Beyond the Stars: At Galaxy's Edge: a space opera anthology

by Nick Webb

  “‌—‌told you, Marie, there’s nothing to be done about it. Look, sweetie, yes, I could come back to Earth and have the operation. But what would it get me? Three more years? