Mars Nation 2
Hard Science Fiction
Brandon Q. Morris
Contents
Mars Nation 2
Author's Note
Also by Brandon Q. Morris
The Martians
Glossary of Acronyms
Metric to English Conversions
Mars Nation 2
Sol 63, Mars surface
Ewa stared at the sky. The view was poor. It was early afternoon, and somewhere up there she should have been able to see a somewhat paler spot behind which the sun was hiding. Is that it there, or am I just falling victim to an optical illusion? She needed the sun’s position to get her bearings. She had made up her mind to head south.
But did that really even matter? She was going to die out here, and she deserved that. The evidence was straightforward. She had sabotaged the mission from the very beginning. It was a strange feeling to admit that to herself, since that hadn’t been her conscious intent. She had always wanted the ‘Mars for Everyone’ mission to be successful. She had done everything within her power to achieve that. These were the moments that stood out in her memory: the shock she’d felt over the five people who had died in the command module; the feverish efforts alongside Theo, who had worked frantically to uncouple the ship’s sections; the struggle with the NASA people for the resources MfE needed; the bewilderment caused by Andy’s accident. All of that had been real. It had to be real, because the pain she still felt in her heart was definitely there.
And yet there were the other images. They were running through her mind sort of like a silent film. There was some sound with them, but the pictures lacked the feelings associated with actual memories. They were like scenes from a nightmare that she had long believed to be nothing but a dream. She watched as a stranger tampered with the system software and set the stage for the ‘accidents’ that would eventually lead to the failure of their mission. She experienced a metallic taste in her mouth whenever she thought about these scenes.
Ewa felt unable to accept them as memories, even though that was obviously what they were. After all, what are memories if not the images preserved by our minds? Was it her guilt that was preventing her from accepting these scenes as authentic and making her feel that the person in these pictures wasn’t actually her? But she wasn’t a murderer! And yet the evidence gathered by Theo and Andy, as well as her own memory, unequivocally pointed in that direction. The scenes she was conjuring up fit all too neatly with the proof for her to just write them off as the figment of a sick mind.
Gabriella, the doctor, had theorized that she might be schizophrenic. The illness would be a welcome rationalization for her behavior, but even if she was in fact schizophrenic, the evidence disturbed her. She now knew what she was capable of. How could the others keep her from killing again in the future? They would have to lock her up behind bars like an animal. It would have all come down to a sheer waste of resources.
Ewa was grateful to the others for voting in favor of her banishment. It was good that she had convinced so many of them by her performance. Winning people over to her side had always been one of her strengths. She wouldn’t be able to mobilize them anymore, though, now that she was alone.
Ewa studied the spot in the sky again. It was still in the same position, so it had to be the sun. She glanced at her watch. She now knew which way was south. She set off toward the horizon, which contrasted sharply with the reddish Mars surface. She would walk as far as possible. That was all she could do.
5/22/2042, Pismo Beach, CA
“Young man, what can I do for you?”
The old man behind the counter in the Scorpion Bay Café smiled, although he didn’t know him. Shouldn’t the guy at least wait to see if the newcomer pulled a pistol out of his pocket to empty the café’s cash register? There wouldn’t be any witnesses even if he did. Rick glanced all around, checking out the ceiling, too, as if he really did plan to hold up the café. No, the surveillance camera would be witness enough. That still wasn’t a reason to feel all that safe.
“I... I’d like a cup of coffee. No, make that a cappuccino,” he said.
“Dark or light roast?”
How should I know? But dark sounds good. Rick nodded, but then it occurred to him that the man couldn’t read his thoughts. “Dark, please.”
He had to pull himself together. If he didn’t keep his anxiety under wraps, the people here would remember him. He didn’t want that to happen. He was a stranger whose face would fade from everyone’s memory. To be on the safe side, he had checked into a cheap hotel that didn’t require him to present any ID.
“Anything else? The muffins are fresh.”
Upselling, Rick decided. The man was trying to increase his revenue by selling things that fit well with the fairly cheap coffee. Business probably wasn’t all that great these days. The old man looked as if he had spent the past fifty years standing behind this counter, and might’ve even been born there. His skin was pallid, an unusual quality for a resident of the sunny central California coast. That might be because the business was open every day, and the owner couldn’t afford to hire any help. Couldn’t he paint the facade a more welcoming color? The only reason the dark brown had drawn him in was because he had a somber task before him.
This wasn’t the first time he’d been guilty of overthinking a situation. Rick wasn’t here to solve other people’s problems. He was here because of his own difficulties linked to the position that was due him, the one that Robert, the old suck-up, was in the process of trying to weasel out from under him.
“Well?” the old man asked. He still hadn’t given up his hope for a little more revenue.
“No,” Rick replied, instantly feeling annoyed with himself. Crap. That was too unfriendly.
The man was going to remember his face. He really needed to be more careful, even if it would probably be utterly irrelevant whether the old man recalled him or not. Nobody would ask the guy. After all, it wasn’t like he planned to murder someone. Rick’s left fingers closed around the straight razor in his pocket.
