by Sean Clark
They told us about it in training. It’s all just the gravity, or lack of it, that messes with your body. It took me weeks to get used to. The whole time, I slept terrible, I had headaches, couldn’t keep food down. Overall, I was just a wreck. Everyone else had it. I don’t know our bodies adapted to the change, or we just got used to it, but eventually I found myself going to work every day just like back on Earth.”
“I don’t think I could ever do that.” Alika shakes his head. “I couldn’t even go camping as a kid without throwing a fit.” More books had appeared on the table. Alika looks through them, turning them over and examining the spines and backs. Cecil vigilantly scans the shelves.
“Do you want me to help you with anything?” Alika says meekly. He takes a seat down in one of the chairs organized neatly around the table, now piled with books. Cecil turns around to face him, a single book in hand. Dropping the final book off, Cecil pulls out a chair of his own to sit down on.
“I have nothing to go on right now. I know this is all pretty crazy right now.” Cecil lets out a light laugh. “You don’t have to be here and humor me for the whole day.”
“It’s better than the alternative. My whole time with you Cecil, I haven’t made any progress on my thesis, but I feel like I’ve learned a lot about simply being alive.” Alika hums.
Cecil peers up at him over the top of a book. “I hope you’re using me as an example of what not to be.” Cecil jokes, a slight catch in his throat.
“I don’t know. I can’t quite describe it. It’s hard to put a label on your intentions, Cecil.”
“Right now, my intention is to focus.” Cecil replies plainly. Alika hesitates, wondering if Cecil is serious or joking. He decides to keep silent.
The sun had begun to glare into the window, diffused slightly by the dark tinting on the glass. Pages turned almost silently. The occasional person passed by the area, their forms visible through the spaces between the books. Alika kept looking over at Cecil, who always seemed to be on a new book every time he checked.
The hanging light flickered above them sporadically. The sunlight outside started to fade slowly. Alika thumbed through some of the books slowly. Cecil seemed invested in the books as ever, brow furrowed behind the frames of his glasses that had been pushed up and down his nose more times than he could count.
“Hey Cecil, do you really plan to go through all of these?” Alika finally speaks up, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His back is sore and legs slowly becoming numb.
Cecil looks up, surprised. The book slips from his hands, hitting the table with a short thump. “I feel as if something will jump out at me. People can’t write and report forever that Mars is just a wonderland, eventually the future home of humanity.”
“You’re obsessing. Because you feel wronged by the space agency, it doesn’t mean that you have to seek and destroy. Or maybe you want to find someone just as crazy as you who thinks they hear things.” Alika snaps. Cecil’s eyes sink and he immediately feels bad.
“It’s not like that.” Cecil sighs. “You weren’t there. It seemed as if we all knew we would probably never see our homes again. For us, Mars was our sole future. I had a friend there… Agrippa. He was probably one of the oldest guys there. He told me how he had lost someone. Right after that, he decided to go up there. I know that the work up there is important, but not so important that someone should have to sacrifice their entire lives for it. There has to be a better way. Better than just sending people on a one-way trip. Yet, if their only way back is taking such a huge toll on them, like it is to me, a round trip ticket means nothing. Maybe I feel like I want to build a case for them, for us, because nobody else will. You know the saying; ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
“Yeah, George Santayana said that.” Alika states.
“Someday this will be our history. Some of it already is. Look at that book you have there.” Cecil jumps up from his seat and grabbed one of the texts Alika had been thumbing through absentmindedly. It contains multiple pages pf pictures, and the text simplistic, like something a kid would read in high school. The spine reads ‘The First Martians.’
“That’s what Manases called you. A Martian.” Alika speaks up, pointing at the title.
“I don’t like it.” Cecil protests. “It makes me feel even less like I belong here. Look at these guys though.” Cecil pulls the book over to him, flipping through the pages to the end, where the astronauts had taken a big posed picture after coming home from their multi-year trip to the planet and back.
