by Nick Webb
Frank Bickham, second man on Mars, was going to be the first man to die on Mars.
Switching over to a third feed, he fired off a message he’d composed months ago, to his rival, Jerry Su, first man on Mars.
Suck it, Su. I won.
Signed,
Frank Bickham, first man to die on Mars.
And he grinned.
Six months later
Frank looked up from his datapad, thinking the approaching person was his new friend, but no, just another passerby. In Dallas, when random people walked by his table outside the cafe, they wouldn’t even make eye contact. Who cares about some cranky old bastard having his morning coffee? But here, on the main plastic boulevard under the clear composite glass of Huygens dome in Mariner Valley on Mars, he was a goddamned celebrity. Shit, even the street was named after him. Bickam Boulevard. They spelled his name wrong on the sign, but he could look past little details like that. Better than drinking a cup over on ass-ugly Su Avenue. In a few months, he’d be frickin’ immortal. First man to die on Mars. Bam. They’d rename the whole godforsaken valley after that shit.
The approaching woman kept glancing at him surreptitiously, looking like she was taking great pains to not look like she was looking at him, but by the time she passed his table she dropped all pretense.
“Are you...?”
He smiled his strained, fake ‘for the adoring masses smile’.
“The one and only.”
She looked young. Well, probably in her late forties. Young enough for him to not be overly concerned for her health, thank god. And therefore, not worth his time. “Charmed,” he said, accepting her handshake. Briefly. He had work to do—no time to schmooze with his fans.
She held on to his hand a split second too long. “Ma’am?” he began, before she pulled the hand away, looking mortified. “I’m terribly busy. But so very good to meet you.”
She looked mortified, chagrined, and flustered all at once. “Oh! And, uh, you too! We’re so proud to have you up here with us. Or down here. Or... here. You know. Mars. Huygens Dome. Su Avenue.”
“Bickam Boulevard, actually. Yes, yes, I know, thank you,” he said, smiling his strained smile. He spied an elderly man shuffling down the boulevard towards them. Ah. His new friend. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs....?”
“Martinez. Jackie Martinez. I’m an environmental engineer working on CO2 filtration and sequestration over in satellite pod ten. I don’t get over here to the main strip very often—I haven’t had a good cup in coffee in forever. How’s this place? I keep meaning to try it, but I’m always so rushed when I come over here, you know, what with work and all, but it certainly looks like a decent coffee shop. You come here often? Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m rambling. Sorry. I’ll be going. So nice to meet you, Mr. Su!”
“Bickham!” he called after her. Once she was gone, he stretched his cheeks and lips. “God, that hurts.” He’d held his ‘for the masses smile’ the entire time, which tended to strain his face. He stood up to greet the elderly man who’d finally made it to the coffee shop. Bickam Boulevard in Huygens dome wasn’t that long—just under a kilometer, but his new friend looked like he’d just completed a fifty kilometer hike.
That didn’t bode well.
“Mr. Smith? Very pleased to meet you. Frank Bickham.” He extended a hand.
“Mr. Bickham! A pleasure!” Smith’s handshake felt weak. Damn. Another bad sign.
Frank waved him to a chair at his table on the narrow, plastic composite sidewalk. “Have a seat. Can I order you something? Coffee? Orange juice? Quinoa extract? Something healthy?”
Smith waved him off. “Just had breakfast, thank you.”
“Good. Best meal of the day. Very healthy habit. Good, good,” mumbled Frank.
Smith nodded and glanced up at the monitor hanging from the roof of the boulevard, gaudily flashing the news and analysis as delivered by some loud-mouthed talking heads and competing news ticker streams. Luckily, it was muted. Smith pointed up at the screen. “Can’t get enough of us back on Earth, can they? We’re celebrities. If only they knew what it was really like up here. All work, no play, no booze, no women. At least, none for me. Who the hell wants to get in the sack with a eighty-year-old man?”
Frank laughed gruffly. “Tell me about it,” before adding, tentatively, “so, you drank a lot before you got here?”
