Farmer One

by Christian Cantrell

  Frozen golf courses can do wonders for your game, but they are far less accommodating to lightweight and undersized BMX dirt bikes like the one Lockwood is frantically pedaling toward the twelfth hole's teeing ground. The brake calipers grab the rims sure enough, and the tires instantly seize, but the bike as a whole gives no indication of slowing. If Lockwood were to hold course, he would end up low-siding, which is to say that the bike would pivot out from under him in the direction of the skid and both he and his ride would come to a dramatic but relatively harmless low-impact rest only a few meters from where they are now. However, in a desperate attempt to save himself what would have been, in retrospect, relatively minor embarrassment, Lockwood makes the mistake of releasing the brakes which allows the tires to find just enough purchase at an angle perpendicular to his momentum that he is thrown over the high side of the bike instead. He is aware of achieving actual measurable hang time during which he questions his decision to wear a ski hat rather than a helmet, and wonders how much elasticity a frozen golf course could possibly afford. The answer is predictable little, Lockwood discovers; as he lands more or less on his face, frozen blades of grass stab up through his beard tickling the inside of his nose, and bend against the thick corrective lenses protecting his tightly clenched eyelids. He has just enough time to register that both he and his bike were headed in the same general direction when last they parted ways before he feels the impact of a very strong, but thankfully fairly lightweight, aluminum alloy frame against his back.

  The peace and silence of the crisp morning air is permeated by the popping of a polite and civilized golf clap.

  "Brother Lockwood always knows how to make an entrance," Sarek tells the Director. "Yesterday it was a dead fish. Today it's acrobatics. Perhaps tomorrow he'll set himself on fire."

  Lockwood lifts his head enough to see the smiles on Sarek's and Noone's faces. The Director appears only mildly distracted from her game.

  "Don't worry about the bike," Noone says as Lockwood begins the work of getting to his feet. He bends joints and places weight experimentally. "You broke its fall brilliantly."

  "No, really," Lockwood says. "I'm fine. Don't put yourselves out."

  "Oh, come on," Noone says. "We've been through far worse in astronaut training. Hell, that looked more fun than dangerous."

  Lockwood was given astronaut training when he joined the Human Spaceflight Program in the same way a nuclear physicist is given basic training when recruited by the military to build submarine propulsion systems or intercontinental ballistic missiles. That is to say, he mostly watched and tried to stay out of the way.

  The Director has forgotten all about Lockwood's stunt and is back to focusing on her shot. With her perfect blonde bob, bright blue eyes, and decidedly favorable proportions, she is almost certainly the most beautiful woman Lockwood has ever known. In addition, she is an expert in military history and, according to the rumors, a highly competent pilot, both of which add copious amounts of geek cred to her allure. Unfortunately, the intelligent, powerful, and highly provocative Director of NASA is also as asexual as she is irresistible. Lockwood has seen algorithms that exude more warmth than she does. Flirting with an NPC[8] would be a more productive use of a guy's time. Among the army of code monkeys at NASA, she is known universally as "Fembot."

  Her shot is straight toward the flag and a good two hundred yards plus, once the ball finally finishes skipping and rolling across the frozen fairway. She has chosen the highly visible color of dark green which, even at this distance, stands out nicely against its white surroundings. As she bends down to recover her tee, Lockwood remembers hearing that the Director can be found kneeling in NASA's chapel no fewer than twice a day which the Chaplain is reportedly quite appreciative of since the view from behind draws gaggles of slack-jawed engineers who would otherwise visit God's home about as frequently as they would the gym or their proctologists.

  How Noone got himself invited along on a golf outing with Sarek and the Director becomes apparent when the Director hands him her club. Noone stows it in the bag he's holding with the kind of subtle resentment largely undetectable to those at the executive level, but that Lockwood recognizes instantly.

  "So, do you have a flight plan for me," Sarek asks Lockwood as he tees up. "I'm guessing you didn't come all the way out here just to show off your BMX skills."

  Lockwood's finger has disappeared into a hole in the elbow of his parka. He will have to remember to apply a duct tape patch to contain the synthetic down.

