There wasn’t anything more to say at this point. Ward extended a hand and said the one thing he could say without feeling the slightest bit false.
“Take care of yourself, Tim. You were one of the finest rock gobblers I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.”
“Likewise,” Guernsey rejoined, shaking his hand firmly. An awkward silence followed, as neither one of them seemed capable of breaking off the shake. Eventually, the guard did them the service of calling Ward away.
“Let’s go, prisoner. You got a transport to catch.”
“Good luck,” Guernsey said.
“You too,” Ward replied. He stepped away from the door and slowly turned. He didn’t look back as they proceeded down the hallway. He knew Guernsey might be watching, and neither of them could bear the discomfort of meeting the other’s gaze again.
When the sound of Guernsey’s door sliding shut reached him, he let out a sigh of relief.
As he walked to the transport, Ward pictured their faces, his trusted crew. Guernsey, Anouk, Labra, Burton and Jordan. The people he had come to rely on more than anyone else in the past few years. He imagined their eyes, their noses, their mouths twisted into pleasant grins, doing his best to picture them happy and content, as if they would remain that way forever with him gone.
He was being freed from a place he knew to be hell, whilst being torn from the one thing that had made hell bearable. His crew.
Out there, he thought with bitter sweetness.
Part II: Martians
“You need to live in a dome initially, but over time you could terraform Mars to look like Earth and eventually walk around outside without anything on . . . So, it's a fixer-upper of a planet.”
-Elon Musk
Eight
Conventional wisdom said that during cryogenic hibernation, subjects never dreamt. While neurological activity obviously continued throughout the experience, subjects reported remembering nothing before their waking period. During this time, when travelers were gradually brought out of their dormant state, intense reveries were known to occur.
In the recorded history of space travel, not one subject had ever reported having a single dream during cryosleep.
Yet when Ward felt himself finally being pulled back into the realm of consciousness, he did so with the strangest feeling hanging off him. Like coming up from a terrible depth, from blackest night into full day. Ward felt the echoes of some terrible dream in the back of his head. Now, though, fully awake, he felt oddly bright as he lay there in the recovery bay, waiting for the medbot to finish looking him over.
He remembered a totally different feeling when he had first woken up on the Rock. The cloying darkness took days to shake, and it would revisit him anytime he closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he passed a night without visitation of some kind of terror or another.
This time was different. It was like he was staring at the Sun, albeit through a thick haze of fog.
“Your vitals are all in the green, sir,” said his robotic attendant, looking at the hologram hovering above his body. “Your bone density is consistent, and your musculature shows some signs of improvement since you came aboard. All in all, you are in better shape than when you left Mercury orbit.”
Ward would have agreed with the medbot if he could have summoned up the strength to engage in a comparative discussion. His head felt heavy, despite the strange feeling of buoyancy in his mind. His tongue and mouth refused to put this into a coherent statement. Instead, all he managed to say were a few simple, deliberate words.
“Where are we?”
“We are en route to Ares Installation, sir.” Its facial features formed into its best reproduction of a tight smile. “We conducted our final braking maneuver prior to your revival. I estimate four standard days, nine hours and seventeen minutes until we establish orbit.”
So, we’re here, Ward thought. Aside from the distant nightmares he had endured of late, he wasn’t wholeheartedly sure he hadn’t dreamt the entire encounter with Doctor Chandrasekhar. For all he knew, he was still languishing in an isolation cell, sweating, puking and shitting out all the drugs he had accumulated in his system.
Reality, however, was both persistent and stubborn. Every instinct was telling him he was on his way to Mars to meet with the Formists. For the moment, at least.
Ward was forced to admit, he had woken up to far worse realities. An image of the cold, stark medbay on the Rock came to mind and Ward hurriedly blocked it out.
In contrast, his current surroundings were warm and soothing, and the air smelt fresh and mildly perfumed. One look at the medbot reminded him Emile had spared no expense in that department, either. Rather than a standard medical unit, designed strictly for functionality, this one was a full-on Geminoid model. A synthetic exterior enclosed a Kenshiro musculature. As for its mind, Ward had no doubt it was Level III-compatible.
Ward had the faintest recollection of waking up to the sound of it humming to itself. Not some perfectly pitched, rhythmic and synthetic noise. No, the doctor had been humming enthusiastically and imperfectly. It was almost like being tended to by an actual person in a real medical facility.
“I want to get up,” Ward croaked through his dry throat. The medbot responded by gently putting a hand on his chest. It felt warm to the touch.
“I would advise against it, sir. Not until I have had a chance to administer some restoratives. Tell me, how is your appetite?”
Ward fumbled for some sense of what his guts were telling him. Mostly, it felt like there was a ball of ice in his innards. Through the chills, he discerned some rumblings, though.
“I’m hungry, I think.”
“That is good,” the medbot said chirpily. “An increased demand for nutrients is natural at this point in your revival. Please hold still. This will take only a moment.”
