Mission Mars

by Janet L. Cannon

  “Hey, Lander, you look good from here,” called Oleg.

  Chen replied, “Better than good! At least to me. I’ve lived with Lander from its construction in Shenzhen. Practically its parent. It will do us just fine. Just fine.”

  His voice seemed calm to anyone listening, at least to those who didn’t know him. His crewmates, though, could tell he was nervous. But Carla was too focused to reply. Besides, she knew Chen was on top of everything and his nerves would settle as their training kicked in. All of them had been trained by the best. And now, they were the best.

  Carla, too, was nervous, but she continued to focus on her own tasks. As commander, the weight of ‘Mission Mars’ success—and failure—rested heavily on her. Whether she gave the mission the ‘Go’, the ‘No go’, or issued the dreaded ‘Abort’ call, all their lives—those on Earth included—depended on her.

  The Lander rotated upside down for landing. Chen initiated the first full burn, taking them down into the Martian atmosphere. Chen tapped Carla on the arm and then pointed out the window. Monstrous mountains loomed overhead. The landscape, painted orange, brown, and red, was devoid of any life or movement. An alien world, foreboding, forbidding, beautiful.

  A sudden realisation of what was about to happen seemed to dawn on Chen and Carla at the same moment. Chen looked over at Carla, “Go?”

  She smiled and nodded, “We go.”

  Mars Lander started the descent. Inside it was tense. Both Carla and Chen knew this was the defining moment of the first manned exploration mission of Mars. This was where it was most likely going to succeed or fail.

  “We’ll be entering the atmosphere soon,” said Chen.

  “No problems. All systems OK,” replied Carla.

  “Radio blackout … now.”

  For the first time in six months, they were on their own. Turbulence buffeted the spacecraft as it entered Mars’ thin atmosphere. Outside, the heat shield burned white hot. Through the window they could see flickers of red and white flames. If their shield failed now, they’d be dead long before they hit the Martian surface.

  “Let’s hope to hell all this technology works, eh?” said Chen, cheerfully aware no one could hear him now, except his commander.

  She eyed Chen sternly. “Knock it off, Lieutenant, and start making the calls. I didn’t come this close to screw up.”

  “Sure thing, boss lady,” he teased. Carla shook her head, and gripping the control stick, turned her attention back to her task at hand. Although it was Chen’s job to pilot Mars Lander into position, it was the commander’s task to land the ship on the surface. Just the way it had been on the original moon landings, so many decades before.

  “Radio contact restored. Down five degrees, fuel still good,” said Chen the complete professional again. Outside the window, the Red planet loomed large. As they descended down closer to the landing, the retros continually tilted Mars Lander into position. Without warning, the ship jolted and pitched and angled sharply to the left. Within the confines of Lander, everything groaned and creaked Concern clear in Carla’s voice, she said, “What was that?” Immediately, she fought to regain control.

  Chen’s face grew taut. He narrowed his vision and concentrated on the protocol, checking gauges, one by one. He did not answer his commander.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Without looking at Carla, he said, “I’m working on it, Commander.”

  “Mars Lander, I think you’ve been hit by something. Whatever it was, it was small. Hold position while I check a few things.” Oleg stated.

  With an average of thirteen minutes between transmissions from Mission Control, the Mars Lander and its crew of two, was on its on. Except for Oleg.

  “Roger, holding position,” said Carla having regained control.

  “We’re burning fuel, only four minutes left before we have to abort,” added Chen, all his cheer gone. Not long enough to get information from Earth, they would be totally reliant on the computers on the Command Module and Oleg.

  Oleg came back on air, “Most likely a micro meteorite strike. It did some superficial damage, but I recommend we still go.”

  “Roger that. Stay on it, Oleg. Update us if anything changes,” said Carla, starting the descent again.

  “Fuel check: one minute, thirty seconds,” Chen called out. Silence cut through the tension. “Sixty seconds … thirty seconds.” Then he added, “It’s getting tight, Commander.”

