by Jim Melanson
At T-Minus 6 hours I began the final system conversions. This officially converted the Jalopy from transit vehicle to satellite. While I had been asleep, Flight Control was busy conducting tests on the camera packages, and everything checked out. They also got the Lander powered up and full diagnostics performed. They were able to do a portion of the systems conversion, but there were parts of it that had to be done locally.
Finished with the software, I made the final hardware configuration changes. I ensured all the hatches, compartments, and storage bins were secured, even though empty. I was ready to leave the Jalopy behind. It had been my home for the last 246 days, and I was glad to be rid of it. It had been a comfortable ride, but in the last couple months the walls had been closing in.
It was time put my Activity Suit on. It was quite different from my space suit. The Activity Suit was designed by MIT astronautics professionals for use on Mars’ surface. The Activity Suit did not need a pressure suit, as it maintained pressure mechanically (through fabric pressure) as Mars was not a total vacuum. It was much lighter and flexible than the pressure suit/space suit, and allowed freedom of movement. It was skin tight. There was still an inter-suit heating system, though it was only rated to -30 degrees Celsius. This was all that was technically required by the developers. Because of the harshness of the surface of Mars, especially the blowing sand and the winter temperatures at our colony site that would reach -120 degrees Celsius; I had an exterior jump suit that went over the Activity Suit. The two were attached at certain points so it was like having one of those jackets with the lining you could detach. The exterior jump suit was also air tight when worn properly, but it wasn’t pressurized. The exterior jump suit also had a heating system to provide the comfort and protection the Activity Suit couldn’t. Okay, maybe the jacket analogy isn’t great, but the two functioned as one as far as I was concerned. You could not wear the exterior jumpsuit without the Activity Suit because it wasn’t pressurized. If you did, you would die a relatively quick (though not instant), and painful death.
The exterior jump suit was five layers of carbon nano-tube reinforced Kevlar fabric. It even had an optional cowl with faceplate to protect my Activity Suit helmet during high winds and other hostile conditions. The exterior jump suit formed hard seals with the Activity Suit at the collar, wrists, and ankles. The Activity Suit had to stand up to the abrasive environment on the Martian surface, the bumps and falls of a klutz (yours truly), and it had to last a long time. The exterior jump suit was a vital part of the design. The actual Activity Suit and exterior jumpsuit I was putting on now had extra features for use in the space craft, but there was a day-to-day suit combo waiting for me in the habitat. Like the exterior of the MTV, the jump suit I wore on top of the Activity Suit was also black, not white like traditional space suits. The argument was this would absorb more heat on the daytime surface, making things easier on the suit’s heating systems. More than once, in the coming years, I would enjoy the benefit of the stealth properties of a black suit. The next time I took this suit off, I would be in the Habitat on Mars. The helmet and gloves were waiting for me in the Lander. The gloves and booties had to have some pressurization though, as there are simply too many bone joints in those areas for the mechanical aspects of the suit to be as effective as needed. Of course, I had Kevlar work gloves to go over the Activity Suit gloves. The boots themselves would have been the pride of any steel worker. After the suit was on, and the initial system check performed, I headed to the Lander tunnel and hatch.
After reaching orbit around Terra on ascent day, part of the long flights configuration was to detach the nose of the space ship from the transit vehicle and turn it around to re-dock it. I rode that candle up into the sky in the Lander craft. The Lander was the nose portion. In orbit we detached, moved the Lander forward about forty feet, manoeuvred it into the proper position, and then docked it with the Command Module. This procedure was almost identical to what the original Apollo astronauts did with the Lunar Lander when going to the moon. Of course, my ship was more spacious (designed for four people to be comfortable on an extended mission), and it was prettier.
During my journey, I rarely went into the Lander. There was no life support running in there, and the heat was kept to the bare minimum (15.6 degrees Celsius) to conserve energy and prevent condensation. When I arrived in Mars orbit, Flight Control had remotely turned everything on, powered it up, and ran all the system checks for me. All I had to do was stow the luggage, as it were. There was a short, one metre tunnel between the Lander and the Command Module vehicle with air tight hatches at both ends. The last two things I had to do were: turn out the lights, and transport the portable waste elimination system to the Lander.
I moved forward to the crawl hatch and hit the master light button near the opening. The transit vehicle went dark. The only light that was available was coming in through the port side, ventral, and dorsal portals; as well as the light coming in through the hatch. The starboard portal was dark as it was pointing away from Mars, and that side was not facing Sol, the sun, at the present time.
The final item was to export the portable waste system. I looked down at the thick plastic bags in my hand. Double bagged and tied off with plastic ties. I had a vision of those bags bouncing around in the Lander during descent, and knew there was no way I was going to take that risk. Travel 120 million miles on my own in a glorified tin can, no problem; take thick plastic bags of human waste into the Lander, no way. I lifted my hand, and let them float aft in the Jalopy. I backed into the hatch to the Lander.