“A lot? Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. Just a beer or two after a day’s work. Welder,” he added, tapping his chest. “After a day of gluing aluminum prefab modules together, a man needs a cold one, you know what I mean? But do they think about us? Nope. Just their goddamned bottom line. That’s Interplanetary for you. Profit margins and stock prices. They’re up, the colony’s a success. They’re down, and we’re all horseshit, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, you said it, brother.” Frank nodded, watching the monitor switch over from Earth’s CNN feed to a locally produced news program. Hell, they even brought an anchorwoman up here. They were talking frantically about something, with earnest expressions. Probably the stock price. “Say, Ed—can I call you Ed? You getting good exercise?” He noticed the other man’s raised eyebrows. “Just wondering, you know.” He tapped his datapad. “For the job. You know they sent me up here to be a community health analyst, or whatever bullshit they want me to do. Honestly, I’m just here for the low gravity. Good for the joints. Arthritis sucks, man.”
Smith chuckled. “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”
Frank nodded. “So? Exercise? Generally feeling pretty good? No major health issues?”
Smith looked mildly flabbergasted. “Well, I—”
His datapad chimed. A message from Earth, probably Samantha—the little girl must send him five video messages a week. Sometimes five a day. Earth was still close to inferior conjunction with Mars so the delay was only five minutes or so. God—he loved that little girl. He was half tempted at times to scrap the whole plan, just to have a few more years hosting tea parties with her and her stuffed fluffy friends. But no turning back now.
He tapped the pad. It wasn’t from Samantha, but a note from her mom, Ramona, his granddaughter.
Grumpy, have you seen the news? Is it as bad as it looks? I hope you’re ok.
-Ramona
The news? Smith was still talking, and Frank raised a hand to quiet him, while simultaneously waving at the monitor hanging from the transparent composite ceiling. “Volume up,” he said.
“—ently unknown how many casualties we’re looking at here. Reported injuries are ranging from minor to severe, and several colonists are still unaccounted for. Colonial engineering operations chief Cena said just a few minutes ago that the affected area inside habitation module twelve has been fully vented and now has a stable atmosphere, and first responders will soon be able to—”
Frank bolted out of his seat and started running down the boulevard. He heard a grunt behind him, and saw to his chagrin that Smith was trying to follow. “I’m coming! I can help! You’re right, I need the exercise anyway—” He cut off as he stumbled stepping from sidewalk to street.
Shit—the man was probably going to have a heart attack from the effort. Frank waved him off. “Stay. I’ll handle this. You go... eat a carrot, or something.”
Seven minutes later
Frank was out of breath when he arrived at the entrance to habitation module twelve, and if not for the adrenaline surge he’d have collapsed in a puddle of sweat, leg cramps, and geriatric back spasms. The scene was utter mayhem, with the colony’s emergency team, medical staff, engineers, and even volunteers rushing around, frantically carrying victims out of the habitation module, working on emergency equipment or tending to wounded people lying on the ground.
In a moment of panic, he tentatively approached a blanket-draped figure lying prone nearby. The thick cloth covered the entire body, head and all, and Frank felt the confusing chorus of emotion that alternated between grief for the
victim underneath, and rage that he’d missed his chance. Dammit! He’d waited too long. He’d dithered and puttered and postponed his plan for weeks, and now it was too late. Someone else would be the first man to die on Mars. He half-hoped it was that smug self-righteous Su, before he remembered the first man on Mars wasn’t slated to arrive for another six months, at least.
He crouched down and, slowly, mournfully—for himself and for the stranger—rested a hand on the blanket-covered head.
“Agh!”
His heart jumped up into his throat and he yanked his hand away from the blanket, which flew off the head as the woman underneath brushed it away in a fit. “You scared the shit out of me!”
He grimaced. “Sorry! I’m so sorry, I thought... well, I thought—”
Her face changed, and he recognized the look. The look of an expression changing from ‘who the hell is this angry old bastard’ to ‘Oh my god, it’s Frank Bickham.’ “Mr. Bickham! I’m sorry I snapped. I’m just in a daze. Very tired. Very...” She started crying.
