by Emma Newman
I end the recording and send it without reviewing it; otherwise, I’ll never send the damn thing. I check the time and there’s still more than an hour until I need to be in the gym. I have time to record for Mia, and in all honesty, I knew that when I lied in the message. I shake my head at myself and print a hot chocolate.
Left without distraction, I become aware of my nervous excitement about meeting Dr. Banks. I’m not ashamed to admit to myself that I’ve had a bit of a crush on him for ages. I’ve watched what must be hundreds of hours of him presenting the show over the past seven years, and I’m worried I’ll be all starstruck when we finally meet. I remind myself that he probably won’t be anything like he is as the presenter, but it doesn’t stop the anticipation from building.
Banks is the backbone of the show, having been here for so long the crew changes around him. They get far less screen time, probably because they’re not natural presenters like he is. Charming, eloquent and often funny, he’s easy on the eye and has the most gorgeous voice.
I try to work out what I’ll say to him when we meet. I don’t want to just gush and be all fannish at him; he’ll write me off as one of the thousands who send him love emails every week. I want him to respect me as a professional. An equal. Maybe not that . . . oh shit, I’m getting really nervous now.
Perhaps I could make some witty allusion to one of the latest season’s episodes, just enough to signal that I watch it but not so full-on that he’ll think I’m a stalker. I scan through the list of episodes I watched most recently and find the one where he’s gone outside to watch one of the dust devils passing near the base.
Skimming through the frames, I find the part where we are seeing exactly the same view as he does through his chip as he walks closer to the swirling tower of dust.
“Principia is giving me various warnings now, but this isn’t a very powerful one. The winds aren’t strong enough to blow me off my feet or anything, so I’m going to go closer. The strongest devils can be a real problem here, but Principia was built in a region that is relatively stable and— Oh for the love of . . . Principia, will you just shut up? Honestly, it’s freaking out at me about the moving dust. It’s acting like a nervous mother watching her child about to walk off a cliff. There’s more risk that this AI will drive me mad than there is in anything that could happen to me here. Right, that’s it!”
The stable view of the dust devil starts moving as Banks runs toward it. I remember holding my breath when I first watched this, thinking that as he got closer, it looked far more dangerous than it had farther back. But he runs right into the center of it, filling the screen with a messy soup of fast-moving dust that obscures the view of the surrounding red landscape. He laughs, then cheers until a few moments later the dust devil moves on.
“And that is a Martian dust devil,” he says, breathless with excitement. The view switches to that of a cam drone, showing his suit and helmet covered in fine red dust. With that dazzling smile of his, he adds, “And remember, kids: don’t try this at home.”
As I smile, there’s a flash of the messages icon, superimposed over his shoulder, indicating an incoming call. It’s Arnolfi. I end the mersive and accept voice contact. “Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Kubrin, but I thought you might like to meet Drs. Banks and Petranek. They’re back in the base and will be in the communal area shortly.”
“Great, thanks. I’ll come and say hello.”
I end the call and finish the drink, trying to still the flutter of excitement in my chest. Above all else, I mustn’t gush at him. I wonder whether I should put my wedding ring back on. It’s still in the small velvet box it traveled in, as jewelry wasn’t permitted for the flight. Just as I’m about to put it on, a ping comes through my APA, signaling that everyone else is in the communal area.
A brief check in the mirror confirms that I still look horribly pale and tired and that my hair is still a fluffy blond mess from the shower. I head out, hearing the murmur of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter from the room at the end of the corridor. I pause, taking a moment to gather my wits before I meet Dr. Banks. What if he doesn’t like me? What if I’ve forgotten how to be sociable? I shrug off the concerns. I don’t want to be that person, the one I was before Manchester and Charlie and the corporate life. Being sociable has never come naturally to me, but I’ve learned how to do this before, on Earth. It will come back to me.
