Mars Heat (Mars Adventure Romance Series (MARS) Book 3)

by Jennifer Willis

  Trevor, Grigori, Miranda, and even Lori were watching her, waiting for an answer. Martin at least managed to keep his focus on his own work on the other side of the room, though Hogan could see the quirk of a smile on his face.

  “A tour is what they’re here for, isn’t it?” Hogan responded at last, her tone a little too bright—enough that Grigori gave her an odd look. “But let’s have Grigori show our guests around.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Hogan knew the cause for the change in plan: because Miranda had been flirting with Trevor.

  Hogan felt ashamed. She could rationalize the decision as being about fostering a constructive relationship between the UNSC astronauts and the new colonists without some frivolous flirtation getting in the way. But she couldn’t ignore the way her own gaze went immediately to Trevor’s face, or her satisfaction that he didn’t appear disappointed by the change in tour guide.

  Miranda didn’t look particularly put out, so Hogan guessed she hadn’t just used her authority to cockblock her geologist. But Miranda did look a little confused.

  Hogan scrambled. “I believe Martin could use your assistance going over the reports he’s working on.”

  Martin looked up at the mention of his name. “Yeah, that would be good. Miranda, if you wouldn’t mind?” He waved her over, and Hogan breathed a sigh of relief—and then felt her stomach clench.

  She had no idea what Martin was working on, much less whether he needed or wanted anyone’s help. What the hell was up with her today? And why was her crew playing along?

  Grigori motioned Trevor and Lori toward an enclosed staircase leading to a lower level. “Yes, so if the two of you would like to follow me?”

  His accent wasn’t as heavy now as it had been when Hogan had first met Grigori Aminev, when they were prepping for the Hermes 5 mission a full year before they made it to the launch pad. He still sounded immediately Russian, but the flavor of his speech was more vaguely European.

  Hogan had noticed a similar change in herself as she and her team trained together and got to know each other. She’d picked up a few British idioms from Miranda, and her tastebuds had grown slightly more adventurous thanks to Yusuf. But she hadn’t adopted Martin’s fondness for exotic-looking cheeses, nor had she accepted Grigori’s invitation to join his polar bear club.

  As first Lori and then Trevor disappeared down the stairwell, Grigori turned to Hogan with a glint of mischief in his eye. “Commander? Would you like to join us?”

  Miranda giggled behind her as she settled in next to Martin at his workstation. With a sudden thrill that she tried to play off as a shrug of resignation, Hogan strode toward the staircase. “If you think it’s necessary.”

  As Hogan passed Grigori and hit the first step, she heard him mutter just low enough for her to hear, “I think it’s quite necessary for the commander to get herself a little Mars action.”

  She shot him a sour look over her shoulder, but his face was that of an innocent angel.

  Trevor and Lori had already found the bioreactor chamber, a short walk down an engineered hallway of high-entropy-alloy walls and concrete floor. Hogan waited for Grigori to descend and then punched him in the arm. He chuckled and headed into the chamber to join their guests.

  Hogan held back and watched the colonists as they got their first glimpses of a working bioreactor operation.

  Yusuf should have led the tour. He’d let himself into Ares City a week earlier to do the prep work on getting the colonists’ bioreactor system ready to start, but it would be a while before their tanks would be producing edible film on a regular basis. Edible film. The term still made Hogan shudder, even after she’d been consuming the stuff for more than a year.

  By the time Hogan entered the bioreactor chamber, Trevor was already getting up close and personal with one of the two dozen cylindrical tanks. He was leaning forward and had his hands pressed against the clear plexiglass as he peered inside, his eyes as big as saucers.

  Within the tanks, the cyanobacteria the UNSC astronauts had been living off were thriving. The LED lights and feeder fluids were automated, as were the environmental controls and much of the harvesting process. Any glitch or abnormality would trigger an alert, but Yusuf insisted on inspecting the entire system himself on a regular basis. He did the same for the water and air recycling systems, which had him currently occupied. These were the things that kept them alive on Mars, and they didn’t leave anything to chance.

