by Emma Newman
I nod. Then I remember I should reply straightaway. “I see. Good. Thank you.”
“It’s very common for new arrivals to feel a reluctance to disembark,” Arnolfi says, “no matter how much they’ve looked forward to leaving the ship. Leaving a place that has become familiar in a time of upheaval can be difficult. It’s perfectly normal to feel a variety of emotions that may seem contradictory.”
I frown, bristling at the way she has decided how I feel and commented on it as if I asked for a diagnosis. Bloody psychiatrists. They’re all the same. “I’ll be out in a couple of minutes. I just want to check a couple of things first.” I’ll leave when I’m ready.
She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t believe my excuse. “These will be a challenging few days for you, with a huge amount of new information to assimilate. We’re all looking forward to meeting you properly and will do anything we can to make your stay here rewarding and comfortable.” There’s a sense of her managing me, a firmness to her suggestions, probably to challenge my inertia. Her confidence and professional manner are impressive but they don’t make me warm to her.
“Thank you,” I say.
I don’t like her. I end the call and stare at the blank screen, trying to work out why I’ve made such a snap judgment. She seems friendly enough. Polite. I want to put it down to the fact that she’s the first person I’ve interacted with in real time for six months, but I know the truth. It’s because she’s responsible for my mental health here. She’ll have read my file. She knows me far better than I know her, and that sticks in my craw.
The hatch lock is displaying a green light for the first time since it was closed, indicating it is safe to unlock and open the door. I release the harness that holds me snugly in the seat and feel a small thrill at the fact that I don’t immediately start to float off. My head aches and I’m already tired, even with the weaker Mars gravity. I dread to think what I’ll feel like when I return to Earth and back to feeling gravity three times stronger. There’s a doctor here though, and I’ll be checked over right away. That, I’m not looking forward to.
Before I unlock the hatch I grab the tiny case I was allowed to bring with me into this section of the craft and check that everything is inside. I pull out the tiny plaited ginger and blond locks of Mia and Charlie’s hair, tied with a pale blue ribbon, and kiss it tenderly. “Well, I got here,” I whisper to it. “I didn’t die or anything.”
I want to go home. I’m not supposed to be here. I press the plait against my lips, squeezing my eyes shut. It doesn’t smell of them anymore. I’ve handled it too much over the past few months. Putting it back in the case, I look up until the urge to cry passes and then make my way to the hatch to press my palm against the lock display. It reads my identity and confirms that it is safe to leave, and with a hiss, the locks disengage. Gathering up every mote of courage I have left in me, I push on the hatch and it swings open, revealing a short temporary corridor linking the rocket’s life pod to the base. Its retractable segments are visible even when locked into position, and while it looks sturdy enough, I don’t stride out confidently. I’m feeling dizzy and strangely aware of all of my limbs. Then I recall how in the first few hours of flight I kept checking to see if my arms and legs were still there. This overawareness must be an effect of feeling gravity again.
The corridor is about five meters long and at the far end there’s a metal door that looks like the elevator. It opens and Dr. Arnolfi comes out with a man who has an empty wheelchair. I recognize him as the base doctor—though he’s trained in several disciplines, that’s his primary role. He has light brown skin, dark brown eyes and black hair. Dr. Asil Elvan smiles at me and I find it easier to return one to him. He pushes the chair down the corridor as Arnolfi hangs back in the elevator.
“Here’s your welcome-to-Mars wheelchair,” Dr. Elvan says, extending his hand. “Even if you feel fine, please accept the help. You need it just until I complete your physical assessment and get some things sorted out from the journey over.”
The handshake is brief and my hand tingles afterward at the first human contact since I left Earth. He notices me staring at my hand as he takes my case, slots it behind the chair back and straps it into place. “Need a hug?”
Amazed at myself, I nod and he embraces me. He’s warm and real and smells faintly of antiseptic soap. It is extraordinarily comforting. “This is your welcome-to-Mars hug,” he says quietly. “It’s going to be fine.”