Looking up at the frantic scene all around him—first responders were just now carrying another dazed, bloody victim from the smoking entrance to the habitation module—he realized he’d be next to useless in the actual emergency response, so he knelt down and reached for the woman’s hand. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have startled you. Are you hurt? Can I help you?”
“Just frightened,” she managed to choke out in between heaving sobs. “I—i—it was so horrible!”
“It’ll be all right,” he said, stroking her hand, wanting to believe his own words. Please be all right. Please don’t die. Nobody die. That’s my job. You people better not mess this up for me...
He lost track of how long he knelt there with the woman, but eventually a medic stood over them both. “Mr. Bickham? Thank you so much for your assistance. Mrs. Doughby here was just in shock. We’ll take her into the medical center now, but I expect she’ll be just fine.”
Frank tried to keep his expression neutral, but concerned. “How is everyone else? Any casualties? Everyone alive?”
The question seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Answer the damn question, man!
“Miraculously, everyone is alive. A few are in serious condition, and one in critical, but we’re hoping for the best.”
Frank struggled to suppress his glee, doing his best ‘concerned old guy’ look. “Please let me know how I can help. Consider me at your disposal.”
“Is that Frank Bickham?” said a loud voice nearby. To his chagrin, someone holding a large news camera swiveled his way, and the same anchorwoman he’d seen on TV earlier rushed over, cameraman in tow. “Mr. Bickham!”
“He’s been sitting with Mrs. Doughby here, soothing her,” said the medic.
The anchorwoman beamed at him. “Oh! Of course!” She turned to the camera. “Scarlet Paredes here with our own Mr. Frank Bickham, resident hero, and, if I may say so, an inspiration to us all. I’ve just been informed that Mr. Bickham responded immediately to the incident, and has been sitting here with a wounded colony member for the past hour,” she glanced down at his hand, still holding the trembling Mrs. Doughby’s, “consoling her in what must have been a chaotic and unthinkable situation. Mr. Bickham? Do you have something to say to our fellow Martians?”
He was speechless. “Ah...” he began.
Mrs. Doughby filled in for him. “He’s my knight in shining armor! He could be sitting comfortably in his penthouse over in Huygens, but instead he knelt here and s—s—stroked my hand until I stopped crying. G—g—god bless you, Mr. Bickham!” she said through sniffs and tremblings.
Oh, god.
Six days after that
The medal ceremony seemed to take for frickin’ ever, and Frank thought it was in poor taste, since there were people still being treated for their injuries at the medical center. But Governor Ladro had insisted, and blathered on for what must have been for over an hour about the heroics and compassion of Mr. Frank Bickham, Martian Citizen Number One—according to the inscription on the medal—before hastily adding thanks to the rest of the emergency responders, who all sat in the first row gazing up adoringly at Frank sitting next to the governor at the podium.
That was earlier in the day—making him miss his morning coffee on Bickam Boulevard, dammit—and now he was back at the bedside of the youngest victim of the blast, Wixam Hanuman, age six. Exactly the same age as little Samantha. “Did you miss me?” he said, leaning over from the bedside chair, waggling his ears—Wixam always laughed hysterically when he did that.
“You were here this morning, Grumpy.” The boy’s eyes drifted to the medal hanging against Frank’s chest, and grew wide. “Ooo! Is that for saving Mrs. Doughby?”
“I didn’t save Doughby, kid. She wasn’t even hurt.” He handled the medal and fingered the inscription. Martian Citizen Number One. “No idea why they gave me this sh...” He trailed off, catching his profanity.
“Shit?”
“What? Uh ... no! Shamwow!”
Wixam eyed him skeptically. “Grumpy, that’s not a word.”