  Did the colonists have anyone in their habitat with Yusuf’s skills? Hogan didn’t think so. She added intensive bioreactor instruction to her mental list of hands-on lectures her team would have to impart to the colonists before the astronauts left the Red Planet for Earth.

  “So you don’t have any crops growing at all?” Lori stopped beside one of the vertical tanks. It was taller than she was and dark blue-green flakes swirled lazily in the thick, clear fluid, having broken away from the center column of tangled, moss-like tentacles of cyanobacteria. The tank looked like it might be overdue for harvesting.

  “Not in the way you’re thinking of, no,” Grigori replied. “We’re not here long enough to make traditional agriculture—or even modified agriculture—worth the time or effort. We bring a large portion of our food supplies with us, but each successive UNSC team has relied increasingly on the spiruliza.”

  “Spirulina,” Trevor said.

  Grigori grinned. “No. Spiruliza, actually. It’s a modified form of spirulina, even more efficient at converting light and growth medium into calories. Slightly more nutrient-dense, too. A fun fact for you: Yusuf Naidoo’s mother first developed the stuff. You’ll meet Yusuf eventually.”

  “Spiru . . . Liza?” Lori asked.

  Grigori shrugged. “His mother’s name. Liza. It just kind of stuck. There’s some technical, scientific name for the stuff. But. Spiruliza.”

  Lori looked like she couldn’t decide whether or not Grigori was pulling her leg—a smart move, Hogan thought, but in this case unnecessary. Lori stared at Grigori, her eyes narrowed, and waited for him to continue. Naturally, Grigori remained silent. Hogan decided on the spot that she rather liked Lori Ridgway.

  “More nutritionally dense than spirulina by, what was it? Twenty-three-percent?” Trevor stood up tall and rested his hands on his hips. He glanced at Grigori, and then his gaze fell on Hogan. He lifted his eyebrows and waited.

  “How did you know that?” Hogan asked.

  “Yusuf sent over some materials last night.” Trevor held his hands up in mock surrender. “I asked him about it, over the messenger terminal. I know we haven’t established official communications between the settlements, or whatever, but food is my specialty. And, well, I just didn’t want to waste any time. I want to know more. I want to do better.”

  Hogan leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. This colonist was taking initiative. That was a good sign. It was no guarantee that the others would follow suit. At least, that’s what she was trying to think about. But she was having trouble focusing on anything but the sinewy, olive-skinned man standing in front of her. He was long and lean, and his dark eyes blazed with intelligence. She liked the way his red-orange jumpsuit accentuated his musculature, and how he seemed perfectly oblivious to his own aesthetics.

  Maybe Grigori had a point about the commander needing some recreational distraction. Her crew had coupled up into convenient pairings—Martin and Miranda, and Grigori and Yusuf—but the commander was the odd one out. That’s how it needed to be. No one could claim she was showing favoritism based on who shared her bunk, and her team had a healthy outlet for physical activity and emotional bonding.

  But it made for a lonely mission for the commander. More than two and a half years with only her own touch for company.

  Trevor had stepped toward her and was now standing directly in front of her. His full lips softened into a smile. A shiver ran through Hogan’s body as she wondered if he guessed what she’d just been thinking. She pushed away
from the wall and stood up straight.

  “That’s fine,” she said. She loosened her arms and slid her hands into her pockets. She worried that the dark gray and green colors of her jumpsuit weren’t doing her complexion any favors, then tried not to grimace as she smacked down the ridiculous war of frivolity going on inside her brain.

  Mirroring her posture, Trevor slipped his hands into his own pockets. He smiled. Hogan started to feel warm, and she knew there wasn’t anything wrong with the environmental controls.

  “How does it taste?” he asked.

  “Taste?”

  “Yeah, the spiruliza. What does it taste like? Did it take a while to get used to it?”

