by Nick Webb
“They said I’ll need your blood for a long time.”
“Yeah, well, let’s not think about that. I’m sure they’ll come up with a way to fix you good. You’ll be healthier than I am within a few days, and I’m as healthy as they come.”
Wixam nodded solemnly. “I thought maybe, instead of coming to the hospital for more transfusions, I thought maybe we could stuff you into my backpack and just hook up a tube between us.”
His father looked mortified. His mother’s jaw hung half-open.
Frank laughed. “You got it, kid. If you can carry me, I’m all yours. Your own personal blood bank, on tap at all hours of the day. Just save a few pints for me, wouldya?”
They continued their banter, and before long little Wix’s eyes got droopy and he fell asleep. Frank glanced from one parent to the other. They both looked like they hadn’t slept in days.
“Mr. Bickham, thank you so much for doing this. I have no words….” the mother trailed off.
The father nodded. “I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t here. If there’s ever anything you need, anything at all, please let me know. My father is the vice president of Interplanetary—just one word from me and it happens. Whatever you want.”
A wicked thought crossed his mind. “Can you revoke Jerry Su’s colonist application?”
“What?”
“Just kidding,” Frank said with a wry chuckle.
The father laughed nervously, and yawned. Damn, these people needed sleep.
Frank tapped a finger on his armrest. “I know what you could do for me.”
“Name it.”
“Go to bed. Both you and your wife. Get some sleep—I’ll be here all night.”
They both stared at him.
“No, I mean it. He needs you,” he said, pointing at the sleeping boy, “but he needs you to be awake, alert, and healthy. Go to bed. Don’t make me pull rank,” he added, with a grin.
After another round of profuse thanks, they left.
“Just you and me, kid. And I’ll be damned if you leave before I do.”
An hour passed, and he was dozing off when something jolted him awake.
“Mr. Bickham?”
Dr. Pratt was looking at him through the half-opened door.
“Yes, Doctor?” he croaked.
“Would you mind coming back tomorrow evening? I want to build up a short-term supply of your blood. Just in case … you know.”
Frank nodded. It wasn’t immediately clear to him what you know meant, but it didn’t matter. “Very prudent. In fact, how about we build up a long-term supply? I can come in twice a day for the next two weeks or so, if needed. Let’s make sure we have at least a year’s worth, wouldn’t you say? At least until the next shipment comes in from Earth. I assume they’re going to send over a supply of his blood type?”
Doctor Pratt’s face broke out into a huge smile. “Yes, they will. You never cease to amaze me, Mr. Bickham. Yes, that would be perfect. God bless you.”
Pratt left him alone with the boy, and his thoughts.
Two weeks. Build up enough of a supply, make sure that the boy would live a long, happy life, and then Frank Bickham was heading to the history books.
“Grumpy?”
The boy’s small voice made him jump. “Yeah, Wix?”
“Don’t ever go anywhere.”
Dammit. Kid’s not helping. “I’ll be right here, kid. On Mars. Forever.”
“Good.” The kid’s voice sounded remote and slurred, as if he was sleep-speaking. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too, kid.”
And it was even true.
The next week
The urgent call from Dr. Pratt came early in the morning on a Tuesday. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bickham. Your friend went into a coma late last night. He was just in for a regular checkup, and keeled over right in the office.”
“Shit.” Frank had nothing else to say. A hole started opening up in the bottom of his gut. All he could think about was the kid. About his parents—how he could possibly console them. For the kid’s big sister, who now had to deal with not only a sick little brother, but one who was asleep, possibly for good. “I just went to the house yesterday, Doc. He looked fine then. What gives?”
“Frank—can I call you Frank? Look, sometimes people just get to this point, and there’s nothing we can do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Frank yelled into the phone. “I did what you asked, and then some. We’ve saved up the blood. He’s got a six month supply now.” He could hear the doctor try to interrupt, but he steamrolled right over him. “Did you miss something? You missed his condition the first time around—it wasn’t until the habitation module blast that you discovered this thing. Could there be something else? Think, man!”
“Mr. Bickham, please! If you’ll let me speak. I was trying to tell you—it’s not Wixam. He’s fine. I’m talking about Mr. Smith.”
“Ed?”
“Yes, Ed. He came in yesterday. Said he felt a little funny. But we had a nice visit—he mentioned you several times. Said you were a good friend, that you visited at least twice a week. And then … well, he passed out. I couldn’t revive him. I’m sorry.”
Oh. Damn. Ed Smith was in a frickin’ coma.
“Aortic valve?”
“Huh? Oh, well, as his doctor, I can’t discuss his medical history with you. But since you’re, well….” Frank imagined doctor was about to say, since you’re Frank Bickham. “Since you’re a close friend of his, I’ll say, no. It wasn’t his heart. It was something else. But I’m not at liberty to say, exactly. But his heart is not exactly an asset at the moment.”
“And? How long does he have?”
“Could be months. Could be hours. Or he could wake up tomorrow.”
Frank sighed. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. He was going to lose. He’d forever be known as the second man to set foot on Mars. And the second to die. Or the third. Maybe the fourth, given his terrible luck.
