by Glenn Damato
There’s a simple text feed where anyone can post a message and add comments. This is an efficient way to find out what’s on everyone’s mind. Shuko’s medical colleague Blair Rizzo is dispensing her version of shab. People insult and threaten each other, usually when they’re on different spacecraft. Lots of book and vid recommendations. Music, too.
Darien on Constitution mentions there’s a tremendous amount of technical knowledge we need to ingest over the coming weeks, but he adds there’s plenty of time to do that. He’s a physicist from San Diego with a concise manner of expressing himself, so I guess he knows best.
People complain they can only see a few stars from the windows. I’ve been watching the Earth and moon shrink every day. Both are just slivers against the black, too small to make out any features. Why bother to look anymore?
A couple of fights have broken out on Constitution and Endurance. Reddish-blue facial bruises, one broken nose.
Abby on Endurance wants to know if it’s possible to somehow turn around and get back to the Earth. The answer is no.
Jürgen hasn’t posted a word. But people ask about him. Tess on Independence throws out vague hints that Jürgen’s planning the details on how to build a city on Mars.
During the brief minutes I knew him, Jürgen struck me as fully mature and level-headed. Why hasn’t he spoken to us yet, especially when we need some unity and reassurance?
Jürgen should communicate with us. As soon as possible.
Maybe every day.
Ideally every day.
I pull into my sleeper and flick the vid over to the control center on Independence. They’re eating what looks like dinner, while we finished breakfast a couple of hours ago. Everyone’s out of sync.
Jürgen’s face is puffier than I remember, his eyes squinty, and the shorter hair makes him look older. “I can take a very short break from my work to speak with you,” he tells me while chewing. He enters his own sleeper so we can have some quiet.
“How are things, Cristina?”
He knows my name; the screen doesn’t show that. I know maybe half of everyone’s names.
“We’re adjusting. Like everybody, I guess. There’s something—”
“You were on my grandfather’s ship. Or rather, he put himself on your ship.”
Drawing a blank.
“Dr. David Chao.”
I guess he can see the shock on my face because he smirks, and looks much younger.
“Dr. Chao selected you, Cristina Flores. My grandfather’s judgment is widely considered unassailable. Don’t let him down.”
“Well, no, I won’t,” I sputter. A mindless thing to say. “You look like him.”
Still smirking, patiently waiting for me to say something intelligent.
“He was a brave and dedicated man. A wonderful teacher. I wish I had known him longer. Don’t you let him down.”
Smirk gone. A couple of solemn nods. “What’s on your mind, Cristina?”
“I think people have a lot of confidence in you. You’re the one who convinced a lot of them to be here.”
“I had some help.”
For a second that draws a blank, too. I was the one who helped him the most. So much has happened since that short time in the hospital basement, the room full of scared teenagers and plastic chairs and a row of stern-faced oldies.
“Keep convincing us, Jürgen. That’s what I’m asking you to do. Don’t stop. I’ll help you this time, too.”
His eyes tighten; now he’s the one who doesn’t know what to say.
“We need convincing to do the right thing, on a daily basis,” I continue. “So much work, and every minute is precious. Right now we’re a jumbled mess and getting worse. Everybody’s going their own direction. Nothing’s getting done.”
“It’s a major adjustment.”
“Won’t some discipline and focus make the adjustment go smoother? You’re our best chance to get on track. Talk to us, motivate us, set out a formal program. Tell us what we need to know.”
His gaze shifts all over. “I’m not sure exactly what you want from me, Cristina.”
I want him to motivate us. First, I have to motivate him.
“You’re a geologist? You’re studying our landing area, right? Planning exactly what we’re going to do?”
“Yes, resource access and development. That’s all quite far in the future.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s an incentive. Fold us in. Involve us. Nothing will keep everybody going better than dreaming about what they’re going to do on Mars. It’s really all we have.”
Lights go on inside his head.
