Lockwood thinks about the photograph, but he does not pack it since it is not the kind of thing you want to get caught with when you are running away from your life and your mission and, for all intents and purposes, the entire United States of America. He chokes the mouth of his duffle closed, ties it off, and drops into his one and only kitchen chair. The plastic is so thin and soft that even Lockwood's meager weight bends white stress lines into the drab graphite polymer. He overturns his smokes to get at the last one in the pack and sprinkles his table with tiny dry curls of tobacco. As he sits and smokes, he takes one final look around at the bare, unfinished walls he has spent far more hours staring at than even his overly analytical mind cares to calculate.
* * *
The only thing guaranteed to get Farmer to lift her head from Lockwood's pillow during the day is the prospect of a walk. All Lockwood has to do is take the leash down off the nail in the closet, and no matter how ninja-like he moves, Farmer invariably springs from the bed as though she's been tased[12]. What it is about walks that gets Farmer so excited, Lockwood has never been able to fully work out, but with almost no training whatsoever, she heels, sits, and obeys impeccably. Lockwood's assumption is that Farmer is highly competitive when it comes to other members of the canine family, and is therefore determined to out-dog every mongrel she comes across. In any case, her behavior, combined with her unparalleled fluffy adorability, grant them both passage to establishments that would otherwise want nothing to do with either pets or Lockwood.
When he turns from the closet, Farmer is predictably already at his feet, ears back and tail swishing. Lockwood snaps on her collar, shoulders his bag, and checks the peephole. With no bobble-headed henchmen awaiting them outside, the next step is to survey the open-air hallway. He unbolts the door, cracks it, and scans in both directions. Clear.
The sign on the elevator is turned to "Working" but Lockwood does not trust it. Their window is brief, and cannot accommodate even the twenty short minutes (guaranteed) it takes for the Lift Doctors to arrive should something malfunction. Besides, the cameras in the stairwells, despite their metal cages, have been smashed for years.
The lobby is deserted, though Lockwood can hear voices. Farmer sits as Lockwood pauses, trying to locate the origin of the conversation which turns out just to be the television in the room behind the counter. The call and response between a tearful female voice and a supportive congregation spurred by the warbling commands of a preacher all tell Lockwood that it is probably the Confession Channel. He and Farmer continue, turning the corner toward the side door, but stop when they see two dark figures silhouetted against the bright outside light. The imposing and approaching forms belong to none other than Baker and Ponch.
"Good morning, Brother Austin," Baker says buoyantly. "On our way to work, are we?"
"Where else?" Austin says. "Can you guys give me a lift to Building 9? I'm running late."
"Today must be bring your pet to work day."
"Is that why you brought him?" Lockwood says, indicating the man's partner.
"Don't worry, Brother Austin," Baker says, entirely unperturbed by Lockwood's slight. "We fully intend to bring you into work. But there's someone who wants to see you first."
The two men turn Austin around and walk him back out into the lobby. There is solemn choir music coming from the back room now. It must be independent prayer time. Lockwood considers a quick appeal to any and all higher powers on his own behalf, but figures it's way too late for that. Farmer is trotting ahead, turning frequently to make sure she is out of range of the men's big shoes.
"In here," Ponch says, not particularly politely.
They turn into the continental breakfast nook where Sarek is sitting in a pleather chair, enjoying a complimentary cup of coffee and a half-smoked cigarette. He motions with his head at the chair beside him which Lockwood quickly takes before he is placed there involuntarily. Farmer sits at Lockwood's feet and twitches her nose in the direction of Sarek's cup, probably hoping to pick up the scent of whiskey.
"What's going on?" Lockwood says.
"You tell me," Sarek tosses back. He offers Lockwood a cigarette, and Lockwood accepts with fingers he fights to keep steady.
Lockwood considers the story he has prepared about his alarm not going off, about Farmer having heart worms and needing medication around the clock, and about the changes of clothes he decided to bring into work so he can spend even more time training before the big day. But in the end, he decides to save them all time.
"I figured you guys would only be watching me at night."
"We figured you'd figure that."
"How'd you know it was going to be today?"
"We scheduled it."
"You scheduled my attempt to run?"
"Of course we did. We're NASA. We schedule everything."
"How?"
"This is the only time between final mission approval and launch when your presence could be unaccounted for for long enough that you could catch a few busses and disappear. That didn't seem strange to you?"
"I was hoping it was coincidental."
"Nothing is coincidental, Brother Austin. Absolutely. Positively. Nothing."
Lockwood looks up at Baker and Ponch who are forming double doors in the breakfast nook entrance. "I guess not."
"Where did you think you were going to go, anyway?" Sarek says bemusedly. "Nobody can leave the country without the proper papers. Nobody can even cross state lines without permission. Did you really think that the man everyone is counting on to change the entire course of the country could just pack a bag and disappear?"
"You really want to know?"
"Not really," Sarek says. "But if it'll make you feel better, I'll hear your confession."
"I knew I probably wouldn't get very far, but I figured this was the only way to make you understand that I'm not the right man for this mission."