  Mars loomed large in the window. Carla focused all her senses on the landing. She was mere feet from touchdown. Mere seconds from having to abort the mission.

  Oleg held his breath, doing his best to keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt his commander’s focus

  “And … touch down.” Chen, steadily flipping switches, said, “Engines off. Systems secure, Commander.”

  “We are on Mars!” Through their headsets, they heard an audible, ‘Yeah’ from their orbiting colleague. Carla looked over at Chen, a slow smile spreading across her face.

  Thirteen minutes later, a raft of Mission Mars engineers and flight controllers erupted into cheers and whoops back on Earth.

  Two hours after the final systems checks, and another half hour of checking each others’ suits, Commander Carla Rodriquez was ready to announce their Extra Vehicular Activity—commonly known as ‘the Mars Walk’ to the waiting public back on Earth. After six months without gravity, both were surprised at how quickly they tired doing even the simplest activities. It would take time to get their muscles and bones used to the extra weight.

  “On target for EVA,” she said clearly for Mission Control’s benefit.

  “Is this going to be one small step for woman, one giant leap for mankind?” teased Chen.

  This time, Carla, now far more relaxed, chuckled. Mars—they were here, she thought— all the years of training, of personal sacrifice, not to mention living six months in tight confines with two air force jarheads for company was finally paying off. This U.S. Navy commissioned Martian Geologist was about to have Christmas and her birthday celebration all at once. Carla, too, understood the gravity of her mission. That she was about to step into history. The first human—a woman—to ever step foot on the Red planet. A huge honour. She’d been rehearsing her speech for a very long time and she was determined to say it clearly. She was determined to not repeat a Neil Armstrong. She wasn’t going to miss a word.

  Carla took a deep breath. “Cameras?” she asked.

  “Deployed and broadcasting to the big blue planet,” Chen said.

  She grinned at Chen and he grinned back. No one could ever take this from them. This was their moment on behalf of the thousands of people across the world who had made it possible.

  “Open the hatch.”

  Chen pushed the button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again.

  “It’s not working.”

  “Try the manual override.”

  Chen struggled to move the lever. Nothing. “Dear God … it won’t budge.” Chen grabbed hold of the hatch opening with both hands and leaned into it, sweat running down his face.

  Finally, impatient, Carla said, “Let me try.” She tugged hard, her eyes wide and her cheeks puffed out with the effort. Again, nothing. “Together,” she ordered. Tugging in tandem, straining—and forgetting about their audience—cursed, “Damn it, open!”

  After several minutes, Chen and Carla were forced to admit defeat. Frustrated, they took turns pushing the electronic button again, total inertia. The door was jammed shut. Chen broke the awkward silence that followed first.

  “Any suggestions, Oleg?”

  After a short pause, Oleg replied, “Sorry, Lieutenant, I’ll have to check with Mission Control. Sit tight.”

  “Sit tight?” Carla rasped.

  Facing the huge overhead monitor, the Mission Control flight director stood behind his team of experts studying the image of Mars Lander surrounded by the dry, rocky orange, red, and brown Martian surface.

  “Okay, people, any ideas?”

&n
bsp; PHASE 3

  AND TO DUST WE RETURN

  INTO THIN AIR

  by Jonathan Shipley

  NECESSITIES OF LIFE

  Kristin Procter

  Acid gurgles beneath my bra: heartburn or panic? I drag fingers through my pixie hair, struggling to decide what to do.

  On Earth, I visited the doctor any time I needed to, though rarely. It was one of my selling points when vying for a spot with the Mars Bound Program a decade ago. A decade ago. Then, I was decisive and clear-headed, nothing like the current swamp of indecision swirling in my skull. A decade ago, dizziness would have prompted a visit to a medical clinic, and if that hadn’t, my aversion to coffee would have.

  This morning, after drinking coffee, my day in the bio-dome began with an uneasy stomach and my head spinning. In an effort to distract myself, I planted mizuna seeds, imagining the leafy greens that would grow.

  The list of justifications for not feeling like I should, again cycle through my head—you are homesick; you’re adjusting to space-bound living. Any day now, you will be getting your period. Today, these justifications don’t reassure me.

  I drag my feet through the small tunnels that connect the larger pods of our ship. Outside the entrance to the medical centre is a round red button that resembles most generic emergency buttons. I push it, knowing that my symptoms will be entered into the computer. From there, a complex database of tree diagrams will assess the symptoms and suggest various fates: some benign, others undesirable, and others, more serious. Enough time has passed with this feeling of sickness that I know my symptoms are more than just a stomach bug. It is something that will require more than the usual recommendation of medication, hydration, and rest.

  Standing, waiting for the report, I see that it is Astrid, head of the medical pod, who answers my call.

  “Nat. Hey, I’m surprised to see you here.” She winks, her English almost perfect. I blush. I stand taller. If others have not noticed my slower pace or increased water consumption and sleep, then perhaps I am not as sick as I think. The woozy feeling dissipates, and I suddenly feel silly, insecure, like I had dreamt the symptoms. I don’t know where to start, so I stand, feet and lips motionless.

  “What’s going on?” Astrid pushes my elbow playfully, then adds in a whisper, “You remember that when you page the medical staff, everything is recorded.”

  I nod, knowing she is reminding me not to violate the code of conduct, or more likely not to mention the ways we have already violated the code with our personal arrangement. Dimples appear in each of her cheeks. Her smile cracks my ribs. Like an Xray, she can see my insides without even trying.

  “How is the bio-dome?” she asks, putting on her manager tone. “Is the sustainability department adding up?” Astrid pokes fun at one of my favourite sayings.

  “You know my mantra. Survival is simple. Air, water, and food—enough to support our population, then recycle the waste and dispose of the rest. So far, so good.” I return the mock serious tone, still proud of my quote.

  “So?” Again, the smooth, inviting voice. I offer a fairly non-descript list of symptoms. Astrid purses her lips and flares her nostrils, as if smelling something not quite right.

  “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were pregnant.” Astrid cracks another joke.

  We both chuckle. During the selection process, both Astrid and I were vocal advocates for the inclusion of women on the Mars Bound colonisation program. Despite being well into the second millennium, there were researchers who argued that the presence of women would be a sexual distraction to the men in the colony. Astrid pointed out that no one questioned what would distract the women. Rational minds prevailed, and women continued to be included in the selection process. It angered me, but I did use the organisers’ fears about sex to my advantage. I argued that the best candidates for the trip would be those attracted to the same sex, making pregnancies a non-issue, and (hopefully) offering myself another advantage. No public statement was ever released on the topic. As it turns out, though, the average number of Mars inhabitants who prefer non-procreative sex, is greater. Besides, even if Astrid didn’t remember my advocacy during the selection process, our arrangement is a regular reminder.

  The rules about sex in space are ambiguous. The code of conduct insists that astronauts will not participate in any behaviour that “threatens the harmony of the team.” This could apply to stealing food, or hogging exercise equipment. In theory, the rule could also apply to sex. The lack of specific language allows for some interpretation. Astrid and I had been interpreting and reinterpreting these codes since she arrived on the planet in the second fleet, a few weeks after me.

  “Let’s look at you.”

  Astrid leans over to reach a container of tongue depressors. Her breast skims the tip of my breast, sensitive and tender. Heat radiates over my chest and cheeks. Her hair falls to one side, the scent of her, rising from her neck. Almost everything smells the same on Mars: dry and stunted, puffs of dust. Everything except Astrid, who smells wet and sweet, like liquorice tea. Before I can press my lips to her flesh, she grabs my chin, tilts my head, forces my mouth open, then checks my tonsils and the glands in my neck.

  “Hmmm,” she tuts.

  She types the results of her prodding into a computer and waits for the array of possible diagnoses. After a pause to read the results, she enters more data, tuts again, then leans back in her chair. The colour of her eyes shifts from silver to grey. She rubs the side of her head.

  “Just tell me!” My words bounce along the metal pod.