I sag a little, with relief and fatigue, and he releases me to steer me into the chair. I plop down and let him put my feet into the rests. “Please keep your arms inside the vehicle at all times,” he says cheerily as he pushes me toward the elevator.
Arnolfi extends a hand when I get to her and I shake it. “It’s good to meet you at last.” She smiles. “Once you’ve had the all clear from Dr. Elvan and recovered a little more, I’ll speak with you about the trip over and settling in here. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I won’t bother you with them,” I say. “The base AI must be . . .” I pause. There’s been no virtual handshake. I ping my APA and find that I haven’t put it back into active mode since the trip, even though I realized that when it didn’t alert me to the incoming call earlier. Damn, I’m more out of it than I realized. I activate it with a simple thought command and the handshake with the Mars Principia AI is confirmed right away. The familiar icons appear down the right-hand side of my vision: messages, notes, media and a new one for Mars Principia. I recall from the briefing that it’s the name of both the base and the AI that runs it. “That’s better,” I say as Dr. Elvan pushes my chair into the elevator, Arnolfi pressed into a corner as a result. “I’m fully online now.”
A new message arrives via the base AI as Elvan pushes the button to descend. It’s from Charlie. I want to open it instantly, but it’s a video file and I can’t give it the attention it deserves right now.
The elevator interior is plain and functional. The structure is exposed and the cable mechanism is visible behind a clear plasglass ceiling panel, to make access for repairs easy, I suppose. I marvel at my initial disappointment. What did I expect, Martian decor? A plush carpet the same color as its dust?
“How did you find the self-care regime on the way over?” Elvan asks. “I know there were some new meds you were testing out. Did it make the centrifuge easier to deal with?”
“I don’t know about easier,” I say. “I don’t have a basis of comparison. It didn’t make me sick though; I know that was a problem for some people.” I don’t moan about the centrifuge and having to spend a couple of hours in it a day so my body could be subjected to artificially created gravity. He would have gone through the same regime on his flight over, and I don’t want to form a bad impression. And better to be spun every day than go through six weeks of recovery time once I’m here. “I was kind of hoping I’d feel better than I do right now though.”
He nods. “It’s always a bit of a shock, but you could be much worse. By the look of you, and the fact you can walk, I reckon your bones and muscles aren’t too bad. Your brain and your eyes need to get used to this little bit of constant gravity again though; that’s why you feel dizzy. It won’t be too bad. I’ll get you back on your feet in no time—don’t you worry.”
I think back to the preflight training and the barrage of information about what six months of space travel would do to my body. The rocket was insulated well enough to shield me from the radiation and anything except the most extraordinary solar flare events, so no one was very worried about that sort of exposure. It was the weightlessness that was the real problem. I had no idea how much the human body was dependent on gravity to function well. I left that first training session in a complete mess and almost called it all off. Sod Gabor and his “wonderful idea”—he wasn’t the one putting his body through hell. I couldn’t muster the courage to say that to my multibillionaire boss in person th
ough, so I went back the next day and learned more about how advances in medicine over the past ten years of people being flown to and from Mars were making it easier to protect people against long-term effects. It calmed me down. As one of the trainers pointed out, “If Gabor is going to spend all this money to send you to Mars, he’s going to want you in a fit state when you arrive, isn’t he?” It didn’t escape my notice that they told me all the horrors first, before explaining that the mini-centrifuge would protect me from most of them. I suppose they were just making sure that I would follow the daily regime.
The elevator reaches the bottom and the door opens. A corridor stretches ahead, lined with the same functional printed moldings that can be seen in any underground car park in London. The only difference is the color; instead of the ubiquitous gray of normal concrete moldings, these are a warm rusty red, thanks to being made from Martian concrete, using materials harvested on Mars and re-formed into building materials.
