Mars Station Alpha

by Stephen Penner

  He turned his attention back to the second airlock door. Then, without turning to look back at her, he muttered, "Thanks, Gold."

  Gold didn’t reply. Stanton figured she'd just use the whole exchange later to her advantage if she could.

  "This door should be easier to open," Lin advised the captain. "It is also airtight, but not designed for heavy-duty pressure differences."

  Stanton grabbed the manual release latch and pressed down. Sure enough, it opened almost as easily as a regular door. A suction noise, a pop, the slightest whoosh of air, and they were inside Mars Station Alpha.

  And by all indications they were alone.

  They had stepped into what was designated as the Entry Bay. Like all the rooms on this first permanent residence on another planet, it was tiny. More closet than room. To reinforce that feel, spacesuits hung on pegs along one wall, with attachable boots resting beneath. The opposite wall housed a control glass for the airlocks. Although the power was still fueling the lights and air systems, the control glass was off.

  "Lin," Stanton instructed, "try to determine if the control glass was switched off manually or turned off on its own somehow."

  Lin offered a quick "Yes, Captain," and set about examining the glass. The control panel offered a humming sound as she powered it back up.

  "What's the oxygen level, Petrov?" Stanton asked the cosmonaut over his comm link.

  "Still very high," came his reply after he looked down at his scanner. "Forty-one percent."

  "I'd like to preserve our personal air supplies," Stanton said. "So let's try breathing this stuff."

  Petrov consulted his scanner. "Ambient temperature is nineteen degrees," he advised. "Pleasant enough."

  Stanton reached up and released the seal between his helmet and his spacesuit.

  "If this goes badly," he said before he lifted his helmet, "Mtumbe is second-in-command. Remember that, Gold."

  She offered a tight smile. "Please hurry, Captain," she said. "If you're going to asphyxiate, I'd like to get on with it."

  Stanton couldn’t help but smile at that himself. Ferguson hadn't had to deal with a bitchy bureaucrat.

  He lifted his helmet a few centimeters and carefully inhaled through his nose.

  More importantly, after a moment he exhaled again.

  "Smells weird," he announced. "Stale and sweet and musty and metallic, all at the same time. But it's breathable."

  Petrov quickly released his own helmet and set it aside. "I have never liked wearing helmets," he explained. "They make me feel trapped just a little bit."

  Gold removed her helmet as well, but without comment, and placed it under her arm. Stanton was struck at how shiny and bright her long, blonde hair was. It was easy to forget how physically attractive she was when she opened her bitter and caustic mouth.

  Lin had already removed her helmet and was busy entering commands into the entry bay's control glass.

  "I am starting to get a headache," Petrov said, raising a gloved hand to his forehead. "The oxygen level perhaps?"

  "The oxygen level for sure," Stanton answered. "It's called oxygen intoxication. Be careful. In addition to headaches, we're also going to feel a burst of energy from the extra O2. Resist the urge to run ahead and do cartwheels."

  "I'm not really a cartwheel girl," Gold offered.

  Stanton smiled at her and raised an eyebrow. "What kind of girl are you?"

  He instantly regretted the comment. He told himself it was the extra oxygen.

  "Sorry, Gold," he harrumphed and shook his head. "No offense meant. Um, we really need to get the oxygen levels down. Let's survey the oxygen farm on our way to the control room."

  Lin looked up from the control glass. "I haven't figured out yet how this was powered down, but I think I need only a few more minutes."

  "Fine," said Stanton. "You stay here. Petrov, Gold, come with me to the station's control room."

  Part of him questioned leaving anyone alone at this point, but things seemed reasonably under control. They could breathe at least, although he too was getting a headache. Still, he didn't want to be an over reactive, overprotective nanny of a captain. Lin was a tough, experienced sinonaut. She had weathered the six-month space voyage without incident. She could certainly handle a few minutes examining a control glass by herself.

