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 trying 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.
‘Trust me’ was now written in the sand.
“I’m you, and you’re me,” Ewa said. “How could I trust myself considering all the people I’ve killed?”
‘You didn’t do it,’ her finger replied.
“That would be nice,” Ewa answered aloud, “but the proof was irrefutable. I even watched myself do it. I won’t fall for this line.”
She automatically moved back another step.
‘There are supplies stored 410 kilometers west of here,’ she now wrote.
Ewa flinched. Her other personality must be completely insane. Where in the world would supplies come from out here in the middle of the Mars desert?
“That’s impossible,” Ewa said. “You just made up that information. I must have made that up.”
‘Spaceliner I,’ her finger wrote.
Spaceliner I was the Mars spaceship that belonged to a wealthy businessman. It should reach the planet in a few months to set up a new colony here. Undoubtedly, the company had sent provisions to Mars ahead of the ship’s arrival. This was NASA’s standard procedure as well. The MfE initiative was the only effort that had gambled everything on a single roll of the dice. But how could anyone know where the Spaceliner program’s provisions were being stored? Her subconscious had cooked up a doozy of a story this time.
“There’s no way you could know that,” Ewa said with a shake of her head. The mere fact that she was talking to herself and using her own hand to write messages to herself reflected the fact that her mental state was even worse off than she had feared.
‘Trust me,’ her hand replied.
Ewa laughed. She wasn’t crazy enough to do that. If she kept heading south, she would eventually reach the NASA base.
‘You won’t make it,’ her finger jotted in the sand.
Ewa’s jaw dropped. Her second self was reading her thoughts! She realized that this sense of alarm was only more evidence of her illness. Of course, the other Ewa knew her thoughts. She was solely composed of them. Everything was playing itself out in her mind. If only she could somehow manage to get her hand back under control!
‘What do you have to lose?’ she read.
Her hand was making a good argument, but that wasn’t surprising. Ewa’s skills of persuasion had always been strong. Four hundred twenty kilometers in six days seemed doable, even if that meant she had to cover seventy kilometers a day. Fourteen hours on her feet with ten hours of rest. It would be an overwhelming task, but at least she now had a goal. There was no way she could reach the NASA base with the time she had left.
‘You won’t regret this,’ her finger wrote in the sand.
This cinched it for Ewa. There was too much she regretted as it was. This journey west wouldn’t add to that. She was already looking forward to the excuse she would present to herself when, at the end of her trip, the pitiless desert was all that was waiting for her.
5/24/2042, Spaceliner 1
It had all gone easier than he had thought it would. Rick sank into his seat, gazing up at the warmly illuminated ceiling of his cabin. Everything still smelled brand new, like a car that had just rolled off the assembly line. He hadn’t seen Robert again.
Only three hours after his call to the police, his boss had called him to his office to give him the good news. “You got it, Rick!”
He had been yearning to hear those very words. He had been working toward this practically his whole life, for over forty years. When SpaceX had announced its plans for the BFR, the Big Falcon—Fucking!—Rocket, he had only been six years old. Just the name alone! How could they have been bold enough to use such a bad word, even if they only implied it and never spoke it aloud? With that, Rick had followed every step taken by his idol, had worked so hard in sc
hool to gain admission to a good college. He had studied aerospace engineering, eventually earning a job offer from Hawthorne, where he walked past one of the company’s first rockets day after day.
As time passed he climbed up the company ladder, until he was made Assistant Director of Engine Development. He had achieved this by investing every bit of free time in his job. Rick had gladly denied himself family and friends. Once he started for Mars, he would have had to bid them all goodbye anyway, so he preferred simply doing without them. Work had been his life, and he had subordinated everything else to this one goal.
Until Robert had started working in his department. Rick clenched his teeth whenever he thought about his rival. Robert was ten years younger. He wasn’t brilliant, but he had a youthful charm and an athletic physique. He had a wife and two children, and quickly gained a reputation for conscientious behavior. The stash of heroin in his car must have come as a shock for his supervisor. Rick smiled. His plan had worked perfectly.
“What about Robert? Is he sick?” Rick mastered his part excellently, even managing to feign interest in the other man.
“Robert has a side that none of us knew about. That’s all I can say about it,” his boss replied.
Rick practiced fastening the harness. The smooth metal of the buckle felt good. Everything on this giant ship was amazing. He had been involved in the construction of the engine. The spaceship was furnished with seven of them—and these comprised only the upper stage of the entire system. The first stage consisted of thirty-one engines. Nevertheless, he expected a smooth launch.
Mars Nation: The Complete Trilogy Page 29