by Rob Dircks
Tanner taps his temple. “Putting that tarp over the output feed, concentrating the oxygen under here, dragging all of us under? I thought Albert was smart. You’re a genius.”
“Aww, don’t make me blush.” She plops down right in the middle of us and lowers her voice. “Listen, I know you’re all very woozy, and maybe that’s unfair because it works in my favor, but let me ask anyway. Now who do you think should be leader for Stage Two?”
Every finger points at her.
“That’s better. Now you…” She lifts me up and my knees threaten to give out.
“Yes, boss?”
She hands me back the drill driver. “Start putting shit together.”
32
The Pit
The light on the B.A.G. turns amber, then green.
Slowly lifting the tarp, we tentatively take our first steps out into the main dome.
We can breathe freely. Ahhh.
And then the smell assaults me, punches me in the gut and I fall to my knees, gagging, trying desperately to retain the contents of my stomach.
It’s the exact smell I remember, that exact mixture of methane and sulfur. It floods my brain with a memory so real it seems to be happening all over again: our trip to The Pit.
Rock, Scissors and I had grabbed our little bags with egg salad sandwiches and skipped school, and spent the day hiking all the way there. It was the first time we’d ever done something like that, sneaking away without permission. What a thrill! We were smart enough, even at nine or ten, to bring refurbished gas masks. You’d think it would look odd to anyone along the way, watching little triplet girls skipping down the street with gas masks on. But Fill City – I know now by comparison with the “real” world – was filled with odd sights like this, so we were hardly noticed.
When we got there, to The Pit, I felt a strange mixture of awe and disappointment. It was certainly gargantuan, a mammoth circular hole in the ground, the largest rotating arm I’ve ever seen, rotating slowly, ever so slowly, mixing and fermenting the mysterious contents that would become FertiFood. But I don’t know. I guess I had expected more. Like barely contained wildfires, or that the sludge might sprout tentacles, trying to escape, with a life of its own, or that black clouds, complete with lightning and thunder, would permanently hover over the spot, cursing it forever, like something out of Dante’s Inferno.
We sat between two trucks, watching the mesmerizing rotation of the arm, all of us suddenly realizing how starving we were. But there was a problem we hadn’t worked out ahead of time: how do you eat lunch with a gas mask on? After much debate, we decided it would be possible to quickly unlatch our masks and, while holding our breath, munch a few bites of egg salad, then slip the mask back on, and repeat.
And it worked.
At first.
But we quickly learned that holding your breath and eating were mutually exclusive, you can’t really do both, not entirely, and soon the Unadulterated Stench of Hell was penetrating our nostrils and we were running, screaming, vomiting inside and outside our masks, all the way home.
The next time Nana made egg salad, she witnessed a first: we simply wouldn’t eat it. None of us. But instead of forcing it down our throats – it was food, after all, a blessing not everyone could afford – she eyed us over, one by one, and seemed to lift the thoughts from our brains, learn our whole illicit story just by observing our quivering lips, watery eyes, suppressed gagging, and fingers pinching our noses closed. Instead, she told us of a family tradition that went back as far as she could remember, that each child was allowed one food they weren’t required to eat, a single choice, and without hesitation we shouted together, “Egg salad!” and we never saw it again. Side note: if Dad ever wondered why egg salad disappeared off the family menu forever, he didn’t let on. I suspect he didn’t like it to begin with and was glad for the reprieve.
“Whoa. Robin. You okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks Benji. Just remembering something.”
“Looks like a fond memory. Here, grab my hand, get up. I think we need your help with Dear Leader.”
“You don’t smell that?”
“What?”
I sniff. “That.”
“Um. I guess it’s faintly funky. Not really. Listen, we’ve got bigger problems.”
Aurora is barking vague orders, but it’s leading to lots of aimless shuffling and not much else. I take a few deep breaths, forcing myself to acclimate to the aroma (that no one else seems to have a problem with?), and sidle up behind her, whispering, “Shelter domes.”
