But as it happened, when Carmen was told she would be isolated from the rest of the crew, she put up one hell of a fight. Before they managed to get her under control, though, she severely injured one of the science guys with the same knife she used on Craig. That guy’s currently in the infirmary and not looking good. Carmen, on the other hand, has been tied down and jailed in the Confession Airlock. We’re still trying to decide what to do about her.
February 9, 2056
The science guy died last night. That brings Carmen’s total kill to three. That’s what convinced everyone aboard that Carmen needed to be taken care of before anyone else got hurt.
It wasn’t a decision that we came to easily. There was a lot of debating, crying, and screaming. I hate myself for thinking this, but it made for great television.
In the end, it was Jared who finally agreed to do it. He said he’d go the Confession Area and tell Carmen that he was sneaking her out. The rest of us cleared out to our rooms, but still watched everything unfold on the closed circuit monitors. Sure enough, he got Carmen to follow him out of the Confession Room and into the kitchen. I’m not sure what he said to her in there—it looked like he was trying to point out some type of hiding place for her. Whatever it was, it got her to lean over one of the storage compartment doors in front of him. That’s when Jaren grabbed her hair, yanked back, and slit Carmen’s throat. He’d been smart enough to remember drainage pan, but forgot they were in a low gravity area. The blood floated out into the kitchen area before splattering to the floor. While those of us who could stomach it, cleaned up the gore (and the producers back on Earth, more than likely were completely losing their shit), Jared discharged her out of the outer airlock—along with bodies of Samantha, Craig, and the science guy.
February 21, 2056
Jared killed himself yesterday. We had to send his remains out of the airlock just like the others. I guess even though Carmen was a serial killer, he couldn’t live with himself for having to do what he did.
Some people started to say that we should stop the show, but there was no way I was going to let that happen.
“Come on, people!” I yelled, to get their attention. “It’s not like we can turn around and go back home. Good God, we’re already halfway to Mars.” Still facing my shipmates, I pointed to the overhead cameras behind me. “No matter what …, those fucking producers are going to keep broadcasting everything we do here back to Earth, no matter what we do. Whether we want them to or not. Whether we feel right about what’s happened or not. We’re the money in their pockets. Our lives are no longer our own.”
I’d tried to sound indignant, but honestly, I was glad. What happened to Samantha and the others was terrible, but I didn’t sign up to leave earth for the rest of my natural life so that our show could get canceled. Fortunately, everyone eventually came around.
The very next morning, the producers sent me a clip of my speech. It’s been playing on all the networks since last night.
March 15, 2056
We finally reached our landing point on the Gale Crater and everyone was beyond ready to get the hell off this ship. The events of the last month had caused nearly all forms of interaction between our team to grind to a halt. Everyone just stayed in their rooms, only coming out to eat or use the bathroom. There was a lot of confession booth stuff and a few long and tearful embraces, but past that, things were pretty dead.
I can only imagine how boring that was for the people watching back home. Fortunately, the landing will provide not only a historic moment, but also a monumental amount of tasks to keep us occupied. Terraformers, habitats, swing shelters—we’ll have to build it all … and that’s AFTER digging the tunnels and living spaces to keep us sheltered from the atmosphere. I volunteered to set up the cameras, which would once again make sure that everything we did was broadcasted back to our earth-bound fans.
April 30, 2056
We’re finally done getting the habitat set up. The ship plays a major part of it, but everyone avoids going there as much as possible.
Things have also started getting back to some sense of normalcy … for a reality show, anyway. New drama happens every day; even the scientist people are hooking up with the regular cast members. According to the producers’ transmissions, our ratings are higher than anything in the history of televised media.
I know that things haven’t gone at all like we’d planned, but it feels like things are finally starting to work out and go my way.
June 10, 2056
It occurred to me today that the dates I’ve been keeping might not correlate with the days and nights that we experience here on Mars. It’s one of a million little things about this place that seems to be driving everyone a little stir crazy.
I guess we all had this illusion that after a few weeks, a well-dressed host would walk through the door and start doing some type of stupid rose ceremony. After a month of living like caged celebrities, however, routine has finally started to settle in. Cycling the oxygen tanks, checking the misters, checking the greenhouse plants … it’s all beginning to grind us down from rock stars into people just trying to exist from day-today. Everyone knew that this was a permanent assignment, but the finality of it is actually beginning to sink in.
June 29, 2056
A massive explosion today took out a bunch of the oxygen tanks. Most of the science, tech, and med staff were there when it happened. I don’t know who’s been killed or who’s still alive, but I’m grabbing my portable camera and heading there to find out.
June 30, 2056
It was two of the science people who snapped first, which really surprised me. I figured that there would be so many new things to research and discover, that they’d all be happy. A husband-and-wife team had been fighting since we landed, but everyone just attributed it to run of the mill marriage stuff. I guess it should have been obvious that questions like, “Why did we move here?” and, “Why can’t we have kids?” have a completely different scope when you’re on another planet. It can also make not existing seem like a much better option than just being alive.
