted off a cliff. Within the confines of the Redstone, it’s bearable, but out here it’s as though I’m plunging to my death, falling into eternity. I turn away from the darkness, pulling on the tether and reeling myself in to the Redstone. With just one tug, I propel myself toward safety.

  After working myself inside the spacecraft, I wind in the tether and close the hatch.

  Jen asks, “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.” Jen is kind. If it was just her on the line, she’d be more blunt, using just one word: liar. “You can’t keep going like this.”

  There’s too much to do without thinking about myself. I strap myself into the command seat and set the cabin to pressurize, instructing the flight system to retreat to 250 meters, placing the Redstone midway between the Huŏxīng Wu and the Schiaparelli. I should dock with the Schiaparelli but I’m exhausted. The Redstone isn’t the only one running on autopilot.

  Nothing much is said for the next few minutes, but that doesn’t mean there’s no activity. I bet they’re madly debating the options back at Shepard.

  The instrumentation panel highlights that the air within the cabin is breathable, so I crack my helmet open.

  “I—I…”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Oh, Jen knows me so well. She understands precisely what’s driving me. She’s trying to ease my conscious. Mr. Fix It. If only it had be me on that initial EVA. If I’d gone in ahead of Hedy, she’d still be here. We’d both be here, I tell myself, even though that too is a lie. I let her go out there. Is this my fault? No, but it feels like it’s my failing.

  My heart physically hurts. Poor damn thing has been trying it’s best to burst through my rib cage. It’s only now that I can rest I realize how tired I am. My arms ache. The muscles stretching across my chest feel tight, constricted. My body has been functioning at the level of an elite athlete, only I’m no Olympian—certainly not after sixteen months of space travel, with the last nine spent in the low gravity well of Mars.

  I twist my helmet to one side, removing it along with my gloves, and stow them in the storage rack.

  “You need to eat. You need to rest.”

  She’s right. Of course she is. As for me? I’d like to think I’m a robot. I’ll keep pushing, keep trying, driving harder, but I’m not a machine. My body has limits. I climb out of my spacesuit, but instead of stowing it, I simply push it to one side. I’m past caring.

  “There’s nothing more you could have done.”

  Maybe, but I dare not say that, not because of anything she’ll say in response, but because for me, it’s an admission of defeat.

  I pull the snoopy cap from my head. It’s wet—soaked with sweat.

  “You need to drink.”

  I grab a plastic bottle, squeezing rather than sucking. The water tastes horrible, but she’s right, I’m severely dehydrated.

  “Eat.”

  W
e’re down to single word commands now, and no response from me, but she can see me on the cabin video feed. I grab something quick and easy from the pantry. Chewing on a protein bar is like eating cardboard, but my body is screaming for sustenance. I know what’s coming next, and I hate it. I don’t want to admit to failing Hedy, but Jen knows. I’m not saying anything and perhaps that speaks loudest of all. Jen’s seen me sullen before. She understands I’ve reached my limit.

  “NASA has sent through TAV.”

  I bet they were horrified by what just happened and how I skirted with disaster, but I had to try. I couldn’t just leave Hedy there, not without giving her a chance.

  “Their recommendation is an eight hour rest cycle and then initiate the return sequence. They want you home.”

  I hang my head. I have no fight left. She’s right. They’re right. I’m wrong.

  “Copy that.”

  I dim the lights in the cabin and crawl into a sleeping bag, defeated and distraught.

  I hate myself.

  Going Home

  “Good morning.”

  I blink, unsure where I am. A spasm rips through my body as the sensation of falling off a cliff seizes me for the briefest moment. I grab at the material floating loosely around me, keeping a warm pocket of air near my skin, and with that, I’m awake. Like sunrise in orbit, the transition between slumber and consciousness is almost instantaneous.

  Good morning? At first, good registers as friendly and inviting. Then the realization of all that happened yesterday kicks in and it seems unduly cruel. I know it’s not intended that way, but I feel like shit.

  I reply with, “Morning.”

  I go to move. Everything aches.

  “Ow!”

  “Sore, huh.”

  I’m not dumb. I’m being stage managed. Again. Having Jen talk in a casual, informal manner is out of kindness on her part—or perhaps it’s a deliberate strategy by Scott. Or Houston? Probably both.

  “Yeah, a little stiff.”

  “You’ve built up considerable lactic acid in your muscles. You need to get on the exercise bike.”

  I make my way to the bathroom, leaving the lights off, maneuvering in the dim light coming in through the windows. The stars look incredible. There are thousands of them, seemingly just outside the window, lighting up like fireflies. After the best part of a year staring at stars through a dust haze, and with my eyes perfectly adjusted to the dark, they’re beautiful—radiant.

  I relieve myself, taking all the usual precautions in microgravity—Velcro strap, funnel, suction, and a wet wipe.

  I drift to one of the windows, peering out at the darkness. Phobos is pitch black while Mars is hidden in dark shadows. The stars, though. The stars are alive.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Eleven hours.”

  “Eleven hours?”

  “You were tired.”

  I bring up the cabin lights.

  “What’s the plan?”

  My question sounds casual enough, but I know damn well they’ve been rehearsing this moment. Shepard and Houston will have discussed this at length. I might have been asleep for eleven hours, but I doubt anyone else was, or if they were, it would have been in shifts as the discussion unfolded with thirty minute delays between various points. I’ve been on those conference calls. It’s hard to get anything else done when you’re waiting on a reply, wondering how your argument has been received, worried you’ve said too much, or perhaps too little.