  “It’s not that easy.” Astrid has a way of making bad news sound like melted ice cream—disappointing, worth a tear or two, but still ice cream.

  “I can take it,” I assert. The way she squeezes her eyelids together, I wonder if she is considering other options before speaking. But what other options exist?

  “It could be a few things. Let’s rule out the serious problems first.” Again, her voice, silky mango sorbet.

  Thinking back to the Mars Bound selection process we all were subjected to, and betraying my true worry, I blurt out “Will I be the first injection?”

  The selection process involved extensive moral evaluations, including discussions, debates, and our ability to function with others, despite differences in values and beliefs. After final cuts, the chosen spent at least a week drafting end-of-life documents. This was, after all, a one-way mission to Mars. No visits home. No returns. Death, like on earth, was a matter of when, not if. Here, however, each would-be inhabitant signed a pact. One that included the protocol for medically assisted death. One that included the clause, “when an inhabitant induces a significant drain on the colony, becoming a liability rather than an asset, he or she will be euthanized.”

  “The computer is coming up with some potentially serious things, but that doesn’t mean anything … yet,” Astrid offers sympathetically.

  Now, even more nauseated, I excuse myself to the toilet. When I return, Astrid, unlike me, appears more composed, though the beads of sweat stringing together along her hairline betray her otherwise calm demeanour.

  “A few more questions, OK?”

  I nod and manage to peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth to articulate, “OK.”

  “Have you lost or gained any weight?”

  The button on my khakis presses into the swell of my belly. “Actually, my clothes are tighter, but I figured it was the lack of rigorous exercise options available to us here … I competed in ultra-triathlons before … but you know all that.”

  “Any rashes? Boils? Bumps?”

  “No, no, and no.” Astrid adds this to her notes.

  “Date of last menstruation?”

  “I am not really sure,” I offer, scanning memories of periods past, trying to locate the last one.

  “An approximate date? Since we landed? Is your cycle normal? Was it normal on Earth?”

  I tread through her questions like swimming in roiling water, fighting to breath,
combatting the waves of panic, and battling to keep my head above the surface. “I don’t know. No, not since we landed, and no, not normal, I mean, not really. Between the exhaustive training for the ultra-triathlons—and my age—my doctor and I assumed I was going through early menopause, or had suppressed periods from exercise.”

  “Plus,” Astrid explained while typing, “it is a normal side effect with the birth control we are all on.”

  “Wait. No. Actually, I was exempt. Since I wasn’t having regular periods. Or sex with men. My doctor said the last thing my body needed was artificial hormones.”

  “Wow. I’m surprised that made it past the medical clearance,” Astrid’s eyes darken again as she leans toward me and murmurs, “No drug or alcohol use over the last six months? Not unless you are dipping into my stash.” She winks. My heart jumps.

  I smile, pink-cheeked and search my memory. Apart from years ago eating some marijuana-laced brownies—which made me feel like I was rocketing through space toward the stars—I have never done drugs. Wait. There was one time….

  Four months into our journey was long enough to know one another’s quirks. Long enough to no longer intrigue, or be intrigued. Long enough to irritate each other, or be irritated. More so now, we were bored. That, combined with the monotony of a highly regimented and unchanging daily routine, brought Guy and me to the rocket’s storeroom, searching for fun.

  Guy is a dentist, or when he left Earth, an almost-dentist. We became friends early in the selection process and were excited to be on the same transfer ship to Mars. He is funny, athletic, an open-water swimmer, and a drag queen. One other thing, Guy had to offer—code access to the storeroom that housed nitrous oxide….

  “Ah, Nat … Nat?” Astrid touches my leg and brings me back. “Anything to eat or drink today?”

  “Wait, that other question.”

  “Which one? Drugs? Alcohol?” Her forehead furrows. “If you have a secret stash, you had better let me in on it.”

  “No, no.” I hesitate. Knowing everything will be recorded and sent back to Earth, I am careful with my choice of words. “On the rocket … on the way here. Nitrous oxide.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how much. Just one night. One crazy night on the rocket.”