by Jodi Taylor
Barren was the first word for Mars decided Captain Farenden. Unforgiving was the second. This was not a gentle environment. It wasn’t hostile – or so he hoped – but a moment’s inattention or a careless mistake and it would kill him. He shivered, realising suddenly, that he was a very long way from home.
He looked down at his feet. Coarse red dust covered his boots already. He lifted his foot. His own footprint stared back at him.
I’m on Mars and that is my footprint. My footprint is on Mars.
He replaced his foot and looked around himself again. At the clear sky. At Mount Sharp, rearing five kilometres and more above him. Was that darker streak across the base actually clay? If so, was that evidence of water on Mars? And could that suggest there had once been life on Mars? His head swam a little.
‘Breathe,’ said Peterson, clapping him on the shoulder. Feeling that sometimes even St Mary’s could be helpful, Farenden breathed.
‘Right,’ said Maxwell. ‘Orientating ourselves thusly ...’ she shuffled sideways, ‘... the shelter is over there.’ She gestured towards a grit-and-sand-covered lump over to their left. ‘And the skylight is over there. About a hundred yards, gentlemen.’
‘Wait,’ said Farenden. He gestured in the direction of the shelter and whispered, ‘Can they hear us?’
‘Not from here, no.’
‘I mean, can they hear our communications?’
She shook her head. ‘Definitely not while they’re in the shelter. And probably not when they’re outside either. We’re on internal com. Still, let’s not hang around to find out, eh?’
Since Mr Lewis was still incapable of travelling under his own steam, Peterson grabbed his arms. Farenden and Maxwell took one leg apiece and they set off, all more or less in the same direction, across the surface of Mars. Captain Farenden could only assume that, for his companions, the bizarre lifestyle prevalent at St Mary’s had rendered their actions ordinary. For himself, he could only think – I’m on Mars. I’m on Mars. I should be minuting the monthly budget meeting but I’m on Mars instead. I’m manhandling an unconscious astronaut across the surface of a dead planet. And no – when I got up this morning I never thought I’d be manhandling an unconscious astronaut across the surface of a dead planet.
And dead it was. To the naked eye, there was no life of any kind visible anywhere. To his list of Martian adjectives, Captain Farenden now added lonely.
Maxwell made a series of gestures that were, apparently, supposed to indicate they had arrived at their destination. Gently laying their burden in the Martian dust, they peered down the hole. The skylight appeared to be about six feet square. Not large, but large enough. Daylight penetrated only so far down. The rest was impenetrable blackness.
Farenden fumbled for his head light.
‘Careful,’ said Peterson. ‘We don’t want to give ourselves away.’ He peered down the hole. ‘The first thing we need to do is to ascertain the depth.’
‘Well, that’s easily done,’ said Maxwell. ‘See you in a moment,’ and before anyone could do or say anything, she jumped.
For a second or two, Peterson and Farenden were too stunned to move and then Peterson shouted, ‘Max – what the hell?’
‘She jumped,’ said Farenden in disbelief. ‘I don’t believe it. She jumped.’
‘Shit.’
The unfortunate Mr Lewis temporarily forgotten, they peered anxiously down into the depths.
A short historian beamed up at them, her grinning face illuminated by her suit light. ‘You should see your faces.’
Peterson was incensed. ‘You bloody idiot. What do you think you’re playing at? Thanks to you I’ve involuntarily increased the radiation protection of my biosuit quite substantially.’
‘Good job I’m down here, then. I don’t need the distinction of being the first person on Mars to be peed on.’
‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’ demanded Farenden, before they could wander too much off topic
‘Well, we didn’t have a lot of choice, did we? We couldn’t faff around here all day worrying about how deep it was. We have to get him under cover and ourselves out of here as quickly as possible.’
‘That hole could have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet deep. Did that not occur to you?’
‘As I jumped – yes. But no one dies on the first mission, remember. So Lewis survives. So he’s successfully discovered. So the skylight couldn’t have been thousands of feet deep, could it?’