Ward peered down to his right arm. A thin clear tube extended from the small of his elbow and disappeared into the table beneath him. The tube filled with an opaque solution which began to feed into his body. Within seconds, the rumbling in his stomach subsided, replaced with by a growing sense of vigor. Ward’s system was happily accepting the solution’s stocks of protein, glucose, vitamins and minerals, feeding his body and mind with their energy to aid in his recovery.
“This will take a few minutes,” the kindly machine voice said. “I shall return in a moment to check on your progress.”
“Hey, doc!” Ward called. The robot promptly wheeled back into place next to his bed.
“Yes, what is it?”
He fumbled for a way to broach the subject. Knowing his attendant was a machine didn’t make the question on his mind any easier to ask. Medbots were known to come equipped with the requisite software to simulate a bedside manner, complete with feelings of tact and regret, though whatever reactions it offered wouldn’t exactly be genuine.
“Do my bioscans indicate any signs of damage?”
“Damage, sir?” it asked tactfully.
“My liver, my neurology. Any signs of . . . narcotics abuse?” Ward managed to get out.
“Ah, of course! Yes, your initial scans, when you came aboard, did indicate as much. There were signs of damage to your liver and pancreas, as well as an imbalance in your neurochemistry. However, the requisite medimachines were administered to correct this. You should be feeling quite normal very soon.”
The medbot sounded rather chipper as it said this. Almost proud of itself. Ward couldn’t help but feel pleased himself. It was impossible for him to see the changes directly with the dense fog of hibernation still hanging over him. To know the fog would sooner or later lift without the need for any chemicals was rather interesting.
“What about the Spike?” Ward uttered.
“You are referring to the electro-motor-cortex graft you currently have?” Ward knew from his choice of words what the answer was. Still, the bot sounded resigned when it responded. “I am unfortunately unable to remove the Spike at this time. Un
til authorized under the articles of Inner Solar Law –”
“I understand,” Ward interrupted. “Thank you anyway.”
“You’re quite welcome, sir. If you’ll excuse me.”
Ward’s eyes drifted shut as the machine wheeled away, no doubt to check on the other passengers who were also being brought out of cryosleep. So he was still carrying the damn Spike, but could look forward to better health and well-being in the meantime. Enough for the moment to make him smile.
The last thing he saw as his heavy eyelids closed was the bay’s lights making the Geminoid’s skin glow. The gentle beeps of medical monitors lulled him back into unconsciousness.
#
Ward found himself standing in front of a large window, the kind specifically designed to give an observer a panoramic view. The view was a vast improvement over the observation deck on the Rock. Instead of looking out at an endlessly grey landscape and a cold, brutalist facility, he was staring down upon the Red Planet itself.
On the daytime side, he made out the red sands and wispy clouds floating by. Where the stark line of the terminator fell, he saw the lights and crisscrossed networks denoting the settlements and the transit hubs connecting them. A glittering band floated in orbit as well. Right in the middle of the terminator, where day and night were separated by a mottled band, a bright light indicated where the Ares Installation stood out like an exploding star.
Ward squinted to catch a glimpse of the Drift, the fine thread connecting Ares to the surface. To see the Drift from this distance, with the naked eye was a longshot, but, anything was possible. Between the fact that he was now home, and that nanoscale robots had corrected years’ worth of damage to his mind and liver while he had been deep in cryosleep, it didn’t seem like he could be denied anything.
Sure enough, there it was – a large bright dot extending from Mars’ disc. Were they closer, he would see what looked like a spinning top extending from the red surface by means of a bright gossamer thread. Upon even closer inspection, he would see the spinning top was in fact two counter-spinning cylinders. The northern “hemisphere” would be spinning counter-clockwise while the southern spun clockwise, thus ensuring the overall stability of the facility. And the Drift, when seen up close, would look nothing like a simple filament. When riding up and down this vast immensely strong strand in one of its many podcars, it looked more like the side of a towering building than a thread.
Much like looking at a faraway planet, distance had a way of making things more fragile and beautiful. For what felt like an eternity, he stood and watched, barely noticing when the door to the observations deck opened to admit Emile. When Ward finally gazed in the Formist’s direction, he noticed the same broad smile Emile had shared with him long ago in Sandoval’s office.
“Enjoying the view?”
Ward chuckled. “Hard not to. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see it again.”
“Nothing inspires quite like the sight of freedom. Do you know who said that?”
“Pinter Chandrasekhar, your great ancestor.”
“That’s right. He was referring to the great landscape he and the other colonists were confronted with when they first arrived there.” He motioned to the planet hanging before them. “For much of his life, Pinter had known nothing but the crush of humanity in his ancestral home. No matter where he lived or travelled over the years, it was always the same. Mumbai, Kinshasa, Mombasa, Shanghai, Berlin; he had never known what true freedom had meant until he was finally faced with an open landscape.”
Not exactly the case now, Ward thought. It was Pinter and his ilk who’d had much to do with that. In the generations since their arrival, they had done much to advertise Mars as a landscape filled with opportunity for those adventurous enough to brave its many challenges. By the time they were finished, sealed domes and a lattice-work of hyper-transit tubes had come to mark the once empty landscape.