It’s working, so I press on. “It’s the most powerful enticement I can imagine to keep everybody learning and guarantee we know enough by the time we land. And you’re at the center of it—you’re our geologist!”
The top of Jürgen’s head fills the screen. He’s thinking. Let him think.
“My grandfather was a team leader at JPL and Chēngzhăng. He could get people to work together in such a way the experience of individual specialists complemented what other specialists brought to the table. And he only worked with the best.”
“He brought together teams?”
“Teams, yes.”
The lights in his brain are flashing furiously. Both of us, really.
“Teams, Jürgen! That’s it! Group us into teams. You know, like in fútbol. Challenge us. Are we good enough to be on your teams, teams exploring Mars? Who has learned enough, demonstrated the necessary knowledge, to join one of the teams making discoveries on Mars?”
“Teams,” he repeats back, the word barely audible.
“Learn skills, be the best, the most knowledgeable, be part of a team. Everyone else stays inside and cleans the space shitter.”
He nods. It’s an idea. What’s he going to do with it?
TWENTY
Eric thrives in this crazy environment. Or maybe he just likes to talk.
“I got housekeeping instructions to put out,” he grumbles on a vid screen. “Don’t eat the packaged food! It’s supposed to be for emergencies. Your printer does three meals a day and that’s enough, given that we need fewer calories when we’re not under gravity. Our food will last if we don’t waste it. We’ll be the first to grow food on another planet. Things can go wrong.”
Things are already going wrong. Endless oxygen generator high temperature shutdowns. It worked okay for a while, now it’s all going bust. Eric doesn’t care; he yaks on about the TW9 component printers. “They work best under lunar gravity or higher, so we’ll use them in flight only if we need to make replacement parts. We have enough garments in our lockers. Once we build up stock resources on Mars, we’ll print new clothes.”
We gather for breakfast, Paige included. Four vid screens show the respective control decks from the other spacecraft, with the heads of about a dozen people all pointing in different directions. The sight doesn’t bother my stomach anymore.
I try to listen to Eric as I wait for my food to print. Too much variety on the menu! Toast with butter and jam, oatmeal, tea with lemon and sugar, six minutes. Should be almost ready.
Paige stops playing with floating water balls long enough to deliver her opinion to Eric. “These coveralls aren’t even a week old and look how filthy they are. Do you know how stinky we’re going to be six weeks from now?”
Eric thrusts a round orange object in front of the vid. “See this? We can be less stinky by observing basic personal hygiene. Everyone can wipe themselves over, twice a week. Pay special attention to pits and privates.”
Paige and Alison groan and make faces. Mikki uses a pair of tongs to withdraw a beige container from the printer and she gingerly directs it toward me. Steam escapes from three tiny holes. The toast is in strips and it looks like real toast. The taste . . . better than real. Deliciously buttery—even the browning is flawless. I spread strawberry jam and sample the oatmeal. I can get used to this.
“One more thing,” Eric says. “So
me of the life support gear needs daily and weekly maintenance. Your shipboard instructor probably didn’t assign who would do what. Therefore, each flight director is responsible for delegating maintenance.”
I swallow oatmeal. “Eric, what about these oxygen generator shutdowns? Are you looking into the cause—”
“Right, Cristina. Jürgen is aware and we’re watching the units closely.”
“Is he going to—”
“Jürgen will take care of everything.”
He’s bringing my headache back. I wave my arms near the screen so Eric can’t ignore me. “Hey! I’m talking about our oxygen!”
The others glance in my direction. Yes, I’m okay. But my words go unnoticed. Tess comes on vid, upside down. “Jürgen Morita will now address us,” she proclaims. “Hold your questions until he’s finished.”
Jürgen’s crisp voice snatches everyone’s attention. He’s in speaking mode. That sly smile is back; he’s about to share a secret.
“Is there anyone among us who harbored doubt in their hearts as we began this journey from a windswept sea? Just for a moment, did you think we might not make it?”
“Never!” whispers Mikki. Alison giggles. Their faces come alive, even Paige.