“The crew back at home after a year and a half on planet, with a little bit of travel time to the tune of 400 days.” Alika reads the caption on the page. “Seven people, all stuck on one ship together for two hundred days at a time. How infuriating would that be?”
Cecil takes the book back and peers at the picture. His face lights up, and he begins to furiously turning through the pages. “There’s seven people in that picture, all right. But… I always thought there were eight on the original mission.”
Cecil flips back to one of the pages of text at the beginning, presenting it to Alika once again. His eyes move back and forth over the words that explained the mission. “An expedition of sorts, eight crew members.” Alika mumbles.
“Something’s strange about that, don’t you think?” Cecil says, pulling the book away quickly.
“I could be anything. Maybe someone couldn’t make it to the photo. Maybe he was the one taking the picture?” Alika leans back in his chair, preparing himself for a rant.
“Why wouldn’t he be in it?” Cecil taps at the cover of the book furiously. “Why would someone choose not to be recognized like that? It would be shown on the news, on TV, in books like this. It says clearly eight people were on the mission, shipped off for Mars, and then seven people come home.”
“If someone died there, on Mars, by accident or whatever, wouldn’t they bring him home?” Alika pushes out his frustrated feelings. “It’s no different than war. No man left behind. Is there no mention of this eighth man, some sort of accident, sickness or mysterious disappearance?”
“Not here obviously.” Cecil pushes the book aside. “I think I pulled out some other book regarding this expedition.” The duo starting going through the piles of books. Cecil fiddles with the extra books he had set to the side under the table, the ones he had looked though. Alika announces something as he pulls out one plain looking book. “The Taming of the Red Planet. Here, look at this one.”
Cecil takes it, flipping through the pages, pushing aside large chunks of the book until he finally stops, refining his searches. “Here!” He shouts, after a few minutes of endless flipping. “Sometimes the most unpredictable factor is humans themselves. In this case, it was the human body. One member of the original Mars inhabitant team, a Qaseem Saïd, developed a staph infection after he cut himself shaving. In such close quarters, the crew had to take extra precautions in order to stop anyone else from becoming infected as well. Having little knowledge or access to antibiotics on site, the remaining members of the expedition had to deal with the issue in their own way.” Cecil reads from the book.
“That’s vague. So, what happens if you can’t treat a staph infection?” Alika ponders, pulling his chair close to the table.
“It gets into your blood and internal organs. The patient dies.” Cecil says plainly.
Alika picks up the still open book, showing the picture of the ‘Martians’ posing in their space suits. “What’s the protocol for a death aboard a vessel like that?” Alika asks, looking up at Cecil.
“Hmm.” Cecil pauses. “There’s no precedent. In the navy, we have to record time and date of death. If we happened to be in another country's waters, we would have had to go through a repatriation process of the body. Its unnecessarily complicated sometimes, but it makes sure that the body comes to the family.”
“You can’t really repatriate someone from Mars.” Alika butts in.
“No. T
here would be no morgue or anything on the type of craft they had either. No way to keep the body from decomposing, or keep it from contaminating everything around it. The body would be infectious.”
“So… they would have no choice but to leave the body there, on the planet. That must have felt awful.” Alika gets up from the table and begins to around the room. “No wonder they wanted to keep it secret. Having no body to show, it would have seemed to the public like they didn’t even try.”
Cecil throws down the book roughly. “I want to know what happened to them. To Saïd.” Cecil announces, pointing down at the open book, still picturing the stoic faces of the astronauts. “We need to talk to one of them.”
Chapter 13
The desert behind them drifts away as the city comes into view- Dallas. In the distance, skyscrapers dot the horizon, glass and metal exteriors reflecting the low winter sun. Ahead, an overpass drapes over the street below, cars waiting for each other to pass through the intersection. The sole stop signs mark the very edge of the city.
Pulling off the highway few exits later, the car merges smoothly in with the city traffic. Alika looks over to Cecil, who is leaned against the passenger window, asleep. He can make out Cecil’s eyes twitching, just barely. Pulling up to stop at a red light, the jolt from the brakes shakes him awake.