She swirls around, annoyed.
I whisper again. “Fun Mars fact: it’s comfortable now, during the day, but tonight, if Larson has created a proper simulation, it’ll go down to minus a hundred degrees.”
Still annoyed. “And you know that how? Oh, that’s right. You’re a nerd. So?”
“So… the shelter domes are the only structures with heat.”
She turns back to the others. “Okay, I’ve decided. Shelter domes first. Everybody knows that, come on, people! Now on the double! And stick with your teammates. The board is back.”
I look up, shielding my eyes from the sun, and yes, The Big Board has returned, this time as a digital display on the inside of the dome, maybe fifteen feet above our heads. Four teams remain: Red, Green, Yellow, and Orange. Our points and Likes have been reset to zero, but it appears we’ve each been given ten points for our communal effort at staying alive. And Aurora now leads the Likes, not surprisingly, by a wide margin. “So, Albert. You still think Larson would’ve saved us? Albert? Hey, where’s Albert?”
“He’s over there.”
Off about twenty-five yards, near where we came in, sits Albert, rocking back and forth, knees tucked up against his chest, leaning against the interior wall of the dome. He’s got a neighbor, too, Avery Jacobs, it’s almost cute how they’re rocking in rhythm, except that it’s obvious they’re shell-shocked. Avery even has a little drool hanging from her lip.
Slowly I approach, and sit between them. Sniff the air. “Hey. You guys smell that?”
Silence.
“Albert. Come on. Talk.”
“A little funky. Not bad. Listen, I’m done. I’m tapping out.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Shit, yes, I can do that. Stage One was fun. This? Larson is a freaking lunatic. I was wrong. He doesn’t care if we die. I think he might even want some of us to die.”
I rest my hand on his shoulder and laugh. “No. You were right the first time. He’s not going to let us die. I think he knew Aurora had that trick in her back pocket.”
“How?”
“It’s Larson. I don’t know. But he’s not an idiot. Or a negligent homicide-er. I think we’re safe. We have to trust that he knows our limits and how far to push. We have to trust each other, the stuff we don’t know about each other, things that will help when we don’t expect it.”
“That sounds like a load of horse shit.”
And actually, even as it was coming out of my mouth, I thought it sounded a little fecal, too.
“Agreed. But listen. What makes better TV? Safe and sound, or life and death? Fake danger, or real danger? Or at least perceived real danger?”
He nods.
“Good. So are you going to let a little danger keep you from chasing the most amazing adventure in the history of our species?”
“Yes.”
“Come on. You really going to just sit here until Stage Two is over?”
He hesitates. “Yes.”
“Ugh. How about if you come back I’ll set you up with Suzie Q over there. She’s obviously got it bad for you.”
“How about I’ll come back if you promise to never ever do that. In fact, if you promise to keep her away from me maybe I’ll come back. Far away. I’m serious.”
“Deal.” I extend my hand. He hesitates again. Finally shakes on it. “Great, Albert. Now help me with Avery.”
We get up and dust ourselves off, Albert’s still
a little shaky, and we reach down for Avery’s arms. She jerks them away. “Nnn… nnnn… nnn…”
I look into her eyes. She’s somewhere really far off. “Avery? You in there?”
Her hollow stare is my answer. And she’s blowing little snot bubbles. I think that’s a bad sign.
Aurora’s suddenly at my side. “What gives?”
“Avery. She’s toast.”
Aurora steps back, looks up and around. “Hey. Larson. I know you’re watching. We’ve got a casualty. Come and get her.”
Nothing. No response.
“Didn’t think so. Well, one less contestant to worry about when it hits a hundred below tonight.”
I punch her in the arm. “You don’t mean that.”
“Try me.”
I ignore her. “Okay. Albert, we’ll leave her here for the moment, construct the MedBay dome first, and come back and move her in.”