On the other side of the doors in the central-hub room I find Dr. Elvan and Dr. Arnolfi with the last two people I need to meet. Dr. Banks, thinner than he looks in the show, is a tall multiracial man with both European and Chinese heritage. His primary specialism is corporate law, with a second in UX design, and if it were possible, he’d have substantial qualifications in being a media darling. He holds the record for the longest-serving member of the base, and also the longest single period a human being has lived on Mars. He hasn’t been back to Earth in more than three years now.
Standing next to him is Dr. Petranek, nonbinary, in hir mid-thirties with the broad cheekbones of Eastern European heritage and curly brown hair. Ze, too, is tall and confident, standing with hir thumbs hooked into hir belt loops and laughing heartily at something Banks has said. Dr. Petranek is one of the best Noropean engineers of hir generation and the designer of several systems used to keep us alive here, I recall from the show. Secondary specializations in synthetic biology and human biology.
“Hello,” I say, taking a step farther into the room. “I’m Anna. Pleased to meet you.”
Petranek’s smile doesn’t falter. “Hi,” ze says brightly. “Welcome to Mars.”
Banks turns to look at me, the cheerfulness dropping from his face. “Oh, the artist,” he finally says. “Just who we needed,” he adds beneath his breath, but my augmented hearing picks it up.
It feels like a physical shove to my chest and I’m momentarily off-balance. “The geologist,” I say. “That’s my primary specialty. The painting is just a hobby.”
The snort adds punch to the derisory smirk on Banks’s face. “Oh yes, my mistake. Well, I’m sure you’ll make such a crucial contribution to the—”
“Don’t be such a dick, Kim,” Petranek says.
“Anna has excellent references and has been working on the samples sent back from Mars Principia for the past five years,” Elvan adds. “She—”
“Thanks, but I don’t need you to defend me,” I say, closing the distance between me and the group. “There hasn’t been a resident geologist here for the past four years and it’s long overdue. Why do you have a problem with me being here?”
Banks faces me fully now, arms folding over his chest. “Don’t try to pass off your jaunt over here as something for the greater good, or even just for the corporate advancement of scientific knowledge. We all know that Gabor wants you here to paint pictures for him and his rich friends. You’re just benefiting from his lack of taste in art.”
“That’s enough, Banks,” Arnolfi says, stepping forward from the shadows. “We all make multiple contributions to the profitability of Mars Principia. You have a problem with the decision to bring Dr. Kubrin here, that’s for you and me to discuss in session. It’s not appropriate for you to treat anyone in this team with anything less than the utmost respect, regardless of what you might think you know about the reasons they’re here.”
Banks looks away, an eyebrow twitching as he thinks it through.
“I have as much right to be here as anyone else,” I say. “I passed the tests and I—”
“And you will make a fuck ton of money when you go back home after your jaunt,” Banks says, rounding on me again. “Don’t try to pass yourself off as the noble scientist. You’re here to make a quick buck and to give Gabor and his cronies something to wank over at dinner parties.”
“Okay, Banks, my office. Now,” Arnolfi says sternly. To my surprise, Banks obeys without question. Is Arnolfi in charge here? The briefing said
that there wasn’t a commanding officer but that as the expert in corporate law and with the highest corporate pay grade, Banks would be deferred to in critical decisions that couldn’t reach a consensus.
Arnolfi rests a hand on my shoulder briefly, then follows Banks out. I feel bad for making such a negative snap judgment about her. Perhaps she really isn’t as bad as I thought.
Petranek rolls back and forth on the balls of hir feet, obviously embarrassed. “Shit,” ze finally says. “He isn’t normally like that. Really. Um . . . sorry. For what it’s worth, I think it’s cool you’re an artist. Makes a change from all the bloody scientists here. Not that you’re not a scientist,” ze hastily adds, reddening. “I mean—”
“It’s okay,” I say, and ze nods and heads off toward the sleeping quarters.