  "Yes, sir," Lockwood says. He knows that treating Sarek with reverence in front of the Director buys him all kinds of leniency in other contexts. "I think I have it all figured out."

  "Good. Let's hear the high points."

  "Basically, we treat the entire mission as a lunar landing except we substitute the Moon for Mars, and we replace the third stage of the Saturn VII with the plasma propulsion prototype we already have in orbit. That should get us to Mars just ahead of the Chinese."

  "OK," Sarek says. He is considering the selection of clubs available to him in his golf bag. As far as Lockwood can tell, his options are limited to a putter and a driver. He starts to pull out the putter, thinks better of it, and opts for the driver instead. "But this, we already know. What I want to hear about is how we're going to get our man back home."

  "We're not," Lockwood says. Finally something noteworthy enough to interrupt the morning's round of golf has transpired, and both Sarek and the Director turn.

  "Pardon me?" Sarek says.

  "I said we're not. The Chinese are going to do it for us."

  "I feel like that merits further explanation, Brother Austin," Sarek says. "If it's not terribly out of your way."

  "The plasma propulsion prototype we have in orbit is based on an almost completely unmodified third stage of a Saturn VII. That means the third stage we launch into orbit will be empty giving us more weight for food and other expendables to compensate for the longer flight to Mars. That also means the empty third stage is, at least in theory, perfectly interchangeable with the plasma prototype, so all we have to do is figure out how to couple the Zeus modules to the plasma stage while in orbit."

  "What you're telling me now would generally not be considered high points."

  "What I'm trying to say is that all the pieces just happen to fit almost perfectly in place for us to get to Mars before the Chinese which is the only reason we even have a prayer. But that's just for the trip out. If we have to design a new launch system for the lunar module to compensate for the difference in Martian gravity, and a way to either reignite the plasma propulsion system (which may not even be possible), or a way to get enough conventional fuel plus expendables to Mars to make the trip home, we can forget it. There's absolutely no way we'll launch in time to beat the Chinese. We'd be lucky to launch before they got home."

  "So the solution you're proposing, if I'm understanding you correctly, is to politely ask the Chinese for a lift back to Earth?"

  "Exactly. From what I've been able to find out from my sources, the Chinese spacecraft is designed to haul hundreds of pounds of Martian rock and soil back to Earth. So instead of samples, they haul back an American."

  "What makes you think they would chose an American over dirt?"

  "Pride. We will have beaten them there, so the only way for them to save face is to rescue the poor, stranded, helpless American."

  "Have you considered the fact that this will make us look like complete fools?" Sarek asks. "How can we possibly justify flying an American all the way out to Mars without the technology to get him back?"

  "We don't tell anyone that," Lockwood says. "We say the lunar — or I guess the Martian, in this case — launch system was damaged during landing. I agree it's not ideal, but we either beat the Chinese to Mars and hitchhike home, or we don't go at all."

  "What if the Chinese mission fails?" Sarek says. "Or what if your source is wrong about the amount of weight they can take back? Or the amount of air or f
ood they have? What if their CO2 scrubbers can't handle another breather? What if, at the last minute, the Chinese decide to land on the opposite side of the planet? What if they're planning on bumming a ride back with us?"

  "Admittedly, all of those would be suboptimal scenarios," Lockwood says. "And there are hundreds if not thousands of other things that could wrong. But if you want the first man on Mars to be an American, this is the only way it's going to happen."

  Sarek shakes his head at Lockwood. "This is just plain sad," he tells his scraped-up and bruised protégé who still has frozen grass in his beard and nose. "Pathetic, really."

  The Director hands her pink and white golf glove to Noone who exchanges it for a pair of thick fleece mittens. "I think it's brilliant," she says plainly.

  Sarek looks at the Director, then back at Lockwood. "Sad and pathetic that you didn't come to me with this sooner, I mean. The plan itself is brilliant, obviously."

  "Thanks, boss."