“Three eighty-nine,” the man said sullenly. Rick didn’t hold that against him. He wouldn’t have wasted a smile on a customer like him, either.
“Keep the change,” Rick said, handing the man a five-dollar bill.
Picking up his cup from the counter, Rick left the café. Two small, round tables, each with two cast-iron chairs, sat in front of the display window. All four seats were open. Rick sat down with his back to the window and watched the cars slowly roll by. Somewhere down the street there had to be a speed limit sign. Otherwise the vehicles certainly wouldn’t be creeping by him at ten miles an hour. The loudest sound they produced was generated by their tires as they moved across the rough pavement. Their electric motors were practically silent.
Rick looked at his watch. It was totally old school with its hands and visible gearwork. From time to time, the watch ran fast and then slow, but he still liked it. The watch indicated that it was 6:20. This meant that he still had thirty minutes to kill.
Robert lived right around the corner. If he caught sight of Rick sitting here with his coffee, he would wonder what was going on. But Robert wouldn’t see him. Rick had checked into his daily routine. Robert got up around seven, jogged for twenty minutes, drank one cup of black coffee, and then drove to work. And, he did that every single day! Robert’s consistency increased Rick’s respect for him, but this didn’t change the fact that he was a rival—Rick’s only actual competitor.
The cappuccino was good. It really was a shame that the old man didn’t have more customers. Word needed to get around that he was selling good, inexpensive coffee. However, he wasn’t the one to spread that news because none of his acquaintances could know where he�
�d bought his coffee today. He surreptitiously reached back into his pocket. The razor was still there, as was the wire and the bag with its soft contents.
A police car approached from the left. Rick felt his heartrate rise. He had to remain calm. The officers didn’t know why he was here. There was no reason for them to search him, but he still knew that it wouldn’t end well for him if they did. As expected, the car—its emergency lights dormant on its roof—drove past, just as slowly as all the other vehicles.
It was time. Rick got to his feet, leaving the half-full coffee cup on the table. Half-full or half-empty? he wondered. He was a half-full kind of guy. He walked one block to the south before turning left. He reached an apartment complex one block farther on. These were two-storied townhomes that had been built on top of an unlocked parking garage. People could see into the garage from the front, but that was a risk he was going to have to take.
Rick strolled nonchalantly down the entry ramp to the garage. Robert’s car was parked in the back row. At least he would be partially shielded from view by the vehicles in the front row. Rick had spent a long time practicing what came next. He had even rented the same make and model just to make sure that his plan would function smoothly. He walked over to the passenger door and shoved the wire loop between the window and the exterior paneling.
A yank, and the lock mechanism inside the door clicked. Rick felt victorious, but he kept that feeling contained. He gloved his hands and opened the door. A small cloth doll was lying on the passenger seat, and he pushed it to the side. He sat down on the seat and pulled the door shut. He then used the razor to slice into the interior fabric on the lower front section of the door. A small hole now gaped in the material, only visible from within the passenger’s footwell.
Rick pulled out a handkerchief and used it to extract the soft, flat bag from his pocket. It was the most expensive element in his plan, as well as the factor that had remained touch-and-go for the longest time. Where did respectable citizens go to acquire a large quantity of heroin? And it had to be heroin to make it all work out, since in California less harmful drugs were considered, well, less harmful. Rick sighed. He wasn’t happy about what he was about to do. He didn’t like causing pain to anyone. But it was necessary. Rick carefully pushed the bag into the opening which nobody except himself even knew existed.
Everything went smoothly. Rick looked out the back window, but he was the only one in sight in the garage. He stepped out of the car and quietly closed the door behind him without letting it latch. As he did so, the sound of someone whistling reached his ears. He knew that sound. It was Robert. Rick hid quickly behind another vehicle. His heart thudded loudly. How could Robert not hear that? What about that growing suspicion that befell impending victims in films every time a criminal lurked behind them? Rick had always assumed that it was pure nonsense. Nobody could sense another person’s aura. At least, lucky for him, Robert definitely couldn’t.
You could tell from his whistling that Robert was unconcerned as he walked up to his car and opened the not-quite-closed passenger door. He muttered, “Good grief, Mary,” before he slammed the door and walked back out of the garage just as unconcernedly. He had probably put something into the car, or had fetched something from it, and now suspected his wife of not closing the passenger door properly.
Rick waited for five minutes, and then strolled away. His car was parked two streets over. He reached it and sat inside. He then opened the glove compartment, pulled out a newly acquired phone, and dialed 911.
He provided the car’s license plate number, then added, “You’ll find a large stash of heroin at 35 Pierce Street in Pismo Beach,” before hanging up.
He drove off but then came to an abrupt stop next to a trash can. He had considered giving the phone to a homeless person, but his face would almost certainly be remembered. So he decided to just toss it in the trash, and did so. He suddenly felt panic-stricken as he realized that he had forgotten to check the street to make sure nobody had seen what he was doing.