  Petrov, Gold, and Stanton exited into the long hallway that connected all the chambers and rooms of the station. The first room they came too was essentially an attached greenhouse. It housed a variety of thick green plants from Earth, all breathing deeply of Mars' carbon dioxide atmosphere, and—more importantly to Stanton and his crew—exhaling pure oxygen.

  "The oxygen farm is thriving," Petrov observed. "That explains the high oxygen levels."

  "It also suggests there are no colonists here," Stanton opined. "The farm was designed to produce the right amount of oxygen for seven humans to breathe and exhale as CO2. Without them, the oxygen level will just keep rising. So we know they haven't been here for a while."

  "Or they are here," Gold corrected, "but they haven't been breathing for a while."

  Stanton greeted that unpleasant, but accurate, assessment with a stone countenance. "Let's get to the control room," he said.

  The only other thing they passed on the way to the control room was a row of thick windows facing west, offering a view of the coming Martian sunset. The landscape was turning a deep amber as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

  The control room was too small for all three of them, so Gold volunteered to wait in the hallway. These control panels were still up and running. They confirmed that the oxygen levels were above forty percent.

  "The good news is that the oxygen farm is doing quite well," said Petrov as he pulled up various charts and readings. "The bad news is, as we know, there appears to be nothing to offset the oxygen production."

  "Can we adjust it manually?" Stanton suggested.

  Petrov considered. "I think so. We just need a way to decrease the relative oxygen level."

  "What's the best way to do that, do you think?" asked Stanton.

  "How about you open a window?" snarked Gold, pointing out at the planet full of carbon dioxide.

  Petrov laughed. "Basically she is correct, Captain. Nitrogen would be better, but we can open some external vents and let in enough carbon dioxide to reduce the oxygen concentration. At least until things stabilize with our presence here now."

  "Great," said Stanton. "You work on that. Gold, come with me."

  "Am I going to the principal's office?" she quipped.

  Stanton forced out the inappropriate thought that had unexpectedly popped into his head. "No, Agent Gold. We're going to the crew's quarters. If they're here but not breathing, as you so sensitively put it, it's likely we'll find them there."

  Gold couldn't suppress a wince. Stanton saw it.

  "What's wrong, Agent?" he teased. "No degree in mortuary sciences?"

  "Go to hell, Captain," she said cheerily, pushing past him toward the quarters.

  Go to hell, Stanton considered. He looked around the abandoned space station and couldn't help but wonder if maybe he had.

  Any concerns about whether they might find seven dead astronauts were quickly dispelled. All of the quarters were empty. Stanton remembered learning that there had been some discussion about one large sleeping room, or one male and one female, but eventually it was decided that eighteen months on a barren rock was a long time to go without any privacy. So the residential wing of the station consisted of seven separate sleeping rooms, each barely larger than the cot inside, plus a communal kitchen and eating area.

  Each sleeping room was in perfect, inspection-ready order: the beds made tightly, the drawers and closet full of clean, folded clothes, the computer stations turned off and folded up. Stanton thought it looked like an advertisement for the first hotel on Mars. But even though the furniture was ready for the next guest, all of the colonists' personal effects remained. Posters taped to the walls. Drawin
gs and letters from children. Photographs of friends and family, favorite places and cherished memories.

  Stanton walked into one of the quarters and examined a photograph of astro-colonist Brigid Osterhafn with her two young children at some crowded European beach.

  'We're proud of you, Mommy,' was written at the bottom corner of the image.

  "It's like they knew they were leaving," Stanton said, still examining the photo, "but they couldn't take anything with them."

  Stanton was about to look for Ferguson's cabin when Mtumbe came over the comm link.

  "Captain," he said. "Come back to the control room. Quick."

  Stanton looked at Gold, who returned his look of concern with one of indifference.

  "Glad you made it inside, Daniel," he said. "What's the problem?"

  "Just come back. You'll see."

  Mtumbe was clearly upset, unusual for him.

  Stanton hurried through the narrow walkway from the crew's quarters to the control panel. Gold trudged behind him. Mtumbe was standing outside the room, with Dekker and Rusakova behind him, and Petrov and Lin peering out from within.