  Hogan had to think about that. What her food tasted like hadn’t been high on her list of priorities on Mars. Martin and Yusuf kept doing their checks and submitting their reports, assuring anyone who cared that the bioreactors were working efficiently with zero contamination and that the resulting food source was nutritionally sound. To Hogan, the bioreactor chamber looked like something out of a mad scientist movie but it was keeping her team fed and healthy and that’s what mattered to her.

  But Trevor Azam had that insanely popular cooking show, and he wanted to know what Mars-grown algae tasted like. What had Eddie said about not impeding the colony’s celebrity? Or not interfering with him? She couldn’t remember.

  Hogan shrugged. “We’re not eating the stuff straight out of the bioreactor. It gets harvested and dried, and pulverized, and then mixed into whatever’s on the menu.”

  Trevor frowned. “And what is on the menu? Who does your food prep?”

  “The computer?” Hogan nearly laughed. “I mean, we have options, but . . .”

  “Food is a necessity,” Grigori interjected. “Not an indulgence.”

  “You’re coming to dinner at Ares City.” Trevor was still looking directly at Hogan.

  It wasn’t a question. Hogan was used to giving the orders, when necessary. She wasn’t used to taking them from civilians who were likely far out of their depth.

  “I’m cooking for you,” he said.

  Hogan felt the prickle of heat again. Was he asking her out? Wait. No. She remembered her conversation over the radio with Mark Lauren and felt instantly foolish. This wasn’t a personal invitation, just for her. At least, it probably wasn’t. Wasn’t Trevor already partnered with someone? April Chennells? Hogan was being ridiculous.

  “Yes, umm,” Hogan started to stammer, then managed to get hold of herself. “Mark issued the invitation just this morning. We’ve already accepted.”

  “Good.”

  Trevor watched her for a long moment, and she tried not to squirm under his gaze. She felt Grigori’s eyes on her, too, and that snapped her out of whatever weird spell she’d been under.

  Hogan lifted her chin. “Anything else we can help you with?” She looked to Lori, standing by the bioreactor tanks with Grigori, and didn’t admit to herself that she was avoiding getting lost in Trevor’s dark eyes again.

  “Just let me know if you have any special requests?” Trevor smiled. “A favorite food, or a flavor you’ve been missing? You and your team. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “We’ll do that. Thank you.” Hogan nodded and abruptly made for the door. “Any other questions or anything else you need, Grigori will get you sorted.”

  She strode purposefully down the corridor, past the stairway, and into the fitness room. It wasn’t her scheduled shift for exercise, nor was she dressed for a work out. But she felt a sudden, intense need to burn off some steam.

  Hogan climbed onto the stationary bike and started pedaling without selecting a fitness program. The computer switched on and started spewing feedback on her progress. As the numbers clicked by on the display, tracking her calories burned and virtual distance covered, she dove deep into rationalization: She was just putting in a little extra effort to keep her muscles strong for the return to Earth.

  But her thoughts drifted quickly to food and to Trevor’s invitation. Hogan couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a pickle.

  5

  Trevor wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but the colony’s invitation to host the UNSC astronauts for dinner turned into a potluck affair to be held at Progress Base instead. Mark said it had to do with giving all of the colonists the chance to see Progress Base, but it meant Trevor lost his opportunity to bring people together around his own table to settle any differences while enjoying a menu he’d carefully designed for the occasion.

  He’d been the peace-maker in his multigenerational home. His devout grandparents, secular parents, and caught-in-the-middle siblings were consistently happy to put aside their bickering about the family business, college applications, and modest dress whenever Trevor made a pot of bademjan or spicy kebabs with jeweled rice. So far, he hadn’t encountered any problem that couldn’t be solved over the breaking of bread.

  Not that there were tangible problems between Progress Base and Ares City. But the tensions between the two were plain, with the little kid colonists desperate to prove themselves to their older sibling astronauts. And Trevor wanted to be the one to set the table for their rapprochement.