A siren jolted him out of his reverie. Red lights flashed, and the regular lighting dimmed down to auxiliary power levels.
“What the hell?” Those were the emergency evac lights. Every month the colonists of Mariner Valley participated in an emergency readiness drill, but that wasn’t scheduled for another week.
He looked out the window of his penthouse apartment. People were rushing out into the streets, and heading towards Huygens Dome’s emergency shelter. A minute later he’d joined them, shuffling down the street, urging people not to run, but to hurry, giving a hand to a lady that had stumbled over a dropped bag.
“Anyone know what’s up?” asked a man nearby.
An engineer nearby answered, “must be Hab Mod Twelve. We’ve been having problems down there ever since the explosion. Ain’t surprised something else happened down there.”
Habitation module twelve. He’d read reports about the persistent air leak over there, and now it looked like the situation had deteriorated.
He changed direction, and a minute later he was outside the administration building. The desk operator was gone, so he strolled right into the emergency meeting of the governor and the corporate board, who were grilling the senior engineering staff.
“So you’re saying there’s no oxygen left in Huygen’s tank? None? What the hell happened to it?” said Governor Ladro to an engineer, who looked like he’d rather be fixing something than explaining something.
“That’s correct, sir.”
“How? Oh. Don’t tell me.” He slapped a hand mockingly on his forehead. “Let me guess. It was an engineering shortcut by Interplanetary staff when they set the place up.”
“That about sums it up, sir. It cost far less for habitation module twelve to share the auxiliary oxygen tank with Huygens. And then the explosion last week damaged the sensors in the tank, so that we had no idea it was empty until an hour ago. The persistent leak over in twelve sucked it dry, and we ne
ver even knew.”
The governor glared at the corporate board. “Good thing the stock price is up, huh? Sure made this whole adventure worth it.” He turned back to the engineering staff. “Ok, I want a solution. Fast.”
The engineer stammered. “Well, the other problem is that … well, there’s about ten other problems. All video feeds in Twelve are out. Repair drones are inoperative since the main comm package linking Twelve with Huygens was still being repaired. Half of Twelve is still at vacuum, and the other half is steadily losing pressure. I won’t bore you with the details, but we have a solution. All it will take is someone going in, repairing a few valves, pushing a few buttons that we can’t do remotely, and hightail it back to the airlock just in case we have an explosive mix with the methane leak again.”
“Methane leak?” said Ladro. “Unbelievable.”
One of the assistant engineers raised a hand. “Methane leak. Just discovered it this morning when we switched over to the auxiliary sensors in Twelve. We think the methane check valves … uh, let’s just say they didn’t so much check as they encouraged the flow. Cheap Chinese knockoffs.”
Ladro eyed the corporate board cooly. “And the stock price keeps going up.” They all either glared at him, or squirmed in their chairs.
The head engineer nodded. “As I was saying, one person can do it, but it will be extremely dangerous. The risk of injury—or worse—is very high. I’d say we send either Farnsworth or—”
“Send me.”
Frank could hardly believe the words came out of his mouth. So he repeated them to make sure they were his. “Send me.”
Governor Ladro shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. We need you, Mr. Bickham. You’re too important to spare. You’re an inspiration to everyone in the colony—if we lost you, we’d have a serious morale problem on our hands.” He turned back to the head engineer, but before he could say anything else, Frank decided to lie. There simply wasn’t time to come up with an excuse that would mask the truth.
“Governor, I’m dying. Doc Pratt says I’ve got a month. Tops. Chronic, terribly painful condition—this doesn’t end well for me know matter how you look at it. Seriously—send me.”
Ladro eyed him skeptically, but asked the chief engineer, “can he do it? If you guide him over the comm?”
“I don’t see why not. He was the third man on Mars, after all. He should know his shit.”
“Second.”
“Excuse me?” said the engineer.
“Second man on Mars. But the first to die, apparently. What luck!” He laughed a little too loud, and started coughing when no one else joined in. “Well, shit. I guess I better go suit up.”
Two hours later
Frank cranked on the wrench, tightening one last gas fitting into place. “That’s it,” he said into his commlink. “How’s the flow?”
The chief engineer’s voice sounded over the speaker in his helmet. “No flow yet. Still not getting an accurate atmospheric composition over there. You’re either at ten percent methane, ninety percent methane, or, well, there could be no atmosphere at all. What do you read on your suit?”
Frank eyed the analogue pressure gauge on his forearm—luckily it was a pre-Interplanetary Reserve suit, so the damn thing still worked just fine. “I’m reading half an atmosphere. But no idea how much is methane, how much is nitrogen, and how much is hot air escaping from Interplanetary’s CEO’s hairy ass.” He grinned. He knew the conversation was being broadcast throughout the colony, and would be heard on Earth about six minutes later. The CEO would probably bust a gasket, but served the bastard right.
Whatever he did, Frank was minutes away from glory. No matter what happened when the flow turned back on. He’d repeated his little trick on habitation module twelve’s airlock as soon as he passed the threshold, the outer door had sealed, and he was out of sight of the engineering crew. The moment he stepped back into that thing and cycled the air, the inner airlock door would jam, permanently lock, and all the air in both the airlock and half of habitation module twelve would escape out into the near vacuum of Mar’s atmosphere.
