Behind her, people are still taking their seats. The stage manager calls out, “We’re live in fifteen seconds.”
Although the show is being broadcast live, it’s the re-runs schedule for next week that interest me most. One of them is going to catch the eye of my grandson and he’s going to drag a rather dazed old man over to the couch to watch.
Rachel excuses herself. I take my seat across the table from her. Like most people in the late twenty first century, it’s not possible to determine her age. Gene therapy has changed that. Forever Twenty One, they call it, but although the cosmetic effect is nice, there’s still no cure for senility. Oh, it’s been deferred for another twenty to thirty years, with the average life expectancy in the US now well over a hundred, but the brain still wears out even though the body looks great.
Rachel is in her mid-thirties going on seventy, if I was to guess. Me? I’m eighty seven and proud to look as wrinkled as a prune. People hide from death. No one wants to get old, but the alternative is grim when you think about it. Personally, I’m quite happy to embrace my age. I take a few treatments, just enough to keep me happy and healthy without aches and pains, but not so much as to live in denial. It’s a personal choice, I guess.
A holographic projection in front of us counts down from ten, disappearing at four, leaving us to mentally step through the last few seconds. Holographic cameras work by combining images from multiple angles so it’s difficult to know where to look when there are ten cameras set on various sides, evenly spaced around the stage. A green light shifts from one camera to another, directing my gaze.
“Good evening, and welcome to The Final Frontier. This week, I’m honored to have one of the original explorers on Mars with me in the studio—Shepard astronaut and Redstone pilot Cory Anderson.”
There’s wild applause followed by cheering from the crowd, which takes me back a little. I’ve never thought of myself as a celebrity. I know others do, but I’ve never been comfortable with that social status.
Pilot or passenger? I got some damn good mileage out of being officially designated as the pilot even though Hedy conducted the launch from Mars and the flight back to Earth. Some pilot I am. My only claim to fame is crashing on Phobos. I smile warmly.
“Fifty years ago this week you were involved in the most audacious rescue in the history of space flight. But back here on Earth, you’ve avoided public life for half a century. Can I start by asking you why?”
I was ready for this. The studio has been kind, providing me with a list of questions prior to the interview.
“Sure. It’s a good question. For me, the answer is simple—public life isn’t what it seems. Some people embrace it. Some do very well with all the attention. Me? I’m no hero. On returning to Earth, I was fêted by kings and queens, presidents and prime ministers. It’s not real, you know. Oh, the attention seems real, but it’s an illusion, flattering the ego. For me, it was too much. It made me out to be something I wasn’t. I’m just a farmer from Nebraska that somehow ended up walking on another world.”
“You’re very modest.”
“I prefer the term grounded—realistic.”
Rachel gestures to the audience. “To a lot of us, you are a real American hero.”
“I’m not.”
Those two words are all I can manage. A lump forms in my throat. This is the hardest part of these interviews—dealing with the guilt. I’m no hero. I’ve deceived eight billion people. My eyes stray from the cameras, looking past their dark outlines, focusing on the audience lost in the glare. I can’t help it. I can’t look at those dark, impersonal glass lenses. It takes me a moment to compose myself.
Who the hell am I to sit in judgement of humanity? Who am I to deny billions access to technology that could usher in a new era and save untold lives? I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this.
I still remember the exact moment this particular realization flooded my mind. One second, I was in the tunnels beneath Phobos, the next I was walking up to my mother at Thanksgiving. In an instant, my awareness was transformed. It took me some time to articulate what I felt, but at that exact moment I knew I was in an impossible situation. There were only two choices. Both of them imperfect. Reveal what I’d found and risk destroying my own species or lie to protect humanity from itself.
At some point next week, I’ll sit on a couch watching this interview. Well, not me. Past me. And not this exact portion, just a few minutes of footage after the first ad break.