  “Dawn breaks in just over forty minutes. Plan is to dock with the Schiaparelli. Lisa’s already uploaded the flight parameters. All you need to do is punch that big green button.”

  “I can do that.” I’m quick to reply. They need to know there’s no resistance on my part. I tried. I thought I could reach Hedy, but I was wrong. I forget how much air she had—maybe seven to eight hours. She died while I slept. I fucking hate that, but Jen was right in what she said to me last night. There was nothing more I could do. As it was, I did too much, endangering myself and the Redstone.

  There’s silence. I think they expected a fight, but what other options are there? When we launched, we thought the surviving Chinese had at least some internal power and could maintain cabin pressure, but they too were forced into their suits. They too must be dead. There’s nothing keeping me here. There’s nothing else to be done other than leave. I’m resigned to that.

  “Any TAV?”

  Hah, what a question, Cory. Of course there was TAV from Houston—far more than we’ve ever received before. I bet they’ve still got TAV rolling in down there at Shepard. If anything, it’s probably coming in faster than they can process.

  “They saw everything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  That’s not what I’m asking. I’d like to know what they made of the encounter. Jen knows that, but she’s giving the correct answer rather than the one she knows I want to hear. NASA isn’t going to risk having me freak out again.

  “And?”

  “The recommendation is to avoid any further interaction.”

  “Understood.”

  Recommendations are the NASA equivalent of a dressing-down. It’s a polite way of saying, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Stay on task.”

  For all the conniptions my stupidity caused, I bet they’re poring over the results. I doubt the video caught anything even remotely similar to what I experienced, but that, in itself, would be telling. From what I said, they’d infer I was hallucinating but I could interact with the tether and the craft. Given my reactions, it was clear I could hear Jen in the background. I bet they’re examining everything from my body temperature to my heart rate, breathing tempo, etc. The scientists at NASA can tease meaningful data from the most obscure sources at rates that defy belief. When Juno went into orbit around Jupiter, it broadcast with the strength of a cell phone at a distance of 600 million miles, but AT&T drops my cell phone calls while driving through the Appalachians. After almost twelve hours, I have no doubt NASA has formulated a very clear understanding of what we’re dealing with.

  “You know you can tell me, right?”

  There’s no answer, but that doesn’t mean there’s no consideration given to my request. On the contrary, Scott, Sue, Jen and Lisa will be madly debating just how much they should reveal to me. I know what I need to say to assure them. Regardless of how cruel and sterile it sounds, they need to understand my perspective.

  “Hedy’s gone. She’s beyond help now.” Even though I said that, I can’t bring myself to say the obvious, she’s dead. “There’s nothing more to be done. While she was alive, there was hope. But not now.”

  “Your video went viral.”

  “Oh, I bet.”

  Lisa comes on the channel. “I—I appreciate what you tried to do. It was stupid, but thank you.”

  “It was pretty dumb, huh? I only wish I could have pulled it off.”

  Scott’s more chirpy.

  “Well, you certainly created a stir.”

  “Yeah, I’m guessing the conspiracy theorists are having a field day with this, right? Aliens and shit.”

  “Oh, there’s been plenty of the Martian-rocks-are-gerbils sightings, if that’s what you mean. Supposedly, we’re sitting in the middle of a field full of alien rabbits or something. And you. Well, you’re king of the rabbits.” He laughs. “Copy-cat sightings are going through the roof. There’s one of those things in Omaha, apparently.”

  “Do they know what it is?”

  “No, but they’ve got some ideas about its function and method of operation... They’re calling it an active defense mechanism. They think the hallucinations are a deterrent. Kind of like magic mushrooms, I guess.”

  Having lived through the encounter, I disagree. I choose my words carefully, knowing they’ll be scrutinized by everyone from the scientists at NASA to the President of the United States to some guy mowing grass with a ride-on tractor in Wisconsin or wherever.

  “It’s bait.”

  Lisa
can’t help herself. “Bait?”

  I feel as though I’m speaking for Hedy as well when I say, “We didn’t see anything threatening or scary. It was a lure. A bit of meat stuck on a hook and dangled in the water. We saw what we wanted to see. It—It’s like it knew us, knew our deepest desires, our fears, our concerns, our hopes for the future, and it played on those things to lower our defenses.”

  There’s silence on the channel.

  “I was dragged onto a late night talk show. I was flattered, praised as a hero, saving the Chinese astronauts and apparently averting a war on Earth. I—I mean, it was entirely fictitious, but it was precisely what would inflate my ego.”

  I breathe deeply, trying to stay objective and give the team back on Earth something to work with. Having slept for so long, I’m fresh, able to think clearly, staying aloof from my own experience, seeing it for what it was. It’s as though I’m recalling the key plot points from a movie. I know this next part is going to hurt Lisa, but it has to be said.

  “Hedy was there, and not just in my imagination. It was her, I’m sure of it. We were in a shared dream. We were both interacting with it—whatever the hell it is. There were other people there too—a stage manager, a TV host, several cameramen, a bunch of people in a studio audience, but they were synthetic. They fit in too well. They were too convincing, but Hedy... Hedy had a glazed look in her eyes.”

  In my imagination, I can feel Lisa’s heart breaking thousands of miles below on the dusty plains of Mars. I can see the tears rolling down her cheeks, but she remains professional, listening carefully.

  “When that didn’t work, in the blink of an eye, I was in a maternity ward.”

  Jen says, “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes. A child. A baby. Our baby. And she was, she was so incredibly beautiful. I—It was overwhelming. That thing knew what I wanted to see. It was luring me within the Huŏxīng Wu.”