“We’ve chosen to participate in an historic adventure. The events of our lives over the next weeks and months will be chronicled among the most celebrated achievements of human history.”
Historic adventure? Celebrated achievements? So the lavish language at the hospital wasn’t just to persuade volunteers. The power remains potent—everybody gets hyper-energized once Jürgen starts talking.
Me, not so much. But I’m listening, too.
“Eric Rahn, our chief systems engineer and flight director aboard Constitution, reported to me this morning all five spacecraft are functioning as expected. We’re on course for landing at Protonilus Mensae. Along with our scientists, engineers, and medical doctors, we’re fortunate to have in our company two experienced project supervisors: Senuri Kumar, flight director aboard Endurance, and Vijay Mehta, flight director aboard Resolute.”
Cheers erupt from the com. Why am I clapping for two people I’ve never met? When Jürgen expects something, people go along—for any reason or no reason at all. Call it the Jürgen Effect.
“I’ve tasked Senuri and Vijay to organize teams for our initial projects during the first ninety days after landing. We have an aggressive schedule to plant and harvest crops early on so we can take maximum advantage of the three hundred and fifty-day spring and summer seasons. We’ll also construct shielded living quarters and move in before summer is over.”
More shouts and claps. That part makes sense! But still nothing about the oxygen generators.
Jürgen cuts through the noise. “I have a key announcement to make. Shortly after we arrive at Protonilus, I will select three individuals to join me exploring our landing area out to a radius of fifty kilometers. I call this a Discovery Team, and our first goal will be to identify nearby mineral deposits. We can get water and other vital materials from the regolith, but we need to identify sources of copper, iron, zinc, chromium, tungsten, and nickel to provide printer feedstock for construction components. Candidates for Discovery Teams will be selected based on completion of training knowledge and demonstration of competence in equipment operation and standard procedures. This is your direct path to adventure.”
Alright, so he’s trying it. Will it work?
Half the Main Control Panel displays a spectacular panorama of steep hills in gray and reddish-brown tones. My skin tingles; it’s a view from a probe in orbit, but our first detailed glimpse of the peculiar place that will be our home.
“Protonilus! Don’t be worried by the unfriendly look. We chose fretted terrain over the smooth regions because all these glacier-carved cliffs, mesas, and valleys expose a wide variety of geologic resources.” A green pointer waves across the image. “See these rocks along the bluffs? That’s called a lobate debris apron. We know there’s water ice just under the surface near these aprons—millions of tons, available year-round, vital to the long-term progress of our civilization.”
Ryder claps his hand once and rubs the back of Mikki’s neck. Yeah, they knew each other.
The pic switches to a different view of craggy knolls and peaks. Jürgen zooms in on a pale streak in a beige gully. “This is a silica-rich patch less than four kilometers from our landing site, possibly the result of hot spring water or steam coming into contact with volcanic rock. We may be looking at an environment favorable to microbial life, life that may have evolved to thrive beneath the surface. Based on Earth analogs, hydrothermal systems like these favor preserving organic biosignatures, evidence of past or even current life forms.”
The vista disappears. All eyes snap back to Jürgen. “We’re flying thirty kilometers per second toward an entire world that has never before been explored by humans. While you’re getting past the discomfort of our initial adjustment period, remember this—something incredible is waiting to be discovered.”
Ryder throws both arms into the air. “Wahoo!”
“One more announcement,” Jürgen says. “Many challenges lay ahead, especially given that our training time was cut short. I’m appointing one of our flight directors to supervise our technical preparation and act as a Sergeant-at-Arms to ensure steady development of our systems knowledge.”
I know where this is going. He’s appointing Eric to oversee training. But what gives Jürgen the right to appoint anyone at all?
“Our Sergeant-at-Arms will be Cristina Flores.”
What? Face burn as it hits me. Ryder reaches out and slaps his palm against my right shoulder. Alison blurts, “Lucky you!”
