Mission Mars

by Janet L. Cannon

“What would be the motive for killing a young woman, who, by all accounts, had harmed no one?”

  “For starters, sir, a month from now, we’re due to take our place on one of the first three ships to launch for Mars. Most of the colonists will balk at the idea of making the journey with a murderer in their midst. And, I don’t think MarsCorp will allow it.”

  His furious expression was more than a little frightening. “You think I would rule her death a suicide to keep the colony intact?”

  “I think the person who killed Marta never intended her death to be ruled a suicide. If it is, he may kill again to achieve his objective. Presented with two brutal murders and no suspects, there’ll be no way to solve the crimes in time, and our colony will be eliminated from the first wave. Who will take our place if that happens?”

  Seconds, which felt like hours, passed before he spoke. “I’ll review the vids from the laundry. I can’t promise it will change the verdict, but I guarantee your concerns will receive a fair hearing.”

  Brent Haley was a ten-year veteran of the NASA Astronaut Corps. His trial was conducted a week before the end of lockdown. He’d been hired to volunteer for a posting to our crew and eliminate our group from competition for the first wave. His employer wasn’t concerned about method, only results.

  The jury was composed of four crew and three members of the colony chosen by a random draw. The testimony was brief. The vid from the laundry placed Haley near the access panel during the relevant time frame. A forensic exam found traces of Marta’s DNA on clothing he thought he’d sterilized. Faced with the evidence, Haley had confessed. The jury voted on sentencing immediately after rendering the verdict. The pronouncement of the death sentence brought startled exclamations from every quarter of the room. The civilian members of the jury appeared as shocked as Haley. The death penalty had been abolished in the Americas decades ago.

  Alex, Devon, and I filed from the room in silence, tuning out the conversations around us. We’d known the outcome. Captain Larkin had made it clear that he intended to handle Marta’s murder just as he would if it had occurred after launch. Breaking quarantine to put Haley off the ship would’ve eliminated our colony from the first wave. Allowing him to remain with the crew was intolerable. Neither of which the captain was willing to do.

  We were reluctant to leave Alex alone, but he insisted he needed time to himself. Devon and I wandered the corridors, finally coming to rest on a bench in the hydroponic gardens. The inches that separated us felt like a mile. After months of deepening friendship and obvious sexual attraction, Devon was still wary of touching me.

  I’d set out to expose Marta’s killer, but couldn’t reconcile myself to the consequences. “I thought you’d be the last person who’d agree with Captain Larkin,” I said.

  “It’s not so much that I agree. But I understand the necessity.”

  “He apparently believes we all will.”

  “Like he said the first day: ‘this isn’t a democracy’.”

  “So, we just look the other way while he puts Haley to death? It’s barbaric. Civilized people don’t answer one murder with another. I can’t believe MarsCorp will go along with it.”

  “MarsCorp isn’t about to argue the brutality of their captain’s decision if it means losing their place in the queue. Besides, the backers of the first three colonies will have a tremendous advantage in the race for profits.”

  “Spoken like a true pragmatist.” I immediately regretted both the words and the snide tone.

  But instead of the hurt look I expected, I got raised eyebrows and the beginnings of a smile. “I wouldn’t have made it past the first psych screen if I weren’t, and neither would you. We’re smart, tough, resilient, and adaptable. Your parents were picked to join the colony for their knowledge and skills. Who we are and what we can become earned us our shot at Mars.”

  Devon reached his arm around me and hugged me close, pulling my head against his shoulder. “For those of us in the first wave, by civilized standards, conditions on Mars will be brutal. Marta was the first, but she won’t be the last of us to die before our time. Pioneers have never had the luxury of avoiding hard choices.”

  I couldn’t stop the tears that dripped down my cheeks. “I thought we’d bring civilization with us, not leave it behind.”

  “It’ll come. But it will take a while to catch up.”

  TO DREAM IN COLOR

  Cyn Bermudez

  The smell of Dinuguan—pork blood stew—meant only one thing in my home: Grandmother had news she was dreading to tell me. The last time she served it, Uncle had beat up a Genserv in front of the U.N. building at Kan Loan. And now, the cost of pig stomach had tripled. Plus, Grandfather avoided looking at me, too. So, I knew it was something big.