Deflated, I lean against one of the chairs, feeling like Banks really did punch me in the guts. I jolt at the touch of a hand on my back and realize Dr. Elvan is still here. “That was totally out of order,” he says softly. “I think something about the latest trip out pissed him off.”
“It didn’t sound like he was pissed off before I came in,” I say. “You don’t need to make excuses for him.”
“I don’t want you to feel unwelcome here. We’re a long way from home. Whatever Banks might think about why you’re here, it doesn’t mean he gets to treat you that way.”
His hand is still on my back and I can feel its warmth through the fabric. I turn to face him, to thank him for being kind and caring about a stranger, when his hand slides round to my waist and we both lean in to kiss each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Before our lips touch we both pull back sharply. What the fuck was that? I feel like I missed out on the huge chunk that goes between “new friend being comforting” and “leaning in perfectly naturally to kiss a lover,” and it’s obvious that he feels the same way. He steps back, hands in the air as if he’s been caught stealing. “I’m really sorry. That was . . . that was kind of weird. Sorry. I don’t want you to think that I’m like that. I’m not. Seriously. I wouldn’t even dream of . . .”
“It’s okay,” I say, when it most definitely isn’t. It’s not his fault, even though he initiated the contact. It didn’t feel like a come-on, or any sort of low-key sexual harassment. It felt like falling into an old habit. “I’m going to get some rest before the baseline physical, okay?”
He nods, not able to meet my eyes, and I go back to my room. I’m still shaking from my encounter with Banks, half from anger, half from the sheer upset of being made to feel like a corporate sellout. Which we all are, whether we like it or not. He can get off his fucking high horse.
I get the velvet box from the crate and open it up. The gold band sparkles against the black fabric it sits within and I think back to our wedding day. How happy we were. I pull it free and tip it on its side to read the engraving on the inside of the band. With horror, I find it’s blank.
This isn’t my wedding ring.
3
I DROP THE ring back into the box, not bothering to squeeze it back into the slot, and snap it shut. I toss the box onto the bed with the same panicked horror as if I’d just caught a black widow in it and back away, hitting the desk behind me.
A MyPhys dialog box flashes up in my vision. When I don’t select it, my APA speaks to me—even though I thought I’d disabled the voice interface. “Elevated levels of adrenaline and cortisol have been detected, along with abnormally high heart rate,” the calm gender-neutral voice reports.
“Fuck off!” I say.
“Would you like to modify your MyPhys interface settings?”
“I switched you off!” I say, feeling sweat bursting out on my forehead. I swipe it away with my sleeve. “You’re not supposed to speak to me!”
“Voice notification settings have been set to default. In the event of abnormal readings from MyPhys, I am obligated to inform you via speech if the visual prompt is not activated.”
“What? Why? When did I set you to default? I spent bloody ages sorting you out on the trip over.”
A pause. Then a text dialog box pops up. “Apologies for the misunderstanding. Your personal interface settings have been restored.”
I drop into the chair, spin round to rest my elbows on the desk and prop my head up with shaking hands as I try to breathe slowly and restore my hormones to normal levels. I thought this bloody APA was supposed to be state-of-the-art. That’s what they told me. “We can’t send you to Mars with that old piece of crap in your skull!” the specialist had said at my first physical exam.
“I like this old piece of crap,” I said, gripping the sides of the examination couch.
“It’s at least ten iterations out of date and doesn’t support the latest advancements in APA technology. Don’t worry—we can upgrade without having to operate. Just a local injection, under a mild sedative, a short course of medication and then we’ll train you up in how to use it. It’s much less invasive than when you had that implanted.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to—”
“Dr. Kubrin, I’m afraid this isn’t an opt-in-or-out situation. Would you like me to show you the relevant clause of your employment contract?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the anger. “That won’t be necessary,” I said and opened my eyes again, ready to smile in the right place to make it all seem okay.