Jürgen stares at me, the sly smile returned. There’s a quiet, and he’s still staring. Then I get it: they’re waiting for my response.
“I appreciate your confidence in me. We’re going to train, yes, we’re going to learn a lot, because we want to get out there and explore and build. But what about the oxygen generator shutdowns? Shouldn’t that be our priority?”
Heads twist. Mikki blows out a big long breath, spreading the sweet scent of blueberry empanada across the control center.
◆◆◆
Sergeant-at-Arms. What does that mean?
A lot of the old warfare vids have soldiers called the sergeant. The sergeant is a tough, no-nonsense hombre. What’s Jürgen trying to tell me? And who’s working on the oxygen generator problem? We need to talk, but he’s suddenly impossible to reach. Which is ridiculous, because where could he go?
Tess serves as his shield. “Jürgen cannot conference with you today.”
“You said to hold questions until after he’s finished,” I remind her. “And he’s finished.”
She flicks her eyes toward her forehead. “It should be obvious Jürgen’s not taking questions.”
“I’m the Sergeant-at-Arms responsible for our training. He can’t spare ten minutes for me?”
“Jürgen is an historic figure.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Tell him to get his historic ass into his sleeper so I can talk to him.”
Tess pouts, really her default expression, then disconnects. Not going to happen. Not today.
From behind me Paige whispers, “Jürgen is a visionary. We’re lucky he’s with us.”
At least she’s thinking positive now. Ryder somersaults twice. “Did he say he’s gonna pick three people for this discovery thing?”
Mikki snorts. “I suppose you think he’ll pick you.”
He’s still somersaulting. How can he do that right after eating? “Of course he’s gonna pick me. I’m just wondering who the other two will be. I’ll put in a good word for you, Mick.”
“Me,” Paige says softly. “Please pick me.”
Alison shoves the last of her toast into her mouth and talks while she chews. “I wonder if Jürgen was the one who first thought of going to Mars.”
“I
didn’t ask him, but it’s possible. He’s David’s grandson.”
They stare back at me with are you joking? faces.
“I can see the resemblance now,” Alison says.
“He’s a geologist, and the closer we get to Mars, the more important he’s going to become. Don’t forget, whoever gets to go on the Discovery Teams will be picked on the knowledge and skills they acquire between then and now. We all need to get to work because we don’t want to be stuck in these plastic boxes forever.”
Alison licks jam from her fingers. “I hope he talks to us every day. He makes me feel safe.”
I don’t feel safe. But there’s one thing I can do. Time to act like a sergeant. I grab Ryder by the arm to stop his spinning. “Oxygen generators take priority. Let’s determine our options.”
We hit the technical documentation library, a monster with a thousand tentacles. The oxygen generator system—OGS for short—is just as complicated. The equipment is based on old Russian designs used on orbital spacecraft since the 1990s. Electricity splits water into hydrogen and oxygen, which is easy to do on Earth but tricky without gravity. The hydrogen is vented overboard, the oxygen compressed and piped into our reserve tanks inside Liberty. The troubleshooting section of the manual is twice as long as the normal operating section. But since the OGS units are inside the TMI stage, they can’t be repaired.
Ryder rubs his eyes. “They’re temperature-sensitive, so they cycle back and forth a lot. That’s why we got three independent units.”
“So what’s the purpose of all the warnings?” I ask him. As if it could hear me, the panel flashes more red. Another high temperature shutdown on unit one, the third today.
And there’s red on the nav panel too.
TMP OVERRIDE 06:47:11 PCT 22 Taurus 53
Our predicted landing time is gone. The override happened over three hours ago. If this is a problem, would Eric have informed the flight directors? Or is it another of those Jürgen-will-take-care-of-everything situations?
I twist Ryder’s head toward the nav panel. “Isn’t TMP the Trans Mars Program?”
He scans the information on the display, which isn’t much. Our flight path and ETA are gone, too. He flicks the com to Constitution. “Eric, you awake?”