I’m not sure why they thought their decision to end it all had to include so many of the remaining group, but the oxygen tank explosion was a huge loss of our most valuable resource, and has left us with very few people who know how to keep everything going.
The suicide letter and apology was much appreciated, but that still doesn’t change how screwed we all are now.
July 3, 2056
Steve is the only science person whose name I bothered to learn, which, in retrospect, seems like a pretty dick move on my part. These people weren’t here for fame, or to escape their past—they wanted to do something truly amazing.
With that in mind, I can hardly blame Steve for being a little standoffish towards the rest of us. But that still doesn’t give him the right to ration our food and even our oxygen like some sort of tyrannical dictator. We’re not just dumb actors out here. We’re people … and we don’t deserve to be treated like this.
July 7, 2056
The group decided to kill Steve tonight.
I wasn’t in favor of doing it at first. I normally don’t care about what the network execs say, but another gruesome situation where people ended up dying could force us off of the air for a while. Eventually, though, hunger, and a need to breathe without seeing spots, overwhelmed my concern for our continued on-air presence.
I’m not sure who will actually do the deed, but I hope it’s not me.
July 8, 2056
I didn’t have to do it, but I did help hold him down. Steve didn’t put up much of a fight, which somehow made killing him feel so much worse.
The producers sent us all these scathing transmissions about “broadcast standards” and such, but they still didn’t take us off the air. Go figure. If they won’t cut the feed after we kill two of our own or two more crew members commit what amounts to a murder-suicide, then I think it’s pretty safe to say that we’re okay. At least as far as
remaining on the air, that is.
July 23, 2056
Remember what I said about them not canceling us? Well, we are definitely being canceled, but not in the way I was worried about. We’ve all started to realize that being canceled isn’t a matter of viewership, it’s simply a matter of survival.
We’d all been trained to get by with the help of people who knew what they were doing. There are still a few people on the medical staff left, but that won’t be enough to save us from the flu that’s started wiping everyone out. We’re not sure if the sickness is so bad because it’s a virus that our bodies have never seen before, or there just aren’t enough of us to figure out how to fight it. Whatever the case, we’re dropping like flies.
Some people thought one of the guys brought it back from all the time he spent outside checking the support structures, but I don’t think that was it. The germs we naturally carry in our bodies are in a completely new environment. There’s no telling how the interaction with a new planet’s atmosphere and radiation would alter or mutate them. We’ve also been growing and eating food that was prepared in a completely different way than our bodies were used to. Not to mention possible radiation poisoning. Can you imagine how much that might have thrown off our immune systems? It’s a wonder we haven’t all died already.
I haven’t gotten sick yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
August 1, 2056
The good news: the virus isn’t going to kill me. After that, however, everything is still terrible. Horrible. On the other hand, funny. Somewhat.
You see, before the last med guy died, he informed me that I have a previously undiagnosed form of blood cancer—which is bad—but that somehow, it’s fighting off the virus. Funny, right?
I’m the last one alive … which means, eventually, I’m going to die alone.
August 20, 2056
A life support pod landed near our settlement with room and renewable supply provisions for one person. Since I’m the only one left, I guess that’s what the network expected. It still took a little work, but it wasn’t too hard to get the little guy down below the main tunnel by myself.
The last transmission the producers sent claimed that my ratings were through the roof, which strangely still felt good, despite all that’s happened. They also said that the show would be rebroadcast, with a much larger and more diverse group. The new team would be landing somewhere I hadn’t even heard of before, which means it will be nowhere near my location. The only visits I’ll get for the next few months will be from a steady stream of supply pods.
At least they had the decency to make sure that the pod has a working camera on board. It’s right above my living space and sees everything except when I have to suit up to unload a pod from outside. The red “On-Air” light is strangely comforting, but I’m still terrified about the possibility of dying alone.
September 16, 2056
I stopped getting transmissions a couple weeks ago, but I’m still being broadcasted.
Maybe the new group will send people looking for me after they’ve landed, but there’s no way I’ll make it until then. The blood cancer that was my savior, is now my killer.
Figures. Finally, I have the biggest stage in the world, but I won’t ever get to hear the applause.
LAST RESORT PIONEERS
M. T. Reiten
Lewis Kosmatka stepped out from the Conglom’s chartered lander. He dropped to the flattened surface of the landing platform, a gentle fall in the lunar gravity. He reached up to smooth his hair, but bumped his fingers into the faceplate of his helmet instead. This was his first trip to the Moon, and if everything played out as he planned, it would be his only trip.
A taxiway, lined with small shelters, led toward the manmade structures in the distance, nearly a half kilometer away. The New Moonstruck dome swelled out of the wide Elysium crater, formerly Fra Mauro crater, but renamed by marketing years ago. Over the main entrance, magnetically confined plasmas gyrated, glowing like faint blue, purple, and yellow orchids. Eye catching as neon signs without the tubes. Further off was the only eighteen-hole golf course on the moon. More than one hundred hectares of luminescent synthetic turf covered the lunar surface, dotted with gray sand traps along the fairway and motionless flags on each green. Tourists bounced along the fairways in gaudy plaid rental suits.