For a traditional shelter, you’d build the structure first, then fill it with utilities and furniture. For the MedBay, the process is reversed: first we assemble the interior – medical scanning equipment, heating unit, water, the connection to the CPU for the membrane – and then we build the structure outside it all. Well, we don’t build the outside, exactly. It’s printed – we just set up the printing unit. It’s an incredible sight, watching the unit roll in ever-higher circles, painting the air with clear, I don’t know, plastic? Gel? It’s like watching an igloo being built, but by a robot. On Mars. And not of ice. Okay, it looks nothing like an igloo being built. Anyway, if you look close, you can see just a hint of circuitry running throughout the material. No superstructure. Just the simple parabolic shape, the surface tension holding it together, and the combined outside and inside pressure maintaining the shape and the thickness. The size of a large camping tent, this dome looks just as flimsy. But when I put my weight against it, I’m amazed at its strength – like a soap bubble made out of clear titanium.
While I lean against it, I tap through the manual for a little more on this miracle substance and, more important, how we’re supposed to enter. It’s called PPMM – Powered Polymer Matrix Membrane – actually a weave of clear nano-threads, some carrying electric current, some carrying information, all held together with powered van der Waals forces, the same molecular attraction that allows geckos to stick to glass. Larson is calling the PPMM in his manuals a “smart surface,” allowing things to exit or enter based on instructions to the CPU, down to the molecular level, and intelligently healing itself after something – like a human body – breaches its surface.
Benji knocks on the surface. “Okay, so how do we get in? Do I clap twice?” Clap clap. “Open sesame.”
“No, wait… oh yes, over there at the bottom. Tap that little red light with your foot. But not ye-”
He taps it, and before I can complete, “yet!” the light turns green and I fall through the membrane onto my back.
“Thanks.”
The teams get faster with each dome, and we manage to complete the four sleep shelter domes and two backup domes before uncontrollable shivers tell us it’s time to quit and get warm. We’re exhausted, happy to call it an early night and get a cozy twelve hours of zees.
But it doesn’t exactly go that way.
I don’t know if it’s one of Larson’s little tricks, or if there’s something wonky with the domes, or if it takes time for the thermostats to regulate, but the temperature is swinging wildly, from oppressively hot to ice cold every couple of hours, so our entire night is an awkward group dance of stripping down to our underwear, then bundling up into our spacesuits and blankets, and repeating the process.
To make matters worse, the digital privacy screening built into the PPMMs is acting up too, so more than once we find ourselves staring at the other teams, and them at us, in the middle of taking our clothes off, or tripping over each other, or relieving ourselves in the outhouse dome.
“Psst. Hey Robin, where’s Mike?”
“Go to sleep, Benji. He’s in the outhouse.”
“I was just there. He’s not there.”
“So? What are you, his nanny? Go to sleep.”
On cue, the privacy screening glitches out again, and our domes are perfectly clear.
“Oh, wait. I found him.”
“Good for yo- oh my God.”
At the end of the two rows of sleep domes, in plain view of all teams, is Mike Horner, on a cot in one of the backup domes, in his birthday suit.
With Marina Delacosta.
Benji laughs. “Either the thermostat in there is on its blistering hot phase, or they’re…”
“Do they not know we can see them?”
“I think they’re a little preoccupied.”
Claire holds her fingers up to her eyes. “I shouldn’t look.” She spreads her fingers just a little. Just enough.
“God, look at their Likes.” A quick glance at The Big Board shows Mike and Marina’s numbers growing fast, so fast they look like they’re going to burn a hole in the PPMM.
Maybe they noticed the numbers animating, or more likely felt the eyes of thirteen contestants on them, and heard somehow, even through the soundproof domes, our laughter and shouts, because they suddenly look up, scramble for a sheet, and cover themselves, like an ostrich with its head in the sand, hoping no one notices the two-body-shaped lump on a cot in one of the backup domes.
I look over to the MedBay, and wouldn’t you know, even Avery is giggling.
Silver lining.
A few minutes later, Mike retreats to our dome. “Stupid privacy screening. Dammit. How much did you guys see?”