What am I going to tell myself? Back on Phobos, I swore I’d do better. I told myself then I’d be kind, that I’d somehow explain the future in more detail. I don’t even have to say anything specific during the interview. I can wait until the switch takes place and I’m transported back through spacetime to that dark, cold, lifeless chasm on Phobos. I could leave audio. I could, but I won’t. Why? Because it’s not fair. No one should be forced to carry the burden of knowing the future. Nothing I say will make any difference. Besides, anything I say could jeopardize the thousands of decisions I’ve made since then, or perhaps weaken my resolve. I guess I’m still living up to those two words: Choose wisely.
If I’m wrong... If some war-like alien species arrives in orbit and we’re not prepared, I’ll go down in history as a traitor—assuming there’s anyone left to write the history books.
At some point, someone is going to figure out this ruse. In a thousand years time, I’ll be infamous for conducting the single biggest lie ever perpetuated on Homo sapiens, but I hope those future generations understand why. I hope they realize it’s their lives I saved, not just the taikonauts. I hope that, by then, we’ve grown up a little and can handle that alien knowledge.
My host is taken back by my silence. She’s probably wondering what turmoil she’s stirred within these aging brain cells.
“Heroes,” I say, measuring my words with precision, “Heroes are what we want them to be, what we imagine them to be. In reality, there are no heroes. We’re all just human.”
Rachel nods, although I’m not sure she agrees. She moves onto the next question.
“Are you surprised by the controversy that still surrounds the rescue after all these years?”
“Oh, the more years that pass, the worse it gets.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Conspiracy theories. They become stronger as time goes on, not weaker. It’s the great irony of history. Are we hiding alien remains at Roswell? No. Did we fake the moon landing? No. Did I drink beer with ET on Phobos? No. But like all of these wild ideas, the more time that transpires, the more fleeting people’s memories become and the easier it is to promote absurd concepts.”
Rachel nods, agreeing with me, but we both know she has more questions to ask along these lines. Public interest demands answers.
“What do you say to those people that complain about the fourteen hours worth of lost footage?”
I laugh, making light of the question. “Honestly? Making a documentary wasn’t high on my list of priorities. I’d just crashed on a moon! I thought I was going to die down there. I was doing everything I could to get off that rock. Making a video diary was not on my agenda.
“I lost Mars. People forget that. They get swept up with these wild ideas and flights of fantasy and forget about what actually happened. I almost died out there. You know what would have been really nice? It would have been great if there were aliens helping me out. I sure as hell could have used a spare wheel, a tire jack and a bunch of jumper cables when I crashed on Phobos.”
I’m not sure she gets my cryptic reference. I doubt anyone’s changed a car tire in forty or fifty years, but she moves on.
“Over the decades, you’ve lobbied the United Nations for Phobos to be declared a historic site like Tranquility Base on the Moon. Last year, they agreed to that and have added Stickney Crater to the list of sites protected by the Universal Historic Preservation Act. Can you tell me why that was so important to you?”
I shift in my sea
t. This is a point I really want to drive home. What I’m about to say isn’t actually a lie, but it is a carefully constructed argument designed to hide the truth.
“It’s about protecting what we have today for generations to come. I think it was President Roosevelt that came up with the concept of national parks way back in 1901. Without him, we’d have casinos in Yosemite, hotels in the Grand Canyon, and fast food restaurants under the natural arch. Can you imagine that?
“I just don’t think you can over emphasize the need for today’s generation to protect these historic sites for the future. Neil Armstrong died when I was three, but his footsteps live on, imprinted in the soft dust on the lunar surface. They inspired me to become an astronaut, and they’ll remain in the lunar soil for millions of years after I’m gone. In the same way, the crash site of the Redstone and the remains of the Chinese lander will outlast us all, and that’s important.”
“Why is it important?”
“For the exact reason we’ve just discussed—conspiracy theories. I may grow old and die, but those remains up there are a testimony to what actually happened. Remember, there were four taikonauts. Only two of them made it home. Disturbing that site would be like desecrating a grave.”