"Of course you're not the right man," Sarek says. He hands his empty cup up to Ponch who, knowing just what to do with it, takes it over to the coffee urn. Ponch appears to be every bit as well trained as Farmer. "You're weak and scrawny, and more than just a little pathetic, to be completely frank. But you also happen to be our best shot at Mars, sad as that may sound."
"But that doesn't make any sense. I haven't even been through real astronaut training."
"You and Christopher went through the same program. And what do you call what you've been doing for the last two months? If that's not real astronaut training, I don't know what is."
"I know I'm technically an astronaut, but we all know I'm really just an engineer. I've been in space for a total of probably fifteen minutes and I was sedated the whole time. And now the entire country is counting on me to be the first man to walk on Mars? It's ridiculous!"
Farmer senses that this is going to be a lengthy exchange, and curls up at Lockwood's feet.
"Whether you're poking your head up out of the atmosphere, going to the moon, or traveling to another planet, it's basically all the same out there in the black, kid."
"Len, I get motion sick on the bus in the mornings. I get jet-lagged from daylight savings time."
"You'll be surprised how quickly you adjust," Sarek says dismissively. He accepts his cup back from Ponch and slurps some off the top. The liquid looks hot enough to melt tungsten steel, but Sarek's mouth has built up an inhuman resistance to hot coffee over the years.
"How quickly I'll adjust?" Lockwood repeats. "To which part? To the part where I accelerate to over seventeen thousand miles per hour sitting on top of one of the biggest rockets mankind has ever built?"
"Oh, come on. China has much bigger rockets now."
"Or the part where I attempt a hugely complex docking procedure for the very first time?"
"Which you nail every time in the simulators."
"Or to the part where I perform my very first EVA to make sure the plasma propulsion system isn't going to bump me out into deep space where I'll either starve to death, or try t
o figure out the most pleasant way to commit suicide with a fold-up exercise bike and a sippy cup?"
"Which will only be necessary if the primary ignition sequence fails. Which it won't. Probably."
"Or the part where I hope my brain, eyes, and balls don't get fried by cosmic rays?"
"Which is why we built your ship out of the finest particle-absorbing plastics available."
"Or how about the part where I try to land the Martian module when — oh, yeah, that's right — I'm not even a trained pilot?"
"Mostly automated. No sweat."
"Or, finally, the part where — completely by myself, seventy million kilometers from Earth, without any help from Houston whatsoever because the radio delay will be so long — I put on a spacesuit, depressurize the lander, climb down a ladder, and take a casual little stroll across the surface of an alien planet with the entire world watching?"
"Look. Austin. Almost everything you just named is automated, unnecessary, unlikely, or basically idiot-proof. Let's be honest: for the most part, you're just along for the ride."
"Then let someone else go along for the ride. I don't want to do it."
"Believe me, if there were any other option — I mean any other option — we'd be all over it. But you know damn well you're our best chance at pulling this off. Sure, you'll be puking your guts out half the time. And sure, you're not the most physically capable astronaut NASA has ever produced. But you're by far one of the smartest. And if something goes wrong way up there over three light minutes away, intelligence, creativity, resourcefulness, and adaptability are what we're going to need, not muscle. Whether you can bench press fifty pounds or two hundred and fifty pounds isn't going to be what makes a difference in the end."
Lockwood's head is between his knees. "Fuck. How the hell did Noone get decompression sickness? He probably did it on purpose because he knows this is a suicide mission."
"I don't know how it happened, but one day, you'll be glad as hell that it did. Do you have any idea what your life is going to be like when you get back?"
"Extra vouchers for food I already can't stand? Perhaps a little drywall in my apartment? If I can be trusted to fly the Martian module, maybe I can even be trusted to drive a car. Man, I'll be living large."
"If you pull this off, Austin, I guarantee you that 'large' won't even begin to explain how you'll be living. You'll be treated like a king. You'll be a national hero, and the President keeps American heroes very, very happy."
"And if he can't make them happy, they die in mysterious plane crashes, right?"
"Then I recommend you let yourself be made happy. I recommend you stop bitching and moaning about becoming one of the most famous men in history, and get your scrawny ass back to training."
A mirthless and resigned laugh escapes Lockwood's diminutive frame. "Christ. You really think I can pull this off?"
"Honestly, I don't know whether you can or not," Sarek says as he lights another cigarette. "But what I do know is that you're sure as hell going to try."
"That's really reassuring, boss. Thanks for that."
"My job isn't to reassure you. We have shrinks for that kind of thing. Or at least we did — I don't think we do anymore. Anyway, the bottom line is that my job is to get an American to Mars as soon as humanly possible, and to get him back to Earth safely, and that man is you. Period. End of transmission. Are we on the same channel here?"
Lockwood nods like a reluctantly repentant child.
"Austin, I can promise you that you will never come across another opportunity like this again. You need to stop running away from it. It's time to man up and do what needs to be done."
"Ok," Lockwood says. "I'll do it. But I want one thing."
"What's that?"
"I want to rename the Martian module."