“What the hell do you know? You’re six.” He lazily traced the ‘Number One’ on the medal with a finger, the phrase reminding him that if he was going to be successful, if he was going to win the race, he needed to act soon. Very soon. All the survivors of the blast were doing very, very well—even Wixam, who’d developed a few mysterious complications the day after the accident, was looking like he’d be just fine. But he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. The next accident might be worse. Or there was Ed Smith. The man claimed he was in perfect health, but looked more frail by the day. The old welder might just keel over and buy the farm the next time he tripped on the sidewalk. And where would that put Frank’s meticulous plan? Tits up. That’s where.
“You shouldn’t swear around a six-year-old, Grumpy.”
Frank let the medal drop to his chest and grinned a lopsided smile. “You said ‘shit’ first. I only said ‘hell.’”
“Hell’s bad too,” Wixam said earnestly.
“It’s in the bible. It can’t be bad.” Before the kid could respond, Frank reached over to his chart and perused it, nodding approvingly. Any other person would be kicked out of the hospital for looking over the chart of a non-relative, but he was Frank frickin’ Bickham. “Looking good here, kid. I bet they’ll get you out of here later today. Tomorrow, tops.” He set the chart down. “Where are your parents, anyway?”
Wixam shrugged. “Getting sissy from school,” he said, probably referring to his sister.
“Good, then they’ll be here any minute—school’s only a block away.” Frank stood up, and formally extended a hand. “Mr. Hanuman, it’s been a pleasure.”
“Bye, Grumpy.” Frank turned to leave, but Wixam added, “You know, you’re not really grumpy.”
Frank turned back, raising an eyebrow. “What did you say?”
“You’re not really grumpy.”
“All my grandkids and great-grandkids call me Grumpy. It’s my nickname. Don’t you like it?”
“You’re just pretending to be grumpy. I can tell.”
Frank had no response to this, so he frowned, and gave a small mock-salute. “Catch you later, kid.”
The walk back to Huygens Dome would only take ten minutes, and he didn’t need to be anywhere until his noon meeting with the city council and the corporate board, so he decided to head to the emergency airlock just outside the city park. The site of his plan’s impending execution. The place he’d find his way into the history books. Second man on Mars? Screw that. First man to die on Mars, coming right up, baby.
Only a few people strolled the green park grounds under the huge transparent dome of the city park. Red light filtered down through the foliage from the inhospitable paper-thin atmosphere beyond the composite glass. The atmosphere that would kill him. The atmosphere that he’d be hailed as a h
ero for saving the population from.
Once inside the emergency airlock, he checked the automatic visitor log. Sure enough, no one had been there since the last time he’d checked his handiwork. No one would have noticed the imperfection in the inner airlock’s door, which would surely cause a major spark when shut in an emergency. No one would have noticed the constant background drain on the outer airlock door’s battery, which, inexplicably, was not connected to the central computer—Interplanetary’s singular focus on the stock price knew no bounds, apparently. And no one would have noticed the fact that the oxygen line over in the corner was clogged. And several other pieces of the Rube Goldberg-esque series of technical problems that would culminate in the appearance of the colony being put at grave threat of catastrophe, and his own death as he sacrificed himself to save them all.
It would be glorious.
And by all accounts, quite painless, given that the near vacuum would put him to sleep far sooner than it would kill him.
He double checked his handiwork before exiting the room, being sure to use his special security access to erase the record of his visit. The perks of being a hero—they trusted him with top secret security clearance and all-system access.
Lunchtime was approaching fast and he hurried to Huygens Dome, but a glance at his watch told him he still had twenty minutes to burn before the meeting. According to the street sign he was just a block from Ed Smith’s apartment, and so he decided to make an unscheduled visit—the unannounced kind, where the visitor peers in through the window from under a bush rather than take the more obvious route of knocking on the door.
Before long he found himself on the flimsy plastic sidewalk staring up at the apartment building. Luckily, it was surrounded by bushes, and Ed’s unit was on the ground floor, so with a surreptitious glance to either side he wandered around the side of the building, and assuring himself no one was watching, plunged into a hydrangea bush under what he supposed was Ed’s kitchen window.