Oh, Cory, that’s hitting a little too close to the truth given the alien bodies lying beneath the surface of Phobos.
Rachel counters with, “You’re very passionate about this.”
“I am,” I say. “It’s all I have. It’s my legacy.”
“So you don’t want people walking around there taking souvenirs.”
“Absolutely not. This world. This solar system. The universe at large. It’s not ours. We’re only here for a brief moment in time, just a slight flicker of the second hand on the grand celestial clock. We have no right to deface what we’ve inherited. We have a responsibility to steward what we have for the future.”
“And the colonization of Mars?” she asks. “Do you agree with plans to terraform Mars?”
“I’m a pragmatist,” I reply, looking her in the eye. “We need to spread out from Earth, but not as vandals or like the Mongol hordes sweeping across Asia and Europe. We’ve destroyed too many rainforests, driven too many species to extinction. Have we learned nothing? Do you think Mars is going to save us? Or will we junk the red planet as well?
“We’ve got to stop being selfish and self-centered. For me, the greatest thing VeRST showed us is that we’re just one among potentially tens of thousands of inhabited planets in this galaxy alone. Truth is, the Milky Way doesn’t revolve around us.”
I wave my hand through the air, making as though I’m being dismissive. “Go ahead. Transform Mars, but for all you’ll gain, there’s so much more you’ll lose. As for me, I’d rather see enclaves, isolated terraformed domes, with most of the planet being preserved for future generations.”
To her credit, Rachel is engrossed in the discussion. She’s smart. She may not have considered this perspective before, but she sees the logic in my position.
“What about science? Is science going to save us?”
Oh she’s sharp. I can see the twinkle in her eye. Her question is suggestive. Without raising the subject of religion, she’s invoked the concept by talking about salvation. As her question is unscripted, this is something she’s genuinely curious about. Given she’s talking to someone with a doctorate in both astrophysics and biology, on top of being an astronaut, it’s pretty clear where I stand on science, but I won’t be drawn on religion. People have to make up their own minds.
“There’s a common misunderstanding when it comes to science that it’s all for the benefit of humanity. That’s not true. Not everything is about us. We’re not saving the Great Barrier Reef because it’s pretty to look at. We’re saving it because it’s the right thing to do. If we only protected those animals we cared about, our biodiversity would consist of cows, chickens and pigs. No, science is bigger than that. Science is an attempt to remove our emotions and ego from reality. Anything less is selfish and misguided. As for saving us. Do we need saving? Perhaps what we need is to grow up a little.”
Rachel shifts in her seat, feeling uncomfortable with my response. Not the answer she was looking for. She looks at the teleprompter, picking up the next question. The effect is such that it seems she’s addressing the audience rather than me. Her makeup is perfect, her smile hypnotic, while her words are piercing.
“What about Commander Hedy Washington? She’s never spoken publicly about what happened beyond endorsing your comments. Don’t you find that strange?”
I shift in my seat, feeling uncomfortable.
“Hedy was there. She knows the truth.”
“Then why won’t she say something?”
“For the same reason you don’t debate anti-vaxxers, or creationists. Giving these voices a platform only fuels the madness. They’re not going to change their minds, so why drag the truth into the gutter?”
Strictly speaking, this isn’t quite a lie. Hedy knows. She hasn’t said anything but I know she does. When I heard Lisa was in labor, I flew to Rochester. I felt I had to be there, not for Lisa, but for Hedy, because I knew what Hedy was about to go through back in orbit around Mars. One moment, watching the birth of her daughter—the next, adrift in the dark, empty tomb of a Chinese spacecraft.
When I walked in to the hospital room, Lisa was comforting young Jasmine—six and a half pounds in weight and nineteen inches of pinkish yellow joy (she was born with a slight case of jaundice). I brought a bouquet—brilliant sunflowers and sprigs of red chrysanthus along with daisies and an assortment of carnations. The card attached to the ribbon had just two words on it, “She’s beautiful.”