“Ok,” said the engineer. “We’re going to start the flow. You’re either about to be able to breathe without your suit, or explode. Godspeed, Mr. Bickham.”
“Roger that.” He raised his voice, knowing that the entire colony was listening. That he was being recorded for history. “And if I don’t make it out of here, I just want every Martian in the sound of my voice to know that … that it was an honor serving with you. These past few months I’ve made wonderful friends, I’ve lived with you, loved you, and if I don’t come back from this, my only hope is that I’ve made your lives a little better. What can any man really hope for when he’s gone? Thank you. Frank out.”
He closed his eyes, waiting for the possible explosion. A minute passed. Two minutes. Then a voice. “Frank? You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Good news. The air is cycled, and optimal oxygen flow restored, now from the Tycho Dome. Congratulations, sir! You’re not only alive, but saved everyone in Huygens dome.”
He heard a cheer from everyone in the room on the other side of the comm, but all he could think was, Damn, I guess I’ve got to do this the hard way.
“Roger that. Heading to airlock now.” He worked his way from the engineering alcove in habitation module twelve to the airlock, and before initiating the irreversible process that would jam the door and vent the whole module, he sat down to check his messages one last time. He’d sent one final note to his granddaughter, Ramona. Looked like she hadn’t replied yet, so he burned another minute rereading his message to her.
Sweetie,
I’m about to do something very dangerous to help the colony, and if I don’t come out of this I just wanted you to know I love you, and I’m proud of you. You’re a wonderful mom, and an amazing lawyer. Please give Sammy and Ted big kisses from me.
Ramona, you asked me, right before I got my assignment here back in November, what I wanted to be remembered for. I think by asking me that you were trying to get me to change my mind about coming here. You wanted me to stay with you and Sammy and Ted. I wanted that too. But I also wanted something more.
I want to matter. I want my existence to have mattered. For people to remember that I was here, and that I was here for a damn good reason. I want people to say, “Frank was here, and thank God he was.”
Doing this thing that I’m doing now is the best way I can think of to achieve that goal. And if it means I have to be the first man to die on Mars to achieve it, then so be it.
Goodbye, Sweetie.
Love, Grumpy.
He looked up at the airlock controls next to his seat. Everything was ready. If he delayed any longer the engineering team would begin to worry, and possibly suspect something.
History was waiting for him.
A chirp from his handset made him jump. He looked down, expecting to see a message from Ramona, but instead it was a call from someone in the colony.
It was the kid. Wix.
Tentatively, he accepted the call. “Hello?”
“Grumpy? Where are you?”
“I’m, ah … I’m in habitation module twelve, kid. Your old home.”
“You said you’d come back today. Are you still coming?”
“Working on it, kid.”
He thought he heard a little sniffle on the other end. “I miss you, Grumpy. You didn’t come yesterday, either. Doc said you were in the hospital to give me blood, but you left right away without a visit. And then when you didn’t come today, I thought you’d never come back. I … I….” He paused, then lowered his voice. “Grumpy, can I tell you a secret?”
“Shoot, kid.”
He whispered. “It made me cry. Please don’t tell any of the other boys that I cried. It would be catatrophic.”
“Catatrophic? Don’t you mean catastr—”
“Yes, Grumpy. Catatrophic. Promise not to tell?”
Frank bit his lip. He
stood up, and fingered the controls to the airlock.
Shit.
His handset beeped again. It was Ramona.
You matter to us, Grumpy. To a lot of people.
We love you very much. Do what you have to do.
Love, Ramona
“Grumpy? Promise?” said Wix.
Frank’s hand trembled over the controls. History was waiting. His destiny was literally at his fingertips.
He would matter.
“I … I—” he began, before adding, “aw, sh—” He stopped himself.
“Shamwow? I still think you made that up.”
Frank chuckled. “Ok. I admit it. I made it up. I was going to say shit.”
Wixam lowered his voice to a mocking, sarcastic tone. “No shit, Grumpy.”
Frank lost it, convulsing in laughter. “Kid? Are you sure you’re six? Fine. Fine. I promise. No one will ever know you cried when I didn’t come visit you. My lips are sealed. Forever.”
“Forever? Why? Are you dying?”
Frank laughed again. “Not today, kid. Then I wouldn’t be able to visit you. How’s five o’clock sound?”
Two and a half months after that
Frank sipped his coffee, and offered the other cup to the other man as he sat down at the table on Bickam Boulevard. “Will Doc Pratt let you drink it?”
“Do I care what he says?” said Ed Smith, an oxygen tube suspended below his nose.
“Good point.” He turned to his other companion. “How’s that hot chocolate?”
“Tastes like shamwow,” said Wixam Hanuman.
“Well you’re late for school anyway. Get.” Frank waved a hand, shooing the kid away. Wix gulped the rest of it down, stuck out his tongue at Frank, and trotted off down the street.
“Turn it up, will you? I want to hear if everyone made it.” Ed motioned up to the tv, which was playing the CNN feed.