‘Actually, yes it could,’ said Farenden.
‘Yes,’ said Peterson. ‘You know I always hesitate to agree with the Time Police but, in this instance, he’s perfectly correct. It could well have been thousands of feet deep. You could have jumped to your death and we would have had to improvise by leaving Lewis here on the surface and push off without you. And then I’d have had to explain to Leon.’
It was clear that for him, at least, this was where the difficulty lay.
There was a short silence and then a tiny voice beneath their feet said, ‘Didn’t think of that.’
‘No, I didn’t think you had because you’re a bloody idiot. How could you be so stupid?’
‘Second nature. Anyway, it’s only about ten feet deep. Are you going to stand up there all day?’
‘I’ll come down. Farenden, you lower him after me.’
They manhandled Mr Lewis down into the lava tube. Unfortunately, even given the reduced gravity of Mars, he was considerably heavier than they could comfortably manage. There was a great deal of grunting and cursing before he finally landed with more of a crash than any of them were happy with.
‘Well,’ said Captain Farenden, breathlessly. ‘I suspect none of that was pretty.’
‘He won’t remember any of it,’ said Peterson, prodding the blue clad figure with his boot.
‘Just as well.’
Their headlights revealed an unnaturally smooth passage carved through solid rock by molten lava. The passage, wide enough to stand up in and for two to walk abreast ran almost dead straight, with its two ends – left and right – lost in impenetrable blackness. The floor where they were standing was littered with broken rock where the roof had caved in. Here, as everywhere else on Mars, there was only silence and stillness.
Farenden shivered.
Peterson was fussing around. ‘Keep his head and shoulders up. That’s it. We don’t want to drown him. Not after everything he’s been through.’
They arranged him in a gracefully reclining position.
‘There,’ said Peterson, arranging a leg to his satisfaction. ‘He actually looks quite comfortable. Close enough to the skylight but out of any direct radiation. All very believable.’
They straightened up and for the first time, gave their full attention to their surroundings.
‘Hey, look. What’s that?’
Maxwell set off, scrambling across loose rock towards something only she could see.
Remembering his instructions, Captain Farenden felt a twinge of anxiety. ‘Max, come back, we don’t have time.’
‘Oh, come on, Charlie. We can’t come all this way and not take a quick look around.’
He felt moved to protest. ‘Our instructions were to drop him and go.’
It is doubtful whether either Maxwell or Peterson heard him.
‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing.
‘A rock,’ said Captain Farenden, firmly. ‘One of many.’
‘No, come and look at this.’
‘Come and look at what?’
He scrambled to join them, their headlights pooling white circles on the rocky walls.
She pointed. ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That.’
‘What?’
She sighed impatiently. ‘That.’
‘Grooves in the rock.’
She turned to him. ‘Doesn’t it look like a pattern to
you?’
‘No, it looks like striations in the rock.’
‘No
, it doesn’t. Look. There’s a series of lines ...’ She pointed. ‘... And then the same number of little round holes. Like dots. Look. And the same over there as well.’
Peterson squinted. ‘No ... can’t see it myself. Are you sure you didn’t fall on your head?’
‘Why can’t you see it?’
‘Because it’s just random marks on a rock and we should be getting back.’
‘But this could be important, Tim.’
‘And will be discovered in its own time. We have to go, Max – they’ll be out looking for him any minute. For us to be discovered now would ruin everything.’
‘Charlie – what do you think?’
‘I’m on a strange planet, encased in a bizarre cocktail of not even my own urine, looking at something of an unknown origin and accompanied by a couple of lunatics who feature prominently on the Time Police’s list of People the World Would Probably Be Better Without. I don’t think my thoughts would be particularly helpful. Where are you going?’
Maxwell was examining the surface of the wall, her head light causing long dark shadows to jump from floor to ceiling and back again. Suddenly, she stood stock still.