  A Genserv11a, the latest improvement of modified servants—half human, half machine—appeared, filling up the screen of our GNT—our Global Network Terminal. Thomas King was his name, the government representative for Calle Quarta, a two-block square of apartments. King’s face appeared soft and slightly radiant, a mesh of skin and circuit, an opaque white. Just like all engineered Genservs, he’d been designed to appear similar to their makers, the Enhanced Ones, for likeability and trustworthiness. A mandatory visit was what the message said.

  Atop Grandmother’s white-laced tablecloth, mix-matched dinnerware of varied colors, both plastic and ceramic, adorned the table. My eyes drifted to the extra setting on the table. Of course King got the china setting Grandfather found in the trash outside the Big Houses, the one Grandmother didn’t even use for their anniversaries. I wanted to smash the stupid plate into a thousand pieces.

  “What’s going on?” I asked my grandmother. “Why is King coming here? Did we do something wrong? Is Uncle okay?” The questions hurled out of me like vomit. My grandparents ignored me, as if doing so brushed away whatever they avoided telling me. Irritated, I stomped into the bathroom, a four-by-four foot toilet and shower blend, which separated the only other room in our one-room, government-issued flat.

  No sooner had I snapped the makeshift door closed, nearly pulling the rag down, that my grandmother yanked the curtain back. Without a word, she walked over to me, pinched my ear between her fingers, and dragged me back into the kitchen.

  “Tsk, tsk. Sit down.”

  Of course, I did what I was told. When Grandmother curled her lips inward, I knew I’d better do what she said. I clasped my arms together and set my own mouth in disgust.

  Grandfather, sitting at the table in the midst of our tiny apartment, reached over and patted my hand and said, “Be patient, hijo.”

  “I’m not a child,” I snapped, pulling my hand away. Sixteen years old and they still treat me like I’m six. “Just tell me what’s happening.”

  “You will know soon enough.” Grandfather still didn’t meet my eyes. He never looked anyone in the eyes when he felt bad about something. Instead, he continued to look through a book of old paper-printed advertisements he’d created, a cutout-and-pasted collection of all things he dreamed about having one day. The book was opened to a picture of the first generation of fancy GNTs, outdated terminals that weren’t even made anymore. He tapped on the picture. “We can afford these now,” he said.

  I just shook my head, but I didn’t dare say anything more. So, I sat at the table, resigned to wait for our ‘guest’. Despite my anger, my belly raged for the pork stew.

  Thomas King arrived on time. He wore the same black suit he always wore. Unlike on the screen, however, his lips were pitted and redder in person, a strawberry-wine color, and his skin shone a milky opalescent, like the vintage plastic dolls Grandmother collected.

  We ate our stew in silence. I tried to eat as he did: slow, rhythmically, timing each impeccably proportioned bite. Partly to mock him, his stiff demeanor, his machine-like qualities. Partly to see if I could be like him—exact, perfect. But my clumsy hands revealed the inaccuracy of my natural mind, the imperfection of my kind: too much soup or not enough, the cut of the
meat jagged and sloppy spilling from my mouth.

  Grandmother nudged me with her foot. Then she pinched my thigh and glared at me with her ‘you-better-behave’ expression. So I stopped mimicking King. Grandmother didn’t eat. Her attention now turned toward King; she eyed him warily. Grandfather never looked up at all. He simply hunched over his bowl and slurped his soup, eating it slowly, with bits of pork belly nestled between large lips in an ‘O’.

  Finally, I’d had enough silence and slurping to fill a lifetime. I slammed my spoon down in my bowl, splattering brown liquid across the table. “Will somebody just tell me! What is going on here?” I scowled at King.

  “Tsk, tsk. Aye nako.” Grandmother instantly got up from the table, pulled her bleach water from atop the cabinet and sprayed the watery mess I’d made. She squinted at the droplets of blood stew dotted on the table. “Wasting food. No, not good.”