  "Okay," Stanton asked as he walked up, "what's going on?"

  Mtumbe didn't say anything, but instead pointed to a support beam directly across from the control room. Carved into the plastic coating, exposing the steel underneath, was a single word:

  'CROATOAN'

  Chapter 3

  "Croatoan," Stanton read the word aloud. "Why is that familiar?"

  "Perhaps it's Martian?" Dekker suggested. "Maybe it means 'No Vacancy.'"

  "No," said Mtumbe. "It's Native American."

  That stunned everyone into silence for a moment.

  Finally Dekker asked, "There are Native Americans on Mars?"

  Stanton turned to the Dutchman. "Shut up, Lieutenant." When Dekker opened his mouth to protest, Stanton added, "That's an order."

  Stanton turned his attention back to Mtumbe. "Now I know why that's familiar."

  Gold nodded too, but didn't say anything.

  "Well, I do not," said Rusakova. "Please explain, Commander."

  "Croatoan was the name of a Native American tribe in Virginia," answered Mtumbe. "The ones who lived near the lost colony of Roanoke."

  "Roanoke?" repeated Dekker.

  "L— Lost?" asked Petrov.

  "Yeah, lost." Mtumbe frowned as he tried to remember his history lessons. "It was one of the first English colonies in North America, established in 1564. But the next year war broke out between Britain and Spain and all available British ships were commandeered to fight the Spanish Armada. No supply ships could get to the Roanoke colony for three years."

  "Three years?" confirmed Rusakova. "That is twice what our comrades on Mars faced."

  "Right," agreed Mtumbe. "When a British supply ship finally arrived in 1568, the colony was gone. The buildings had all been carefully dismantled and removed. The only clue was the word 'Croatoan' carved into a nearby tree."

  "So what happened to the colony?" Petrov demanded.

  "No one knows," Mtumbe answered. "Some people think they starved, some think they were killed by the Native Americans, and some even say they were taken by ghosts."

  "Ghosts?" scoffed Lin.

  Petrov also asked, "Ghosts?" but his tone was one of fear, not doubt.

  "Ghosts," grinned Mtumbe. "The colony had been built on top of an Indian burial ground."

  Dekker leaned over to Petrov and whispered something in his ear. Petrov's eyes widened and he looked at Dekker, who nodded earnestly. Stanton could see things were getting out of hand.

  "Okay, okay," Stanton stepped in to regain control. "Enough with the ghost stories."

  He looked at the word carved into the space station wall and frowned. "Obviously this is some effort by the first crew to communicate with us. There are no Native American tribes on Mars, so it can't mean they've left to join one."

  He frowned, not sure what to do. He was glad Ferguson wasn't there to see his indecision.

  "Daniel," he asked finally, "did the explosion damage the ship's communications system?"

  Gold visibly bristled at even the suggestion of sending a comm back to Earth. But before she could object, Mtumbe replied, "It shorted out a bunch of the systems, including communications. I'm pretty sure they'll be okay, but I had to reboot them. We won't know for a few hours."

  "Let's check out the station's comm center," Stanton decided. Then, he regarded Petrov and the carved word. "All together."

  Gold finally spoke up. "Why the comm center, Captain?"

  Stanton stared at her for a moment.

  "Two reasons," he replied tensely. "One: to see if the comm system is working. And two: if it is, to comm back to Earth."

  "No objection to number one," Gold said calmly, "but I'm vetoing number two."

  Stanton didn't say anything, but only because he didn't get the chance.

  "What?" demanded Petrov. "Of course we must inform them of what we have found!"

  "We don't know what we've found," Gold retorted. "At least not yet."

  "We have found no crew and a disturbing message," pressed Petrov. Then he looked at Dekker. "Plus—"

  But Dekker elbowed him and he stopped.

  Gold narrowed her eyes at the Russian. "Plus what?"

  "Yes, Alex," pressed Rusakova. "Plus what?"

  "Plus nothing," Petrov replied, before crossing his arms and whispering something to Dekker.