Benji yawns. “What are you talking about? Were you gone?”
I yawn too. “Yeah, Mike, be quiet. We’re trying to sleep.”
Mike harrumphs. “Wait. Come on. Really? You didn’t see? Did everyone miss that?”
“Missed what? Go to bed. You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Huh.” So Mike, a little more relaxed now, climbs back into his little cot, clearly relieved.
A minute or two later, just before Mike nods off to sleep, Claire whispers into his ear and pokes his rear.
“Nice tattoo.”
33
Beets
“Beets!”
The rest of us are trying our hardest not to talk about Mike and Marina’s little tryst last night, but Tanner Byron couldn’t care less, he’s sincerely freaking out about three young beet plants he found in among the food generation supplies. “Beets!” He hands one to Claire.
“Beets? Oh. I thought you said butts. As in, ‘I was thinking of getting a tattoo on my butt.’”
“Shut up, Claire.” Mike is digging through the next crate, soybeans. But he’s got a little smile on, he’s trying not to show it but it’s there, and Marina marches right into the farming dome and plants a wet one on him. “Attention, fellow contestants. You know what? I-a don’t care. You saw what you saw. Issa not a secret anymore. I am between relationship, have no children, as is Michael, so there issa no problem. You gotta problem, speak to my fist. I mean, speak to me first. And there is no rule against any of this. Is there, Robin?”
Oh, great. I guess I’m the expert on rules now, or lack of rules, having trashed them on the last round and made up my own. Robin “Rule Breaker” Smith. Wonderful. “Do what you want. I don’t care. But can you leave now? We’ve got two weeks to plant and successfully grow this stuff. Red and Yellow teams only. You’re supposed to be out there setting up the terraforming experiment. Go. Away. Vamoose.”
“Vamoose? Is not Italian. You trying to speak Italian?”
“No. It’s just something my Nana says.”
“Aww. That’s a cute.” She pecks me on the cheek, then grabs Mike by the collar and pulls him up into an embrace that would make a stripper blush. He sighs – I am not exaggerating – like a damsel in an old movie, and falls into her kiss. She leaves. Dramatically. (Is there any other way?)
Suzie Q harrumphs. “You think Albert got that in him? Pull a gir
l into his arms like that?”
“What are we growing in here, mistletoe?” Claire says.
Tanner laughs. “It’s the wa and the ma.”
“You smokin’ them beet leaves, Tanner?”
“No, I lived in Japan for a number of years. Their perception of spaces is much different. To them, a space itself can foster relationships and affect interactions. The wa and the ma. In this case, they would say ‘Confinement brings us closer.’”
Claire smirks. “That sounds like an ad for a prison.”
“Ha! No, it’s true. This space is forcing us to confront each other closely, in almost primitive ways, like cave dwellers, and I suppose that’s stimulating some amore. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see more of that kind of activity in the coming days. And beets, they’re high in nitrates you know, they help vasodilation, increased blood flow to the-”
“Enough, enough. You’re driving me crazy, beet man.” Claire swats him with both hands, and waves them in front of her face like she’s having a hot flash. “Back to work.”
And so we carry on setting up the hydroponics, and the aeroponics, hanging our little plants delicately from their harnesses, and as I mix the Martian soil blend for the traditional ground farming tests, I can’t get it out of my head: confinement brings us closer. Tanner, kneeling next to me, smiles and inserts a beet plant into the hole I’ve just dug. I lower my voice. “Hey Tanner. Did you live in a confined space in Japan?”
“Yes, with a family in Tokyo. It was fascinating. I found these families who live in very small spaces to be extremely close, fiercely loyal. Each member feels less an individual, and more an extension of a larger unit. They form very strong bonds. I imagine it must be quite the opposite for you, living alone on a large farm.”
“Um, yeah.”
He notices a tear appearing on my cheek, wipes it away. “Sorry. You miss home?”
I draw in a sharp breath. “No.” Then, “I don’t know.”