“Are we here?” Grumles Cecil groggily, reaching his glasses off the dashboard.
“Mhm.” Alika responds. His eyes go back to the road as the line of cars budge forwards as the light changes.
“He better be alive and kicking, let’s hope.” Cecil rubs his eyes before replacing the glasses on his face.
“Personally, I’m hopeful, but… what if he’s not?” Alika says plainly, focusing on the cars ahead of him. “Or what if all we can get out of him is some senile blabbering?”
“There were a few more out there. They’re much longer drives, though... Florida and Toronto. I couldn’t imagine I could convince you to drive all that distance for me.” Cecil says, looking out the window at the suburbs creeping up around them.
“We’ll think about that if it becomes necessary. For now, we can only hope.” Alika sighs, turning down one of the side roads. “Either way, we can visit the town some. I haven’t been here since I was a kid. I got to see The Mavericks once… a home game.” Cecil listens to his reminiscing, but doesn’t respond.
The dull roads of the Dallas suburbs wind around the city, allowing them avoid passing through the busy downtown. Eventually, the GPS gives them a final warning, a voice saying they have arrived. ‘Southlake Veteran’s Retirement Home,’ the building across the street is labeled with an intricate wooden carved sign, surrounded by landscaping out front of the building.
Pulling into the parking lot, Alika finds a spot next to the minibus sporting the name of the home. The two head into the front through the smooth automatic doors. Immediately they are greeted with a musky smell of unknown origin. The room is pastel colored, poorly lit, and the furniture is tackily coated in plastic upholstery which shines awkwardly in the light from the multitude of doily-covered lamps.
To the side of the entrance way is a window open to the reception desk. A lady not much older than Cecil smiles over at them. She speaks up in a thick southern accent. “Y’all here to visit someone?”
Alika smiles and walks over to the window. “Yes, we’re here to talk with Niilo. We called a couple of days ago.”
“Ah yes, you’re the fellas from Johnson Space Center for the interview.” She peers behind Alika to Cecil, giving him a wavering look. “The residents have just finished their lunch, so they should be in the lounge. Just go past the fireplace here…” She stands up, pointing out the window. “... and y’all’ll not be able to miss it.”
Alika nods, thanking her. Proceeding deeper into the building, the sound of talk shows and creaking bones come to their ears as they find their way past the dining hall. Peering into the room they had been directed to, a few looks come their way, but drift quickly back to the television. One gaze, however, remains fixed back at them. The man sports a headband with green bobbles atop a pair of springs. His hands drop down to the handles on his wheelchair, which he quickly begins to maneuver in their direction.
“Where are you going, Niilo? You’re going to miss the best part.” Someone calls out.
“Hold your horses, I’ll be back before it’s over.” The man responds out, slowly making his way towards the door. The bobbles bounce back and forth with every heave.
“You must be Niilo.” Alika speaks to the old man, leaning down to offer his hand. The man doesn’t react or respond, rather fixating his gaze on Cecil. Cecil rubs his hands up and down the straps on his shoulders, shifting the weight of his backpack around.
“That’s me.” The old man grunts, pushing past Alika and out into the hallway. “I’m the resident Martian.” Niilo shakes his head back and forth playfully, bouncing the springs about, causing the bobbles to knock together with hollow thumps. He laughs loudly, taking Cecil aback. “What do you youngsters have to ask me today? Science project perhaps?” He rolls over to a pair of chairs on the opposite side of the hall, turning around to face them. He motions for them to sit down.
Cecil can’t help but stare at the peculiar bobbles as he moves to the chair. “Do you like that term; Martian?” Cecil asks, sitting down with a squeak from the plastic covering.
“It’s unique. That’s my nickname. The nurses even brought this for me on my birthday.” His eyes shift up to the headband once again.
“I don’t like it.” Cecil says plainly.
“What’s got your undies in a bundle, boy?” The smile drops from Niilo’s face, squinting at Cecil. “There’s something about you. What’s your name?”
“Cecil, sir.”