  Gold's eyes flared. "There will be no secrets on this mission," she declared.

  "Yet you wish to keep what we have discovered secret from those on Earth," observed Lin.

  "That's not keeping secrets," argued Gold. "That's information management."

  Stanton considered joining the argument, but his crew was doing fine without him.

  "You can call it what you like," Rusakova said, "but it amounts to the same thing: censorship."

  Gold took a deep breath. "So you want to tell the entire world that the colonists are missing and the only clue is a Native American word that was carved into a tree six hundred years ago?"

  "Er... yes?" tried Dekker as the others fell silent.

  "Do you have any idea what kind of a panic that could start?" Gold demanded. "Everyone would start predicting the end of the world. And how would it make the colonists' families feel? Shouldn't we wait to report back until we better understand what there is to report?"

  The crew looked down and around, but no one said anything.

  Finally, Mtumbe looked to Stanton. "Captain?"

  Gold looked at him too. Her eyes seemed to challenge him to defy her.

  "It's not like we're contacting the media," he soothed. "We're going to tell our government. They can decide whether to disseminate the information further."

  Gold's eyes narrowed to slits. "I have command authority over all communication issues," she hissed.

  "I know, I know," Stanton waved a hand toward her and turned away. "First thing's first. Let's go find the comm center."

  Gold grabbed Stanton's arm as the others filed out toward the comm center. "Captain, I need to speak with you."

  "It can wait," Stanton replied.

  "No it can't," Gold insisted. "You need to hear what I have to say."

  "No, Agent Gold," Stanton snapped. "You need to listen to what I have to say. You may have been added to this mission by the President himself, but you are just another member of my crew. I am the captain of the ship and the commander of this mission. I was willing to play along with the 'Gold has jurisdiction over communications' charade, but only so long as it didn't endanger anyone's life."

  "You need to respect my authority in front of the rest of the crew," Gold complained.

  "I should say the same to you," Stanton countered. "If you have as many degrees as you think you do, then maybe somewhere along the way you learned that once a ship has left port, and circumstances and situations are subject to sudden, unexpected changes, the captain—that's me—the captain has final and
absolute authority over all matters."

  Gold blinked at him.

  "Including communications," Stanton added just to make sure she understood. "I have six crew members to protect from our ship, plus seven more to rescue. That's thirteen lives in my hands alone. You will respect that."

  Gold's full lips tightened into a thin line.

  "Now I'm confronted with an abandoned space station and a cryptic clue referencing a six hundred year old lost colony eaten by ghosts. I'll give you the chance to authorize my communication to Earth so the rest of the crew still thinks you're calling those shots, but I am making that communication."

  Gold stared back with cold green eyes. They almost betrayed some emotion, but she stopped it. Then she looked down.

  "Don't send that communication, Captain," she said quietly.

  Stanton stood up straight and crossed his arms.

  "Give me one good reason why not," he challenged.

  Gold looked up again and met his gaze softly with those same green eyes. "Because I'm the one who carved 'Croatoan' into the post."

  Chapter 4

  "What?!" Stanton was incredulous. "You carved it?"

  Gold gave a hesitant nod.

  "Why on Earth would you do that?" demanded Stanton.

  "Hey, you just made a joke," Gold pointed out. "You should have said 'Why on Mars would you do that?'"

  Stanton didn't laugh. He just stared intently at her. "Why, Gold?"

  Gold shrugged and offered a sigh. "It was test."

  "A test?" repeated Stanton. "A test of what? What the hell were you trying to test?"

  "You," answered Gold. "And your crew."

  Stanton shook his head. "How does carving Croatoan into the wall test me or my crew?"

  "Look at how you all reacted," said Gold. "Some outlandish message that can't possibly be real, and you're ready to report back to Earth that Mars Station Alpha is haunted by ghosts of a lost Native American tribe."

  "I think you're exaggerating a bit," Stanton answered after a moment.

  Gold smiled. A full but cold smile. "Maybe," she admitted. "But I think I proved my point. You need someone to check your impulse to ask for help."