Then there was the work of the other entrepreneurial spirits that went into the development. While the first wave of settlers had established the bases to house new arrivals and keep them fed, subsequent waves worked hard to bring the Survey to Mars. The settlers wanted to ensure their people and offspring had instantaneous access to limitless information, much like their brethren on Earth. By the time the third and fourth waves were coming, the polar caps were being mined to provide fresh water and irrigation to every settlement, and work had begun on the Drift.
Within a century, scarcely anyone called Mars a frontier anymore. But compared to the vast megalopolises of Earth, the Red Dunes were still comparatively open and uncrowded. Ward made sure to offer what he suspected was the necessary compliment, on behalf of a grateful Martian citizen.
“A great man, your grandfather. A great man, indeed.”
“Thank you,” Emile said, sounding less than convinced. “You’ll get to meet him soon.”
“What?” Ward said, snapping his head in Emile’s direction. His sudden reaction elicited a chuckle.
“You didn’t think he was dead and gone, did you?”
“Well, no, but . . .” Ward fumbled for words. People like the great Pinter Chandrasekhar scarcely ever died anymore, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. However, the thought of coming face to face with the man required some explanation.
“He’s never far from us,” Emile said, reaching down and touching the ring on his finger. “And once you’re aboard Ares, you’ll be able to speak to him in person. Or what passes for that with him nowadays.”
Ward knew better than to ask for any further elaboration. It was clear enough from Emile’s insinuations the Pinter he would be speaking to was likely an upload. Ward had spoken to enough of them in his time to know the experience would be interesting enough, if not exactly astounding. Speaking to one digital representation of a dead person was pretty much like speaking to any other.
Ward was much more interested in seeing the installation itself, and perhaps venturing down to the surface. He hoped his employers would allow for such a diversion before they sent him on his way. Then again, Ward hadn’t yet given them a hard answer to their proposal. This journey of theirs was merely an indication of his interest in hearing more about the details of the job, a prelude to final acceptance itself.
He imagined the extent of their generosity depended heavily on his acceptance. Were he to say no, he guessed he would be on the first liner back to Mercury.
“Will Pinter be the one explaining the full details of this job to me?” he asked.
Emile looked up from his ring and nodded. He stared out the panoramic window, at the approaching disc of Mars. “He will explain all the relevant details, and perhaps then some. When it comes to our interests, he understands better than most. He has a, unique vision, one might say. He sees to the long term, in all things.”
Ward wasn’t sure how to respond. The words sounded somewhat cryptic, even if they were cloaked in the language of praise. Instead, he merely nodded and responded in an affirmative tone.
“Looking forward to meeting him, then.”
Nine
They stood in a private bay, one Ward didn’t even know existed. Every beam and girder had the look of fresh construction, and the colors appeared vibrant and new. They were still aboard Ares, that much he knew for certain. His body registered an odd floating sensation, as he was on a docking platform not part of the station’s rotation, with only the seals on the bottoms of his boots keeping them secured to the deck. In his bones, he knew they were back at Mars, the planet of his birth.
It was an incredibly feeling, like the outpouring of relief and excitement all at once. It was the feeling of being home. No trick of the senses fooled that instinct inside him. Every fiber of his being was certain he stood on Ares, and the Red Dunes lay below. He couldn’t wait to see them up close again.
Twisting, he looked back over his shoulder to see the crew busily shuffling from the hatch, carrying their personal effects with them. Ward recognized the excitement with which they moved. H
e had seen enough spacers in his time to know how to spot a crew ready to take their shore leave. After months of being aboard the liner, they were happy to have something akin to solid ground beneath their feet, even if it was a rotating cylinder.
No matter how luxurious, all ships were basically metal cans floating through space, surrounded by hard vacuum. Even the most seasoned of crews were happy to leave behind the sensation of being caught between a rotten sense of claustrophobia and an even worse sense of agoraphobia.
Emile was the last to exit, walking leisurely with his hands held together before him. His robes billowed as he walked, their filaments glinting under the bay’s lights. The jeweled ring Ward had never seen him without protruded from its position on his finger. Perhaps it was another trick caused by the lighting, but the jewel in it appeared to be glowing with its own light.
When he saw Ward, Emile smiled expectantly. “Shall we go? I know the others will be assembled.”
“Others?” said Ward, noting the plural. “Who will be joining us?”
“Just a few key members of our staff here, Mr. Ward. All of whom will be assisting you on this particular task of yours.”
“Assuming I accept,” Ward countered. Emile regarded him with mild surprise, before reaffixing his smile.
“Of course, Mr. Ward. I didn’t mean to be getting ahead of things. Regardless, they are eager to meet you. And we have a lot to discuss.”
#
The luxuries kept coming. A private shuttle car was waiting for them as soon as they left the private bay. Contrary to the shuttles Ward usually took whenever he came aboard Ares, this one was intended for only half a dozen occupants, though there was room enough for at least ten. Ward entered its opulent interior, the white acceleration couches covered in what appeared, and smelled, like genuine leather.
The Cronian Incident (The Formist Book 1) Page 8