  He’d privately grumbled his way through his food preparation even as he remained cheerful for the camera Trent trained on him. He demonstrated how to quickly pickle vegetables using basic ingredients found in nearly any kitchen back on Earth. But this wasn’t Earth, and Trevor worried that his attempt at flash-pickling freeze-dried carrots, tomatoes, and asparagus would be an unappetizing disaster.

  But he’d been told that was part of the appeal of Cooking for Martians—he was documenting his failures alongside his successes and was apparently inspiring millions of people back home to plunge into their own kitchen experiments, though Jack Street Media had been quick to add a disclaimer that neither the Mars Colony Program nor the production company could be held legally responsible for any resulting cases of food poisoning or other gastric distress.

  Trevor wasn’t worried about some singleton in Des Moines accidentally making her housemates gassy with a bad batch of egg salad. He was frustrated that he didn’t have time before dinner to devise a near-enough imposter dill pickling liquid, and that nowhere on Mars had he seen an actual cucumber.

  He created an impressive faux cheesecake after learning the dessert was something both Miranda and Grigori had been missing, and he’d whipped up a decent couscous salad for Yusuf—complete with close approximations of dates and almonds made largely of dehydrated protein paste and some creative chemistry with spices and extracts. For Martin, Trevor skipped any attempt at bouillabaisse and focused instead on a passable vegetarian cassoulet.

  But he really wanted to nail down a decent pickle for Hogan. It was something that seemed so simple, such a basic taste—and something Miranda had whispered to him about her commander’s preferences as he and Lori were leaving Progress Base. But apart from some vinegar powder and dried dill and other spices, Trevor didn’t have much to work with. The tangy, slightly spicy vegetable medley would have to suffice.

  Now he was packing up everything inside a vacuum-sealed box—an empty collection kit for the soil and rock samples the colonists wouldn’t be gathering—for the walk across the empty kilometer between the habitats.

  “So why the vacuum-sealed picnic basket?” Trent asked on-camera as they wrapped up the unedited episode of Cooking for Martians.

  “Well, Trent,” Trevor began, using his best fake-professor voice, the one that made Trent laugh. “Since there’s not much in the way of atmosphere on Mars, I have to worry about how the food would fare if exposed to the elements here. I mean, I don’t think tonight’s cheesecake would be particularly appetizing after it got dehydrated and flash-frozen, do you?”

  Trent leaned into the frame and made a face. “Ugh, nobody wants to eat that.”

  A bit more banter, and then Trent shut off the camera. Not long after, as the colonists walked toward Progress Base in their pressure suits, Trent w
as making his case for a future episode that dealt with precisely that problem—what would happen to food exposed to the Martian atmosphere, and what would it taste like?

  Apart from the waste of food, which the colony could ill-afford, Trevor wondered aloud who would volunteer as a taste-tester.

  “I’m telling you, it would be a top-rated show.” Trent plodded alongside Trevor as they carried their improvised picnic box between them across the Martian surface. “People would watch the hell out of that.”

  “And would they also watch the puke-fest that might follow?” In truth, Trevor had no idea if consuming that kind of experiment would make anyone sick or just taste really, really bad.

  “They totally would!”

  Trevor shook his head inside his helmet. “And I don’t suppose you would be dissuaded by the fact that such an episode, or even the experiment itself, would have little to no relevance to curious cooks back on Earth?”

  Trent chuckled. “Definitely not. Plus, you know, I’m not sure your idea—a whole show about space pickles—is really going to cut it.”

  “Don’t knock space pickles,” Leah commented from somewhere behind them. The colonists were traveling in clumps of two and three, and Trevor had heard her chatting over the comms with Melissa a few minutes earlier. “Whatever you guys want to put on your show should be fine. It’s not like you’ve got any competition. There’s no other space chef, much less one coming from Mars. I don’t hear anyone from Jack Street complaining, anyway. So, yeah. Full speed ahead on space pickles.”

  Trevor laughed and hoped no one from outside the colony was listening in. That one sentence, taken out of context, could target them all for psychiatric evaluation.