He hesitated and looked around. The plump, homeless woman back there with her fully laden shopping cart, had she seen anything? She seemed to be making her way to the trash can. He would have to kill her now that she was a witness. The thought flitted through his mind, but he squelched it. The woman hadn’t gotten a close look at him. She probably wasn’t sober as it was, and wouldn’t make a reliable witness in that state. He accelerated and drove toward Lompoc, where his research group was meeting today for a discussion. If everything went as planned, Robert wouldn’t be there this time nor in the coming weeks. And then it would be too late—he would already be on his way to Mars on Robert’s ticket.
Sol 64, Mars surface
Ewa peeled herself out of her tent. It wasn’t all that simple since she had already sucked the air out of it and was wearing her clunky MfE spacesuit. Spending last night in her underwear had been a luxury that she wouldn’t be able to indulge in again any time soon. She had consumed way too much oxygen doing this—the resource she would probably run out of first. It was apparent she was going to die here on Mars. Her air supply might last another week, while her water might stretch for twice that long if she continued to recycle the fluids as optimally as she was doing now. There was no need for her to skimp on food. She would be dead in ten sols, one way or the other.
Regardless, she had no intention of just sitting down somewhere and dying. She had considered that option once or twice. All she had to do was switch off her oxygen. Within a few minutes, she would suffocate—not a pretty death, but a quick one. She could spare herself a lot of pain that way. The anguish had already started. The skin on her arm and leg joints was being rubbed raw by her spacesuit. She had applied lotion on those spots inside the tent, but she would have to sleep in her suit tonight. Ewa had no choice—she had to fight, even if the outcome had been predetermined a long time ago.
She glanced up into the sky. The view was better today. She could even make out the Martian moon of Phobos. Ewa checked the tables on her universal device. Getting her bearings was much easier now that she could run calculations off both the sun and the small moon. Ewa stared to the south, the direction in which the NASA base was located. On the horizon, she noticed a strangely shaped hill. It didn’t fit with its surroundings. It might have been created by a meteor strike. She decided to head that way to check it out.
She came to a stop after walking for just three minutes. Ewa was confused about what had happened. Something had made her stop moving. She glanced down and lifted her right foot. It obeyed her wish. She then tested the left one. It worked normally, too. She set off again—and once again stopped in her tracks. What was it? Had she just experienced a bout of schizophrenia? Ewa took a deep breath and released it. She wrapped both hands around her right leg and pulled it forward. Ten centimeters, that was enough. She repeated the process with her left leg. Ewa was glad that nobody could see her, but what she was doing was working. She was advancing, although quite slowly. But then her legs suddenly started working again.
Ewa felt relieved. She set her sights on the hill again and marched westward. The ground was sandy, and she was leaving a deep trail behind her. The straps of the backpack cut into her shoulders. Her joints ached. The hill vanished all of a sudden, and Ewa stopped walking, her heart pounding rapidly. What happened to the horizon? she wondered. She spun around. There was the hill again, behind her. How could that be? Ewa scanned her surroundings. A trail of human footprints led to the hill, and beside them, a second row ran to where she was now standing. She was the only one out here. She must have doubled back somehow without being aware of it. What did that mean? Was something—her own body or even her mind—trying to play tricks on her?
Ewa dropped her backpack to the ground and sank onto it. Who was the boss here? She was! She wouldn’t let this rattle her. She would decide in which direction she would go.
Her arm jerked suddenly. Her right hand started moving back and forth in front of her helmet as if try
ing to get her attention. Ewa tried to control her muscles, but without success. What did her hand want from her? She felt a jolt of panic surge through her body. She had to regain control, no matter what. With her left hand, she rummaged for a tool. She could cut off the right one! No! That would involve slicing into her suit, which would result in her instant death.
She leaned down until her arm was within reach of the Mars surface. It extended to its full length, her pointer finger stretching forward. Her own hand began to draw a picture in the sand. No, it wasn’t a picture. It was forming letters. Her hand wanted to communicate with her! She had truly lost her mind now. Ewa had to chuckle. She was leaning down to the Mars desert and writing letters in the sand. She would probably wake up shortly on board the Santa Maria, and this would all prove to be some horrible nightmare.
The English words ‘Go West’ appeared in the sand. If her own subconscious was trying to communicate with her, why wasn’t it doing so in Polish? Wouldn’t that make more sense? After all, she formulated her thoughts in her native language. Or did this have something to do with a part of the personality that she had split off? Ewa had read somewhere that such split personalities sometimes spoke in unfamiliar languages. At least the wording here was in English, which meant she could understand the instructions.
“Why?” Ewa asked aloud.
She didn’t plan to follow the order, but she was curious about the motivation behind her second identity. Why did the other Ewa want to head west? She took a step back to provide space for the response, and her finger started writing again. It was both shocking and fascinating to watch. She was reminded of a horror film she had once watched in which the protagonists had used a memento to conjure up ghosts, who had then written things on a chalkboard.
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