  "Brother Christopher," the Director says to Noone, "you will fly the mission. God willing, you will be the first to spread His glory to worlds beyond our own. Congratulations. You can begin training as soon as you're done here."

  Noone looks on the verge of tears, though it isn't clear to Lockwood whether it's from the distinction of the mission, or the unparalleled risk.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "And Brother Austin," the Director continues, "I recommend you plan this mission with the utmost care and attention because you will serve as his backup."

  Chapter 6

  South Texas Project Nuclear Power Generator

  Pressurized Water Reactor C

  Bay City, Texas

  4:14 p.m.

  Austin Lockwood and Christopher Noone are at the bottom of a concrete containment vessel which was once the final barrier between thousands of enriched uranium-235 fuel rods and the rest of the largely non-irritated world. The reactor core, steam generators, and pressurizers have all been replaced with the third stage of a Saturn VII rocket, models of a Poseidon command/service module (CSM)[9], and roughly fifteen million gallons of water.

  For the seventh time today, Noone is about to practice the procedure of manually verifying the hard seal between the CSM and the plasma propulsion stage. The coupling system Lockwood, Prabs, and The Digital Bitch designed does not require manual intervention beyond the in-orbit docking procedure itself, however the plasma rocket's backup ignition system involves the use of its retro thrusters which means, in the unlikely event that the primary ignition system were to fail, the CSM and the plasma stage would briefly be pulled in opposite directions with a force that approached the tolerances of some of the components of the coupling adapter (which was designed to accommodate the widest possible variances in alignment during the docking procedure at the expense of some durability). Should Noone find himself in the position of having to use the plasma rocket's backup ignition system, and should the couplings not be fully seated and engaged, there is a chance (anywhere between 2% and 72%, depending on which slide-rule jockey you happened to ask) that the two components could separate just before plasma ignition which would very likely result in the propulsion system ramming into the CSM at speeds up to almost a kilometer per second (depending on how long the ignition sequence took, and how far apart the two components had drifted), sending the CSM cascading out into deep space with about fifteen weeks of consumables and absolutely no hope whatsoever of recovery.

  A quick EVA[10] to double-check the couplings, therefore, seemed to everyone — and in particular, to Brother Christopher Noone — like the prudent thing to do.

  Lockwood is observing from outside the CSM. He is tethered to a rail bolted to the concrete wall of the reactor container, following as much of the action as he can through his helmet lights. If this procedure happens, it will probably happen in the dark with the Earth between the Sun and the spacecraft, therefore they are not allowed to use any form of illumination that would not be available to them during the actual mission. Fidelity is the watchword when it comes to training exercises like this one.

  "Houston, this is Victoria Seven[11]," Lockwood hears Noone say. "Request permission to begin manual coupling verification EVA."

  "Victoria, this is Houston. You are go for coupling verification EVA."

  "Roger, Houston. Opening the forward hatch now."

  The sound of the hatch opening reaches Lockwood's ears through the water, and moments later, he can see the outline of the command module silhouetted against Noone's helmet lights. From this distance, he can just make out the occasional stream of bubbles rising from the exhaust valve in the back of Noone's enormous helmet.

  "Houston, this is Victoria. I have cleared the hatch and attached my safety to the forward anchor point. Request permission to close and seal forward hatch."

  There's a pause before Houston responds. "Uh, that's a negative, Victoria. Do not — repeat — do not close and seal the forward hatch. Do you copy?"

  Lockwood hears someone else's voice come over the radio. "Would you quit fucking around?" It's Sarek. It's pissed off Sarek. "You know god-blessed well there's no ingress mechanism on the CM. You close that hatch, you're never getting back inside. What's the matter with you?"

  "Houston," Noone says. His breathing is now audible, and the pitch of his voice has risen. "Houston, be advised. What the fuck? Houston, there are bugs in my spacesuit. Jesus Christ, something's crawling on me!"

  "Christopher!" Sarek says. "What the hell's going on?"

  "Oh, God. Oh, no. I think I'm going to hurl."

  Lockwood breaks in. "Bring in the divers. Get him up. Now!"