  My grandparents were old world. No enhancements. No modifications. For them, our one room flat in the city was acceptable, even though it was too small for three of us, suffocating at times. No privacy. No space. We owned a table and four wooden chairs, three single-sleeper mats that lined the floor, one tattered green sofa, and nothing else. Adorning the walls, on the other hand, were Grandmother’s dolls and family pictures and paintings of the Blessed Mother, and of course, the single government assigned GNT as required by law. Rosaries and crosses filled any white space left.

  Grandmother, too, adhered to Papal law—natural born was God’s way, she always reminded me. The only way. To defile nature, to modify our genes into perfection, to augment our skin, our brain, our cells—to become an Enhanced One—was the way of the demons. The pope had declared any unnatural changes officially against the Catholic Church even before I was born. Besides, enhancement modifications cost a lot of money. I think Grandfather was glad my grandmother held to this belief. One less bill to pay. And if either of them had chosen to be modified, they would have had to indenture me for five years with some company, just to pay off the lowest level of enhancements. So, like them, I grew up ‘a natural’, sequestered and separated, educated in dilapidated schools. And like all naturals, we were no better than a Genserv, just uglier and more stupid. Sitting there, I thought back to what our school counselor told each of us before we broke for summer. “You have no classifiable skills, no way to compete with Genservs, let alone the Enhanced Ones. You all are obsolete, the last embers of a dying race.”

  I’d seen an Enhanced One once. Grandfather and I were cleaning one of the Big Houses. A rare assignment for natural borns’, an assignment issued to us because the Genserv caring for the home malfunctioned. The home was expansive, almost as big as Calle Quarta, or it seemed that way to my eleven-year-old mind. There was a large terminal so cleanly built into the wall that it was hard to know where the wall ended and the terminal began. And it hung over a large fireplace, something exclusive to Enhanced Ones. Next to the fireplace sat a girl who looked about my age then. She sat on a plush rug. She glimmered in the light, but not like the Genservs, who were polluted by machine glow or circuitry veins. Her skin glowed like an opalescent pearl with various subtle tones of pinks and browns and yellows, varied colors barely noticeable to the naked eye. She had not a blemish in sight. She was beautiful. Her hair shone bright like the sun, dangling gently into unspoiled ringlets. She greeted the GNT like it was a person.

  “Hello, Margert. How are you this morning?” the little girl said as she twirled her hair between her fingers.

  The most beautiful woman I had ever seen appeared on the screen, her smile infectious, and her eyes a radiant violet. “Hello, Nela,” she said, “I’m doing well. Thank you for asking. How may I serve you today?” The girl rattled off her breakfast order.

  I didn’t linger too long. Any behavior considered too bold for a natural born would not end well. Besides, I had heard that an Enhanced One could rip your soul from your body if you stared too long. A neighbor once told me that that is how they lived forever.

  Grandmother and Grandfather continued to ignore me. And Thomas King just sat there, eating his soup.

  “Grandmother, are you really going to make me wait? Is Uncle okay? Did he protest again? Tell me something. Anything. Grandfather?” Grandfather stopped a spoonful of soup midway to his mouth, but just for an instant, then continued with his slurping.

  “So many words, Truair, but no thinking. No patience.” Grandmother tapped her temple with two fingers. “Now eat. Finish your stew. Very expen….” She stopped and looked at our guest.

  Thomas King only sat smiling. Which infuriated me even more. Why did he deserve blood stew? Didn’t he know how many hours we worked for the little bit of meat we had? Did he care? Grandfather brought me back to the moment.

  “We’re moving,” he blurted out. I looked over at him, but he didn’t look at me; he just continued to eat his food in the same manner, slurping meat down like worms.

  “What?! Where?” Where could we possibly move this time? We’d already been downgraded to a one room flat. Thanks to mandatory relocation in order to make room for the growing servant population of Genservs. It was only fair that city workers shared the space with the Genservs, in the hope for greater community and equality. At least that was what had been told to us. But I saw ‘The Natural Born Conundrum’ vids shown on the GNT, the way our own kind—our natural born teachers—spoke to us, the way my ‘no classifiable skills’ status left only the most objectionable jobs. We were nothing more than a nuisance, no longer needed.