“You’ve been there too, haven’t you?” The old man notes, jutting a wrinkly finger at Cecil. Cecil nods in response while pulling off his backpack, producing the library book from it. The page with the group shot had been folded over in the corner. Cecil presents it to Niilo.
“Well, I remember when we took this.” The old man lights up, taking the book from Cecil to hold on his lap. “All I wanted was a hamburger and a hot shower, but they wanted us to stick around for the commemoration. Of all the things we did, coming home was the least interesting thing for me.”
“For one person, it’s something they had to miss out on.” Cecil tugs the book away from him, shutting it slowly. Niilo looks up at him, wide eyed.
“What are you getting at?” His eyes suddenly squint back down.
“Tell us about Qaseem Saïd.”
The color drains from Niilo’s face. Cecil leans back in the chair, fingers intertwined expectantly.
“Before I say anything… incriminating, let me tell you something. The Saïd I knew was a proper fellow.” Niilo reminisces. “You know, he was religious. Even aboard the ship, he prayed five times a day. Some of the crew gave him a hard time for it, but it was just part of his everyday life. All he had to do was face Earth… there he would be able to pray in the direction of Mecca.
The voyage there was uneventful, boring. You learn a lot about a person though. He was born in Egypt, but moved to England when he was young. His family was religious. When he expressed desire to study science and aeronautics, he said family almost disowned him. Nevertheless, he left home and trudged his own path. You know he did well for himself, ending up in our program. I think at some point his folks forgave him, but they still didn’t care much for what we were doing. He… didn’t mention much about them.
When we finally got to the planet, the living unit and supply drop was already there waiting for us. You probably know that area as The Adventum Crater nowadays. It was all work from then on. Everyone got along as well as a group of people living in close quarters would be. About three months in, we had all settled down. Everything was going smooth… until about the fourth month or so.
Saïd just started acting up one day. It was strange… he was always so
level headed. He kept up his religious studies and prayer. It was just so out of the blue… he got all worked up. We noticed he kept picking at his face too, like it was irritating him. After some prodding, he finally fessed up… told us that he had cut himself on accident, and that it was just a scab or a sore.
We convinced him to let Althea, our medical officer, to look at it. It was already infected, pretty bad if I remember correctly. She took a sample, and discovered it was staph. He refused to take anything for it though, saying it was against his beliefs. He hadn’t been vaccinated against it either.
We contacted the space agency. They told us to quarantine him immediately. Of course, he didn’t like that idea, not a bit. He had become too weak to resist, though. It had already turned into a fever… he was vomiting and would moan at night about not being able to sleep. Althea told us it had probably developed into Meningitis.
It inflamed the brain and spinal cord, which is why he was probably acting up. He didn’t get any better, even with the antibiotics we finally forced on him. We ended up locking him in the dry storage compartment, like a pantry of sorts, to keep him quarantined. It was just a mess, but we could keep an eye on him… keep ourselves safe. Obviously, we weren’t happy about the conditions he had to suffer through, but our options were limited.
I remember he still tried praying. He prayed to be cured, to stop his suffering. He held his head in his hands as if there was something he couldn’t get out, all the time begging Allah for forgiveness. It was painful for us too, knowing we couldn’t do anything for him.
One day, we just found him curled up in a ball, sitting there alone in quarantine… like he had finally given up. He pleaded with us to let him out. He said he wanted to say goodbye to everyone. Althea said she felt responsible for his condition, for not being able to see it when it was in early stages. Personally, I wanted to just let him out of his misery. We didn’t really know Saïd’s intentions though.
The night, when we were all asleep, he got out. I don’t know how. I think someone might have opened quarantine for him. Nobody ever confessed, but I personally think Althea did it. One of the space suits had been taken, and there were traces of dragging footprints leading away from the air lock. He must have been terribly weak. We tried to contact his suit radio on the long-distance frequency, but it didn’t come back with anything. We drove our rovers around too, until their batteries were on empty. No sign of him. The shifting sands had erased any trace of him away.