Peterson ambled over. ‘Are you doing your Lot’s wife impersonation again? It’s very good but you usually have to have a margarita or three inside you first.’
Silence.
‘Max?’
Silence.
‘Max, are you all right? For God’s sake tell me you haven’t succumbed to some ghastly Martian plague. You know – War of the Worlds but Worse. Holy shit.’
Farenden turned. ‘What?’
Staring, Peterson said hoarsely, ‘I don’t think those are random striations after all.’
‘They must be.’
‘Why? Why must they be?’
‘Because ... Well, because they must be. They can’t be anything else.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, honestly, if I don’t keep telling myself that then my brain might explode. Which I think has already happened to Maxwell. I’ve never known her so quiet. Is she all right?’
‘You should come and look at this.’
‘What?’ said Farenden in alarm. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a hand.’
‘It’s a what? What’s a hand?’
‘Something on the end of your arm.’
‘I meant,’ said Farenden with enormous patience, ‘what is it that you think is a hand?’
‘This hand here.’
‘There’s someone else here?’
He struggled across the pile of loose rock to where Max and Peterson were standing, staring dumbstruck at the wall. ‘Oh my God. What is that?’
‘It’s a hand,’ said Peterson, helpfully. ‘Most of us have them.’
‘And we don’t appear to be the only ones.’
They stared. Some four feet off the ground, a small hand, outlined in whatever was the Martian equivalent to ochre, was revealed in their head lights.
‘But ... How could this be here? It can’t be real. It’s a fake, surely.’
‘Yes, ‘said Peterson, ‘because the first thing our astronauts did on arrival was jump down here, rip off their gloves – something that wouldn’t have done them any good at all – and paint their own hand on the wall. For the sole purpose of winding us up. Even to the extent of elongating the two middle fingers.’
Farenden looked more carefully. The two middle fingers were indeed noticeably longer than the outer ones. ‘It’s like something you see on Earth,’ he said, still wrapping himself in his comfort blanket of denial. ‘There are caves with painted hands all over the world.’
‘And,’ said Peterson unsteadily, ‘all over this one as well, it would seem.’
‘It can’t be,’ said Captain Farenden, in the tone of one who hopes that it can’t be but is looking straight at evidence to the contrary.
Peterson gestured. ‘The evidence is there.’
And it was.
‘It’s a right hand,’ said Peterson, suddenly.
‘What of it?’
‘The ones back on Earth ...’ he paused to review the phrase and then hurried on. ‘The ones on Earth are almost all left hands because the artists were right-handed. This one isn’t. A left-handed Martian.’
Captain Farenden was not going down without a fight. ‘You don’t know it’s a Martian.’
‘No, you’re right – a prehistoric human cave dweller knocked up a space vehicle out of a nearby monolith, fuelled it with mammoth dung and headed for Mars. Just so he could paint his hand. Adding bizarrely long fingers as a malicious joke.’
All his life, Captain Farenden was to remember standing in the cold, dark lava tube, trying to keep his balance on the loose, rocky floor, staring at a small hand outlined in ochre, illuminated by three head lights, and struggling to take in the implications. For him. For everyone.
Peterson had more immediate concerns. He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Max? Max? I know we always say we prefer you still and silent but you’re scaring me now. Say something. Max – are you breathing? For God’s sake – breathe.’
He thumped her on the arm. Not enough to knock her over but hard enough to wake her up.
She turned to him, her face eerily lit by Peterson’s head light and whispered, ‘Tim ...’
‘I know.’
‘But ... Tim ...’
‘Max, I know.’
‘But ...’ she turned back to the wall, unwilling to drag her eyes away from the image. ‘Tim, this is the greatest discovery since ...’
Peterson groped for a comparison. ‘Fire? Chocolate?’
She wasn’t listening as she scrabbled in her knee pocket for her recorder. ‘Can I have some light here, please.’
Captain Farenden felt moved to protest. ‘We should be leaving as soon as possible.’
‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I can’t quite hear you. Earpiece malfunction. Could you stand a little closer, please? Yes, that’s better. And just tilt your head a little, just so the light falls right here. Perfect.’
She began to pan across the wall.
‘Are you even listening to me?’ He turned to Peterson. ‘Is she even listening to me?’
‘Oh, I think we both know the answer to that one,’ said Peterson. ‘Which doesn’t mean you’re not right. Max. Time to move.’
She sighed. ‘A moment longer.’
‘No – now.’
‘Dammit – I could scream with frustration.’
‘Please don’t,’ said Captain Farenden, hastily. ‘For a start, I don’t like the look of parts of this roof. And I really think we should get back to First Officer Lewis.’
The eloquent silence indicated that two of their group had completely forgotten about First Officer Lewis.
‘A little longer, surely,’ whined Maxwell. ‘Who knows what we might find further on. There might be representations of Martian animals. Their equivalent of mammoths or deer or bison. Or even some little stick figure Martians themselves.’
‘Max, we really should be going,’ said Peterson. ‘The flare has passed. They’ll be out looking for Lewis any minute now and as soon as they do they’ll see this as well. What they mustn’t see is us. Otherwise it invalidates everything on these walls. This is one of the most valuable historic finds of all time. You know the rules.’
With a sigh of regret, Maxwell reluctantly followed him back up the tunnel. Captain Farenden brought up the rear.
Arriving back at the skylight, the bad news was that Mr Lewis was no longer with them.
‘What?’ said Peterson, spinning around as best he could in a biosuit. ‘Where ...?’
‘We left him alone,’ said Farenden, riddled with guilt. ‘The doctor said not to.’
‘Bloody bollocking hell,’ said Maxwell. ‘He must have regained consciousness and wandered off.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Peterson. ‘Very unlikely. He didn’t come past us.’
‘So, where is he?’ said Farenden. He looked up through t
he hole in the roof to the sky above. ‘He’s not down here and he didn’t come past us. He couldn’t possibly have climbed out by himself. Could he?’
They stared up and down the lava tube. The small circle of daylight in which they were standing faded to darkness no more than six feet away from them.
‘I can’t see his head light anywhere, can you? Where could he be?’
‘His people must have found him, while we were gone,’ said Captain Farenden. And then, possibly fearing an historian stampede back to the newly-discovered hand now that their responsibilities to Mr Lewis appeared to be discharged, he continued, ‘This is very fortunate for us. All we need now is to get back to the pod as soon as possible before anyone spots us. You go first, Dr Peterson, then I’ll heave up Maxwell and then you can both pull me up.’
Boosted from below, Peterson raised a wary head over the lip and performed a thorough search of the surrounding landscape. ‘No. There’s no one in sight. But watch out for drones.’
Cautiously, he pulled himself up through the skylight. Maxwell and Farenden pushed from beneath.
‘All clear. You’re next, Max.’
She began to heave herself over the lip. ‘Shit.’
‘What?’
‘The edge is beginning to crumble.’
‘Quick.’
‘Doing my best. Biosuits are all very well but definitely not designed for this sort of thing.’
She scrabbled at the lip with her free hand until, with Peterson’s help, she was able to wriggle her way out.
Lying on their stomachs, she and Peterson peered down at Captain Farenden, busy brushing pebbles and grit off his helmet and shoulders.
‘Stand on that rock and reach up,’ ordered Peterson. ‘We’ve got you.’
Fortunately, Captain Farenden was a tall young man. Reaching down, both Maxwell and Peterson grasped a wrist each.
‘Heave,’ said Peterson, and they did. There was a great deal of grunting, together with a request to know what the hell he’d had for breakfast that morning.
‘Stop kicking your legs,’ said Maxwell.
‘I’m trying to find a foothold. Otherwise I’ll just pull you down.’
‘No, we’re all right. Just hang on and let us pull you up.’
Peterson heaved. Maxwell released Farenden’s wrist and scrabbled at his arm. ‘ Got you. Can you get a purchase anywhere?’