Lisa smiled. Hedy’s face dropped. It was as though I was laying a wreath at a funeral. She didn’t say anything, not in front of Lisa, but she knew why I was really there. I could see it in her dark eyes. She understood. In that moment, she knew it was all a lie and she knew why. She never said as much to me, but I’m sure she agrees with my decision. I stayed for maybe fifteen minutes. Seven hours flight time each way, with two layovers, all for fifteen minutes and a couple of photos, but Hedy understood.
As I left, we hugged and she whispered in my ear, “Some things are best left behind.” I nodded and haven’t seen her since. In some ways, I wish we’d spoken more. She was there. She understands the power. She’s the only other person on the planet that realizes what I’ve been through, but it’s too much, even for her. I’m sure she’s wondered, though.
Hedy’s smart. She knows the risks. For her, all the pieces would have fallen into place the moment I walked into that hospital room, but she dares not venture down that path for fear Lisa will figure it out too. That’s the danger. Ours is a secret that cannot be shared because the consequences of humanity realizing what lies in wait on Phobos are too devastating. She must have lay awake at night, staring into the darkness just like I have so often, reliving those moments in orbit, piecing together the fragments, arriving at the same conclusion. I bet it tears at her heart to pass over the scientific prospects, realizing the danger to our species and all that would be lost. I respect her for that.
Every year since that day, without fail, I get a Christmas card from her and Lisa. There’s always a photograph inside—a family portrait allowing me to see how Jasmine has grown. Sometimes the images are professional, having been taken in a studio. Others are simply a casual shot on an old covered bridge, or in a forest, or with some rugged mountain in the background, but without fail, the words within the card are to the effect of, “Always thinking of you. Always thankful. Love, The Washingtons.”
The handwriting is always cursive, always written by Hedy and never the distinct print style used by Lisa. I understand why. Hedy and I are kindred spirits separated in space, not time. For us, time will always be in flux. There will always be a part of us trapped in orbit around Mars.
I’ve wondered what the taikonauts experienced before we arrived in orbit. They were uncomfortably quiet d
uring our return flight even though they spoke broken English. I think they were too keen for a logical explanation, anything other than talk about aliens. They were willing to embrace anything that didn’t make them sound mad. Only one of the survivors had actually been down to the surface, Zhang Wei. We stayed in touch over the years. Once he spoke to me about dreams—dreams so real he couldn’t distinguish between them and reality. I think he doubted his sanity and so kept quiet. In the absence of anything else that made any sense he was happy to follow my lead. I suspect if Hedy had questioned my story he might have spoken up, but it seems she has no memory after being snatched from the Chinese craft.
Rachel brings me back to the present. “Can you tell us a little bit about your family life? You’ve been intensely private over the years. Why?”
“People will do extraordinarily dumb things when they’re obsessed with conspiracy theories. About a decade after we got back, I had a bunch of idiots show up at my kid’s school, wanting to catch me off guard, shouting and carrying placards. No child should have to go through the fear of seeing their dad accosted by a crowd of jeering, angry strangers, so yeah, we kept out of the limelight. Jen—Jennifer was very supportive.”
I find it difficult to talk about Jen. She died eighteen months ago from a brain aneurysm. After the memorial service, I stood by her coffin with my hand resting on the polished wood, whispering under my breath, swearing to her, telling her I could fix this. A slight smile came to my lips, something that must have confused anyone watching me a little too closely, but I knew what she would have said in response to that. “Let it go, Mr. Fix It,” but I also knew my time was coming again. I knew I’d once more be flung back beneath the surface of Phobos in those cold, dark, lifeless tunnels. I knew I’d have one more shot at stepping through time. If I could harness that moment, if I could master the alien intelligence as it surged through my mind I could still leave the message etched on the wall and bounce forward to save her. I could manipulate time to my advantage, all the while knowing my past self was still sitting on the couch watching the interview.
Losing Mars Page 27