Sarek squints into the cloud of smoke he has just produced. "That's fair," he says, nodding slowly. "We'll have to get approval from the Director, of course, but as long as you don't try to name it after some piece of ass you bought yourself with food stamps, I think I can talk her into it. You have a name picked out?"
Lockwood reaches down and strokes the soft warm fur curled up at his feet. "I want to call it Farmer One."
"You want to name the MM after your cat?"
"She's a fox," Lockwood says. "And if you want me to go to Mars, this is non-negotiable."
Chapter 8
Baybrook Mall
Dillard's Parking Lot
Friendswood, Texas
Lunchtime
Baker is on the left, Ponch on the right, and Lockwood is sitting on the stool in the center. Min is behind the counter of the stall, trying to reconcile her delight at seeing Lockwood with her disgust at the men he brought with him.
"Do you have jook-sing[13] noodles today?" Lockwood asks. Both elbows of his parka have been patched with duct tape.
Min shouts something in Cantonese over her shoulder, then looks back at Lockwood. She is standing on a crate or a bucket, but she still looks short. "What do you want with them?"
"Fish balls."
Baker almost spits out his tea. "Fish balls? I didn't even know fish had balls."
"Nice one," Ponch says.
Baker and Ponch lean back, peer over their plastic dollar-store shades, extend their arms, and connect in some elaborate and homoerotic fashion behind Lockwood's back. They are both wearing their crosses on the outside of their long dark woolen coats.
"You two are asshats," Lockwood says. "Did you know that?"
Min responds in Chinese to a question from the shadows behind her, then switches back to perfect Texan. "You two want something?"
"Do you have anything besides Chinese food?" Ponch says.
"I have water," Min says. "That's pretty much universal."
"Is there anyplace to get boxed rations around here?" Baker asks.
"Nobody here sells rations," Min says, "and nobody takes food stamps or vouchers."
"Do you have Pop-Tarts?"
Lockwood thinks Baker is making another very clever joke, but is even more horrified when he looks over and sees that the man is actually serious.
"Look around you," Min says. It was not phrased as a request, so the three men do so promptly. Plucked fowl and splayed pigs hang from massive butcher hooks in the openings of tents; long silver fish with wide dry eyes lay agape on mounds of ice; chickens strut noisily by at their feet, and sacks of rice are hauled through narrow passages on bent, osteoporotic backs. Substitute tent poles for bamboo shoots and expanses of cracked asphalt for the South China Sea, and they could just as easily be in Guangdong as suburban Texas. "I can make anything you want out of anything you see, but that's it. No protein patties, no vitamin cups, no cheese foam, and no Fruit Roll-Ups. Got it?"
"Do you have burrito tubes?" Ponch says.
"You can get the freshest and tastiest burritos you've had in your life over in Macysburg," Min tells Ponch.
"That sounds like a splendid idea," Lockwood says. "Why don't you two go find yourselves some burrito tubes or chili bars or nacho malts, and let me enjoy my last non-quarantined meal on this planet in peace."
"Nice try, Brother Austin," Baker says. "But we're not taking our eyes off you."
"Not even for the prospect of cotton candy?"
"I'll just stick with tea," Baker says.
"I think I'll try some of that water you mentioned," Ponch says.
Min fills a plastic cup from a jug and sets it on the bar in front of Ponch. Someone shouts something in Chinese from the back of the stall which must translate roughly to "order up" because Min steps down off her perch, disappears into the shadows, and returns with a steaming plate of pressed duck-egg noodles and fried balls of pounded flathead catfish. Lockwood leans into the dish, chopsticks at the ready, while Baker and Ponch recoil in unison.
"This is fantastic," Lockwood says, noodles dripping from his glistening lips. "You have no idea how much I'm going to miss this."
"Just the food?" Min asks with a pouty lo
ok.
"And the company," Lockwood says, then wonders if has just gone too far. If he's not careful, he'll have Baker and Ponch doing a duet of Austin and Chinese Girl, sittin' in a tree.
"When do you go into quarantine?" Min asks.
"Pretty much right after this."
"When's the launch?"
"Ten days. I have three more days of training here, then we fly out to Cape Canaveral for another week of preparation."
"Preparation for what?"
Baker does his best to get between the two of them and ends up knocking over a jar of sesame powder. "That's top secret," he says. "Brother Austin, don't answer that question."
"I'm going to the moon," Lockwood says. "We're thinking of restarting work on the base."
"Don't the Chinese already have a base on the moon?"
"Indeed they do. And a mighty fine one, at that."
"And aren't the Chinese already on their way to Mars?"
"That's the rumor."
"Hm. Sounds like you guys are a little behind."
Baker is back on his stool, looking at Min with so much disgust that even his oversized plastic sunglasses can't conceal it. "Well if you think China is so great, why don't you just go back?"
"What, and give up all this?" Min says.
"She can't leave, you Neanderthal," Lockwood says. "The government is so paranoid, it won't even let its enemies out. Don't you think she'd rather be back with her family than living in a goddamn mall parking lot talking to a couple of brainwashed fucktards whose idea of a hot meal is a microwaved Twinkie?"
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