He patted my hand, like I was being a good little girl who’d agreed to eat the vegetables on her plate without a fuss. I wanted to hit him. But I smiled. Just like I did when Gabor had his wonderful idea. I smiled and I thanked him because I am a coward.
How many times have I smiled at someone while hating them?
“Did you have a bad experience with an early chip?” the consultant asked. “I can’t find anything in your history to suggest that.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “So, tell me all about these latest advancements. They sound exciting!” Another deflecting smile and he was off, happy to gush about it, happier to hear the sound of his own voice.
Where is my wedding ring?
I open the settings for my APA, needing to focus on something I can actually fix. The voice interface is definitely off. I can’t turn off MyPhys, but I can reduce the number of notifications. There’s no option to stop the data from flowing straight to the Mars Principia AI. I try not to think about it.
As I’m reviewing the list, a dialog box pops up from Mars Principia, asking if I’d like to review my communication options. For a moment I think it means communication with Earth, then realize it’s asking me how I would prefer to talk to it. I struggle to find an option that expresses what I want and the delay prompts it to say, “Simply state your requirement verbally.”
I sigh and start nibbling at my thumbnail. I’ll talk to it once. Just once and then I won’t have to again. “Mars Principia?”
“Hello, Dr. Kubrin.” The same calm voice as my APA. I know it’s the GaborCorp default and I know it’s because Gabor himself decided that it sounds soothing, but it still makes all the muscles in my back knot up. “Welcome to Mars Principia. Would you like me to give you a tour of the most commonly used interface options for your stay with us?”
It makes it sound like I’m staying in a hotel. “I just want you to take the interface settings I have for my APA and apply them to you.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Kubrin. I cannot comply.”
“Why not?”
“An audio interface may need to be used when you leave the base, due to restricted dexterity caused by the environmental suit impeding the use of a v-keyboard. I can apply those preferences to the times you are in the base, however. Would you like me—”
“Yes. Fine. Now go away.”
Silence. Then I become aware of the soft whir of the air-conditioning and the background hum of all the environmental systems working to keep us alive
. I left one tightly controlled box to enter another just as tightly controlled and just as critical for my survival. And of course, I am filled with a sudden and intense craving to run outside.
“This is normal,” I say to myself. “This is all perfectly normal.”
My eyes are pulled to the black velvet box. I get up to grab it from the bed but pitch over, losing my balance as the room spins. I land on my knees, hands braced against the bed. Shit. I need to move more carefully. I need to make sure I don’t injure myself; otherwise, Dr. Elvan won’t sign me off for a trip outside.
With far more care, I reach over, take the box and chuck it back into the cargo crate. I can’t look at that now. I can’t think about it. Not with my debriefing looming. I don’t want that psych to review my first hour on Mars and see all this physiological drama on my hormone charts.
I pull myself up to sit on the bed. I can’t go outside yet. I can’t use lab equipment if I fall over when I’m not concentrating. I should probably record a message for Mia. My stomach clenches. No. Not yet. I need to settle in a bit more first. Feel a bit stronger.
Where is my wedding ring?
I start to rifle through the crate, but I get too dizzy again and have to stop. Besides, I can’t imagine that the real one will be in there, given that the fake one was in the box. There’s nowhere else to look, leaving the question hanging without the possibility of a resolution. If it hadn’t been locked in the crate, my suspicion would be that someone lost it and thought they could pass off a replica as the original, to avoid getting into trouble. But given the circumstances, I’m beginning to wonder why someone in Gabor’s company went through my personal effects and tampered with them before they were loaded into the rocket. My thoughts return to the scrap of paper. Even if someone replaced my wedding ring before the flight was over, it didn’t explain how that note ended up stuffed behind my bed here on Mars. I’m reduced to circular thinking that does nothing but frustrate me. I mustn’t conclude anything before I have more data. Yes, that’s it. I’ll keep alert for any other signs of tampering and see if, collectively, they reveal a pattern.