I sealed the Jalopy-Sat hatch, floated backwards into the Lander and then sealed the Lander hatch. I hit the hard-seal button. This turned the pressurized seal into a hard seal by turning four small screw engines that inserted four tapered plugs through the door jamb, and into the hatch rim. By the time they were fully inserted, that hatch wasn’t going anywhere. The same process repeated out of sight on the Jalopy-Sat hatch. In the Lander, each insertion point had a small mechanical confirmation device. When the small glass window showed a red panel that was clear, it meant no hard-seal and no soft-seal. When I engaged the soft seal, the red turned to light green. When the hard-seal screw stopped turning and everything was tight, the plain green turned to a darker green barber-pole pattern. Four barber poles. It made the heart feel good.
Twelve minutes left until the descent sequence. I grabbed my helmet, put it on, and plugged my Activity Suit’s umbilical into the Lander’s life support system. Nothing happened. The suit heater was supposed to be on, and I was supposed to feel the life support systems oxygen flow in my helmet. Crap. I unplugged and plugged the hose back in. Still nothing. I started to run a quick diagnostic, but when I lifted my left arm to look at the suits control panel attached to it, I realized I hadn’t turned the suits system back to the “On” position after completing the initial diagnostic during suit-prep.
“Oh for Pete’s sake”, I said out loud. I imagined Loreena laughing at my chagrin, and smiled.
I set the control to “On”; immediately I felt things start to warm up, and instantly felt the oxygen flow in my helmet. I put on the gloves, pressurized them and the boots, and then re-checked the closures and seals on the boots, helmet and gloves. Everything was good. I snapped down the visor, tightened the screw on the locking bar, and then turned up the air pressure in the Lander cabin. The additional air pressure was required to strengthen the stability of the Lander while it tore through the buffeting forces of descent through an atmosphere that, by its very nature, wanted me to die.
I strapped myself into the seat, which was more of a purple cushioned chaise-lounge with pretentions. Flight Control had transmitted the final descent guidance package from Terra, they sent it directly to the Lander’s Computer: all systems had been setup, and were ready to go. All I had to do was press the “Go-No-Go” button. It was the only part that I played in the descent process. The Lander would not actually detach and descend unless I pressed one small, but oh-so-impo
rtant green button on the small panel in front of me. However, pressing the button didn’t make it actually “go” per se, it was more of a button to tell the computer that it was okay to go; when it decided in its inestimable silicon wisdom that the actual millisecond of departure had arrived.
My friends on Terra had made a big deal about me getting to “fly” a space ship. However, ever since the end of the original Space Shuttle program, astronauts didn’t technically “fly” anything. During launch, the spaceship was on top of a ballistic projectile. In transit, the guidance system directed and auto-corrected the ships course faster and more accurately than a human could. During descent, you were basically riding inside a large metal can that is being “lobbed” by the computer in the right direction. I wasn’t “flying” anything. I was just along for the ride. I was luggage.
399 Days Ago
I tried to grasp what I was hearing.
“Just one person?”
“Yes.”
“In twenty weeks?”
“Yes.”
That flew in the face of everything we had been working on. It also meant I’d be going to Mars six years before anyone else … alone.
Jayden, the CEO of the Corporation continued, “You are the only real choice for this, Mike. I can’t make you do it of course, but the whole program depends on someone going.”
I stared at him, slack jawed I’m sure. I stared at him so long, it started to get uncomfortable.
“Mike, I need you to do this. I need you to say yes. No pressure of course, but if you don’t do this, I have to send someone I don’t have 100% confidence in. You are the only one that I think … that we think, can handle going to Mars alone.”
The meeting was being held in Jayden’s spacious office. He was the CEO of the Corporation behind the Mars colony project. Along with Jayden were Hamish, the VP of Technology, and Clarissa, the CFO. It was a small and cozy group. There was good coffee from from the Tim Hortons coffee chain back home in Canada. It was my one weakness, well, the only one I was willing to admit.
I didn’t know why I had been called to the CEO’s office. Whenever I got called to see the boss, I was always nervous I was going to catch hell for something. It was inherent because of my upbringing, and would probably never go away.
We sat at one end of the not-so-small conference table. Jayden at the head, I was on his right side, while Hamish and Clarissa sat on his left side. Jayden toyed with his pen as they made small talk before he started addressing the issue at hand.
With the small talk out of the way, Jayden cleared his throat and began a speech that would forever change my life, which would forever change humanity’s future in space; which would ultimately change a lot of things.
Four Years Ago
The Corporation was planning a one-way mission to Mars, according to their webpage. The most difficult part about a manned Mars mission had always been the delivery of the equipment, but more importantly, the fuel, to return a crew back to Earth. The Corporation simplified the process and the technological aspects (relatively speaking) by making it a one-way mission.