This base doesn’t look like anything in the gaming mersives. There are no panoramic views of the Martian landscape and there won’t be until I go outside; most of the base is built underground as the cheapest and safest way to protect the inhabitants from dust storms and the radiation that gets through the thin atmosphere. The most dangerous dust storms are fairly rare, but when they happen no one wants to be on the surface.
Even though it’s nothing much to look at, there is still a thrill. I’ve been watching the show they make here for years and when we start walking down the corridor it’s just like all the times I imagined being here, being one of the presenters, leading the viewer to see another aspect of life in Mars Principia. That was way before actually coming here was a possibility, when it had the fuzzy glow of a favorite daydream. Since then, I’ve walked around this base in virtual simulations so many times I know where everything is, and it feels odd to actually be here now. There’s a temptation to instruct my APA to end immersion, just in case I’m still on Earth and able to go home this evening. The thought that I can’t do that makes me crumple a little. Why did I say yes to this ridiculous scheme?
“You might be feeling overly aware of your limbs?” At my nod, Elvan says, “All normal. There are a few things we can do with your APA to help your brain remember how to process proprioception within a constant-gravity environment.” Perhaps he’s mistaken my silence for worry. “Did you keep up with the virtual program too?”
“Yes, I did all of it.” I don’t mention the days when I really didn’t want to. There were a couple, early on, but then MyPhys identified the early stages of depression, ran a neurochemical analysis without my permission and had the printer make me some meds. When I couldn’t muster the desire to take them, the printer included them in my food.
“Good. You’ll be on your feet in twenty-four hours, then. I’m not saying you’ll be able to run a marathon then, but I’ll be able to sign you off for trips in the rover in three to four days, if you follow all my advice.”
We get to the end of the corridor and through a set of double doors into the central hub of the base, from which all the different areas can be reached. There are several large screens (which puzzles me, considering we’re all chipped), chairs and shelves of equipment, which mostly looks like it’s all to do with exploration and surveying. It’s well lit and functional, rather than comfortable. Through the doorways off this room there are labs, as good as the ones back home, along with quarters for the team, of which I am now the fifth. Elvan starts steering me toward the medbay and fitness suite. I know Arnolfi has a lab in that area too.
“I’m going to make sure your personal belongings and cargo are put in your quarters,” Arnolfi says. “Then when you’re finished with the good doctor, you’ll have everything you need to settle in.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Where are the others?”
“Banks and Petranek are on an expedition. I was hoping they’d be back by now but they were delayed. They should be back soon.”
Hiding my disappointment at not getting to meet Banks yet, I watch Arnolfi leave, unable to shake my initial gut feeling, even though she’s been nothing but polite and welcoming. “Do you get along with her?” I ask Elvan as we head to the medbay.
“Arnolfi? Yes, she’s very easy to get along with. We all are. That was one of the recruitment criteria.”
It wasn’t for me, I think, but neither of us raises that point. I wasn’t subject to the same requirements as them and didn’t fight several thousand other candidates for the privilege to be here. Even though everyone in this base—on this planet!—is an employee of Gabor’s corporation, they still had to compete to earn their place here. I’ll be sharing this base with four of the brightest, fittest and most remarkable people in the corporation. Yet again, I question why I am here. Why did Gabor send me, and not one of the thousands of better-qualified people? There are better geologists and better artists than I. The string of events that led to my being here seems just as unlikely as it ever did. Some would say that having one’s art come to the attention of one of the richest men on Earth was good fortune. I am yet to be convinced.
The medlab is similar to the ones on Earth, thanks to it all being GaborCorp kit, and the concrete walls have been covered with turquoise blue panels that are easy to keep clean. The change in color is pleasant after the red corridors, and the examination bed is comfortable enough that I can rest while various test results come back. My bone density and muscle tone are pretty damn good and Elvan talks excitedly about the difference the new meds regime has made and how excellent my results are. He sends a recovery program to my APA and after overseeing a couple of hours of my trying the exercises out—all designed to help my brain recalibrate—he lets me walk around unaided.