  “Does it matter?” Grandmother’s voice was different now, no longer annoyed, but defeated.

  “Yes, it matters,” I said, “we matter.”

  “Mars,” Grandfather said. He finished his soup, got up from the table, and placed the bowl in the sink, still never once meeting my gaze.

  “Hello, citizens, my name is Thomas King.” He smiled wide, showing large white teeth. He stood in front of our GNT. “I am pleased to make you an offer on behalf of the Council.” He bowed slightly and waited for a few seconds before he continued. We sat on our sofa, packed together like sardines, and listened to Thomas Kings’ canned speech. “One free parcel of land of your choosing. A limited time offer. Some restrictions apply. Please read your ‘Welcome to Mars’ information for rules and regulations.”

  Thomas King reached over and extended a brochure to Grandmother. I slapped it away from her. “We’re not leaving,” I said.

  “I do not understand,” Thomas King said. Then he began his same spiel again. “I am pleased to offer you on behalf—”

  “We have chosen,” Grandfather said to Thomas King. He got up from the sofa, walked a few steps to the GNT, and turned it on. Thomas King turned toward him. Grandfather selected a map on the screen that was filed in his personal folder. He pointed to a small parcel of land highlighted in orange. It was inside one of the many, newly built track domes that lined the first colony sector of Mars.

  “You’re taking their offer?!” I jumped up from the couch and looked back and forth at my grandparents. “How could you? Why do think they want us for these first colonization trials? They’re getting rid of us. Don’t you see that?”

  “Of course not.” Grandfather was looking at me now. His eyes bore into mine like lasers, as if he were trying to make me understand something, something that couldn’t be said in front of Thomas King. In front of someone who worked for the government.

  Ignoring Thomas King, my back to him, I tried to make my grandparents understand exactly what was happening. “We’re guinea pigs at best. But you know as well as I do that they are just sending us—their undesirables—away. Depopulate the Earth. Get rid of us. Two burdens with one stone. Don’t you see?”

  “Enough.” Grandfather raised his hand.

  I looked over at Grandmother. She agreed with me. I knew she did. But it was her turn to cast her eyes downward.

  “Excellent,” Thomas King said. He’d stood there stoically as we argued, no doubt recording everything. “You
r transportation arrangements have been made. A car will arrive first thing in the morning to take you to the shuttles. Good day, citizens.”

  Thomas King, wide-mouthed, nodded his head, turned on his heel and left.

  In the late hours of the night, the flat was dark, except for the light flickering from the GNT. Grandfather stayed up late, flipping through the Mars catalogue, which showed four flat designs. The only ones we were allowed to choose from. I saw that spark in his eyes, the one he always got when he had some freedom to create a little something of his own. Like his stupid book. The sight of him dreaming like a child filled with hope made my heart ache. The light from the GNT made his wrinkles fold deeper, rippling into more folds as the wrinkles hung from his face. My grandparents were getting old. They were old. We couldn’t even see the stars from our cramped home, from anywhere in Calle Quarta. I got up from my mat and walked over to Grandfather.

  “Aye, Truair, you’re awake. Come here, hijo. Look! We get to pick our own wall colors.”

  “I want to stay with Uncle,” I said. The last echo of my protest.

  “For what?” Grandfather spat. “To fight the inevitable? To live out your life here on Earth as nothing more than a mere whisper in the ear of a giant? To die here an undesirable?” He sighed, then his voice softened. “At least, hijo, on Mars we have a chance for hope, to build something, something to be proud of! And to be out from under their foot!” Grandfather stomped his own foot for emphasis.

  I knew he was right. I didn’t want him to be right. But I knew he was. I sat down next to Grandfather and looked at the flat designs.

  “I get my own room?”

  “Yes, hijo. Your very own room.” Grandfather put his arm around me.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He squeezed my shoulder. “OK, then,” he said. “What color do you want your room?”