The plan was that they were going to begin colonizing Mars with volunteers on one-way missions to the red planet. Every two years, they were going to send a crew of four or six colonists on the eight-month journey. Each manned mission would be preceded by supply and equipment missions delivering consumables, medical supplies, habitats, exploration and building equipment. They planned to start manned these missions in ten years.
Another unique element to this endeavour is that it was totally private. That is, commercial. This was a private corporation with no political or governmental ties. Therefore they didn’t need to do things the government way; they weren’t limited by government bureaucracy or the voting public. Based in Sweden, they enjoyed a freedom that most corporations located in a super power would not enjoy.
To the excitement of a great many sci-fi fans, scientists, and thrill-seekers everywhere, they opened up the colonist application process to everyone in the whole world. They only needed to have good health, and be able to speak, read and write in English. Any age was welcome to apply. Training would be provided.
As soon as I finished reading this on their website, I found the appropriate online form and submitted my application. It cost me thirty Euros to apply, but it was well worth it. I was forty-seven years old when I submitted my application. “Fat chance I have,” I thought at the time. However, the thought of applying was in itself, a high of its own. It might help me forget, too.
As I was filling out my application, I thought of Loreena’s face, how she would have burst out laughing if I told her I wanted to go to Mars. She would have then kissed me slowly and given me a few very good reasons not to go. It was a dumb thought, that it might help me forget; I would simply take that empty aching space in my heart with me, no matter where I ran to. For a long time now, the only important thing left in my life had been my son. He was the result of some heavy petting that got out of hand with my teenage sweetheart; a very welcome product, mind you. She and I had never married. We were just kids ourselves. Close to twenty years later, I met Loreena on the day she furloughed out of the Navy. A year later we were married.
My son was an adult now, following his career, dating someone I hoped would become his wife. I couldn’t stop moving forward just for him, not that I was moving forward then anyways. I didn’t have the strength or desire to be with anyone else. I didn’t want to face the potential for that pain again. Sometimes running away is the only option left.
When I told my son about Mars, he was supportive, though I think he was inwardly rolling his eyeballs. I told my best friend about it, Mary. She just closed her eyes and shook her head. She was used to my hair brain ideas and plans.
When she asked what I was thinking, my diatribe started.
Yes, it’s a one-way trip but wow, what a trip! Once on Mars, I would never, ever be able to return to Earth. I would never sit on green grass, under a tree, or by a river. I was okay with that. I would never be able to step outside and take a deep breath of air; because outside on Mars, the air is deadly. I was okay with that too. I would never be able to nip off to the convenience store, stop at Tim Hortons for a coffee, go to a Cineplex for some popcorn and the latest thriller, have a pet or any one of the thousands of things we take for granted daily. I could give those things up. All my life I had shared my living space with cats; so not having a cat with me would be troubling to my sense of calm …but I’d get over it. I hesitated as I rhymed off these things to Mary, as she smiled supportively. I wouldn’t be able to put flowers by Loreena’s headstone anymore. I was okay with that … I was okay with that … barely. Mary’s eyes filled with compassion for my silent thoughts. She just sat there quietly, sipping her coffee; she didn’t say anything. Twelve years had dulled the pain, but Mary remembered how I had cried myself to sleep every night, for almost three years.
The most daunting aspect was going to be leaving my adult son on Terra. Yes, he was an adult and studying to be a scientist, but I would never see him again in person. That was going to be hard. Even more daunting, he would marry someday and have children, my grandchildren. While I would see images, video, sound recordings; I would never be able to hold them, hug them, kiss them, or bounce them on my knee. Hmmm … okay, that was going to be harder. I didn’t know then, that one of my future unborn granddaughters, his daughter, was going to join me on Mars; but that’s another story.
For the success of the mission, I believed that at forty-seven years of age I had something important to offer that a lot of the younger folks applying didn’t have. I had a vast amount of life experiences behind me, I had emotional strength won through some very tough emotional battles, and most importantly: I had perspective. While my life was by no means even relatively close to being over, I had done a lot of living and knew that the worldly diversions we all enjoy would be very easy to give up. I had already given up a lot of them after that hot August night in 2003.
Well, they better send coffee with me, or else heads would roll …
The reason I wanted to go to Mars, aside from the fresh start, was both very simple and very complex.
When Hernán Cortés landed on the coast of Mexico (now part of Southern California), he destroyed his ships so his people would work harder to survive. On Mars, there would be no rescue mission. The ship that took the human colonists there would not take off again, effectively putting the colonization team in a similar situation to Cortés and his men.
Survival meant work, commitment and determination. My life had been full of those. The history of the world was full of people with these traits and characteristics. The history of the world was filled with people who went on what they thought, or knew would be one-way journeys. People like Gaspar and Miguel Corte-Real, Percy Fawcett, Peng Jiamu, Benjamin Smith and others had already set the example. Of course, they all probably met their fates in bad circumstances; but the important part was the courage, the commitment, and the dedication.