Beyond The New Moonstruck dome, past a low ridge, sat the large antennae of the science base. The dim utilitarian bubbles were laid out in an uninspired order. But, thought Lewis, no one came to the moon for a view of a bunch of scientists. People wanted an uncommon adventure away from the mundane world.
A mechanical porter, squat bulbous tires whirling beneath a flat bed, zipped toward the lander. It stopped next to Lewis. “Mr. Kosmatka. Paging Mr. Kosmatka,” the canned voice chimed over the open channel.
Lewis didn’t bother answering the machine. He just dumped his sealed bag onto the porter and began the short walk to the main domes of the resort. He had barely taken two cautious steps when a person approached him from one of the small shacks by the taxiway.
“Excuse me, sir.” A woman, judging from the alto voice over the open channel.
Lewis turned his head, but only saw the inside of his Armani-Perelli helmet. Frustrated, he shifted his torso so he could face the woman shuffling toward him with the classic lunar stride, bent knees, and pedaling feet. She wore a homemade suit that appeared like quilted fabric dyed a tacky fluorescent orange. Chipped and dented re-gen tanks clung to her back from used military webbing.
A ‘Derb Towner’, Lewis realized: parasites living off the lunar resort. He hadn’t expected to meet one so soon and stepped back involuntarily.
She carried a statue in her three fingered gloves. The half-meter tall statue had wide feet and a long nose set in a bug-eyed face. The surface texture of the statue was pockmarked, as if intended to mimic lunar craters, but only looked like a severe case of acne. Two silvery antennae, made from coiled metal, bobbled slowly over its head.
She continued. “Sir, would you care for a genuine Little Green Moon Man lawn ornament? Less than twenty dollars return weight! Prove that you visited the Moon.”
“I work for the Resort,” Lewis replied.
“Oh.” Her pleasant tone changed to a disinterested grumble. She shuffled away, hefting the statue by its nose. “Since when do you resort employees ride the chartered lander?”
Lewis turned and continued down the taxiway. People in suits stepped out of the souvenir stands, box-like shelters no larger than a three-man airlock. Cobbled together from discarded containers and scrapped silicate pressboard, most looked incapable of being pressurized. Bright signs were stenciled across the sides of the shelters, bearing amateurish slogans, showing no more ingenuity than a child’s lemonade stand. The people held out lunar handcrafts, paperweights, inscribed moon rock ashtrays, dolls wearing helmets.
“He’s an employee. Don’t bother,” called the first woman.
The throng of Derb Towners returned to their ramshackle stalls. Every pushy voice disappeared from the common channel, suddenly squelched into silence.
Suddenly, Lewis felt like a leper in a bazaar. As he wasn’t a tourist, he ceased to exist for the hawkers. His ears grew hot, and his cooling unit turned on in response, blowing air across his face to maintain his comfort. He reached to straighten his tie before remembering his suit, then he marched down the now deserted taxiway. He passed the gauntlet of tacky souvenir shops, finally stepping through the revolving airlocks of the main resort dome.
Lewis popped his helmet and handed it to the smiling, uniformed attendant. He took a deep breath, noting the fresh smell of cinnamon coffee and baking bread of the welcoming dome. Someone had paid attention to market research.
The attendant used a portable vacuum to remove the dust from his legs. The sharp lunar dust was supposedly carcinogenic, so they had to make a show of controlling it. She helped him step out of his pressure suit. “Did those people bother you on the way in,
Mr. Kosmatka?”
Lewis shook his head and finally straightened his tie. Those people were the problem he was here to address. His career-making or breaking gamble would play out today.
Ed Ramirez, director of the Conglom’s resort division, had an office suite located in the observation tower of the New Moonstruck dome. Lewis supposed the only reason the director could afford the view was that no high rollers wanted it any longer. Beyond, the wrap-around quartz windows displayed the broad panorama of the surrounding moonscape. In an uninterrupted view, Lewis could see the science base in the distance to his right and the landing field to his left. Sprouting between the buildings, the low, lumpy dwellings of Derb Town.
Further out, past the manmade structures, Lewis looked into the bleak desolation of the cratered surface—dirty white rock and black shadows with unwavering stars in a sky of permanent night loomed before him. The same emptiness of the Great Plains winters he had desperately fled, throwing himself into the bustling work of Hotel and Resort Management.
Instead of tropical islands or luxurious, elegant casinos, Lewis found himself back in a wasteland. Ironically, he had fought to get this temporary assignment on the Moon, playing on his recent success in northern Manitoba for the Conglom. If Ramirez didn’t buy his strategy, Lewis might be demoted and get assigned here permanently.
Ramirez swiveled around in his high-backed chair. “Impressive, don’t you think?”
Mission Mars Page 7