“Okay, you can go and settle in, get a bit of rest, but then I want you in the gym at nineteen hundred hours so I can do a baseline physical. And nothing strenuous, no fast movements or attempts to work any machinery or lab equipment, got it?”
“Got it.”
He watches me as I shuffle to the door. I don’t feel too bad; I’m just being careful, but I am still thinking far more about which way is actually up and how my body is moving than I would normally.
When I leave the room and am alone again, I almost turn around and ask if I can stay a bit longer. I’ve been alone for six months, and the thought of going to my quarters to be alone there instead fills me with the same dread that I felt each day I woke up in the craft on the way over, facing another day of solitude. But I should see where I’m going to sleep and check that everything is there. Maybe if I can just put up a couple of pictures, I’ll feel like I’ve actually arrived. Maybe if I say that to myself a few more times, I’ll even believe it.
It’s strange walking to the sleeping-quarters section. It’s so familiar, even though this is the first time I’ve been here. It helps in some ways; I hate the feeling of being lost, but to have it replaced by this curious duality is unnerving. There are conflicting sensations of being newly arrived and yet so well rehearsed that I don’t know how to feel. It’s almost a relief to find my room, thanks to guidance from the Mars Principia AI, and I look upon it with the genuinely hungry eyes of a new arrival seeking comfort.
It’s basic but nice enough and the bed’s memory foam feels good when I sit on it experimentally. There are no wipe-clean panels on the walls in here, and three of them are dull red Martian concrete. The fourth wall is displaying a forest and there’s the faint sound of birdsong being piped through speakers somewhere. Did Arnolfi think that would make me feel less homesick for Earth? As I stare at it, my APA pops up a dialog box with options to change what’s displayed. All the usual things are there: seascapes, meadows, deserts that can be enjoyed without the dangerous heat. None of them seem right. I scroll down with a flick of my eyes and see a Mars option that makes me laugh. Discarding my previous decision to see it through my own eyes, I select it, and the pines of a Noropean forest are replaced by th
e brutally barren Mars landscape. With a thrill, I see a small plume of dust kicked up by the wind and I realize it’s a live feed from one of the external cameras.
I have arrived on Mars.
My little case rests at the foot of the bed and the crate that was stored in the cargo hold for the trip stands in the corner. Arnolfi must have used a drone to bring it here; it’s so heavy. I go into the tiny bathroom area and see everything I might need already there. A notice displayed next to the shower details the time limit and water-flow limitations, to ensure no one depletes the water supply faster than it can be replenished. I use the toilet, grinning at the simple pleasure of doing it the old-fashioned way, and wash my hands with the same delight.
I open the case and pull out the photo I printed of Mia and Charlie, taken a week before I left. She is sitting on his knee, pointing at a page in a storybook passed down from my great-grandmother, her little mouth in a perfect O shape. Charlie’s expression mirrors hers as he echoes her reaction, and it still makes the breath catch in my throat. As soon as I’ve unpacked, I’ll watch the message, have the inevitable cry that follows and then record a reply.
There’s a narrow ridge that runs around the room at about waist height, standing out from the wall by just a centimeter or two, presumably just the join between concrete moldings. I decide to prop my photo on it, in line with my pillow, while I look for something to use to stick it to the wall. I look away for just a moment and hear it slide down behind the bed.
“Shit.” I kneel on the bed to slip my hand down the side of the mattress and pluck it out. I find the edge of it with my fingertips and pull it up, only to find it’s not the photo, but a scrap of paper. I can’t imagine that anyone else here has this kind of paper; it’s too thick for notes, and anyway, hardly anyone uses disposable paper anymore. I can tell from the way it feels that it’s the real stuff, not printed. Charlie could never tell the difference, but I could. I cannot see how else this paper came to be here unless it came with me.