  "What the hell's going on down there," Sarek says.

  "He has decompression sickness, you idiot."

  "That's impossible."

  "Obviously it's not. Bring him up now! If he vomits in that helmet, he's dead."

  Lockwood can see swarms of lights descending on them like fireflies.

  "I think I just pissed myself," Noone says. "I can't feel my legs."

  "I'm coming to get you," Lockwood says.

  "No you're not," Sarek says. "Leave it to the divers."

  The divers' lights converge on Noone. The stillness of the figure and the paleness of the suit make him look like a distended corpse. The divers distribute themselves around the arms and legs, inflate their buoyancy control devices, and then they all begin to ascend as a single unit.

  "I'm coming up," Lockwood says. He is groping in the water for his tether. "This is bad."

  "You stay right where you are," Sarek says. At first, Lockwood thinks he has misunderstood his boss, but then he realizes exactly what's coming. "It seems you have a lot of training to do."

  Chapter 7

  Homestead Studio Extended Stay Suites

  Houston, Texas

  8:31 a.m.

  Lockwood sleeps in this morning while Farmer plays late. They breakfast together — Lockwood on a twin pack of frosted blackcurrant toaster pastries with black coffee and two cigarettes, and Farmer on walleye steak and a bowl of scotch and water, neat. The yawning and bleary-eyed white-footed fox then curls up on Lockwood's pillow while Lockwood takes his olive canvas duffle bag down from the dusty top shelf of the closet and begins to pack.

  According to his schedule, he is supposed to engage in autonomous sustained cardiovascular stimulation and augmentation this morning (aka jogging), then meet the primary crew in Building 9 at the JSC for some light Martian surface simulation training until lunch. Since everyone knows Lockwood takes the bus to work, he figures nobody will even start looking for him in earnest until at least 9:15, maybe even 9:30. Leaving his apartment at 8:45, Lockwood has calculated, should provide the correct balance between giving themselves a sufficient head start, and allowing Farmer some much-needed rest after a long night of stalking rubber mice and pouncing on the two tiny tents in the bed pitched by Lockwood's disproportionately large feet.

  The advantages of owning almost nothing are never more apparent than when you
wake up one morning and decide to disappear forever. Other than the practical and the necessary (a few changes of clothes, socks, underwear, his toothbrush, a toy for Farmer, a few packs of smokes, and a roll of toilet paper since personal hygiene products are nowhere to be found in public restrooms anymore), there are only a few things Lockwood owns that he cares much about. He puts on his father's Swiss mechanical watch which needs to be cleaned so badly that it only runs for about four hours at a time, and he pries open the tiny felt ring box containing his gold astronaut pin which he was awarded after his first and last suborbital training flight. It strikes Lockwood as ironic that he is compelled to take along a memento of precisely that which he is trying to leave behind, but he figures there is probably some kind of poetic justice or yin-yang thing going on that makes it all good. He snaps the box shut, and buries it below folds of polyester and wool deep down in his duffle.

  Lockwood thinks about the envelope which he keeps pinned behind a loose panel of wood in the back of the closet, but he does not attempt to recover it. Inside are notes from Min which, if he were a smarter man, he would have destroyed as soon as he read them, along with the photograph they bought from a man with an old Polaroid during their trip to Corpus Christi. When they arrived, they discovered that the USS Lexington had been closed because of tears in her hull from the Gulf ice shelf, and the Corpus Christi Museum of Science and History had been converted into the Corpus Christi Church of Jesus Christ and School for Christian Studies. They slept in a bus station because the manager of the hotel Lockwood booked turned them away convinced that Min was an underage Chinese whore, and they both ended up smoking cigarettes off the ground because it was the end of the month and Lockwood only had enough food stamps left for food. In the picture, Lockwood looks tall next to Min. Her head is on his chest and he is holding her tightly against his parka trying to keep her warm. Their faces are red and their lips are chapped and they are smiling while the listing and groaning USS Lexington corrodes and slowly sinks behind them in the cold dead waters of the Gulf.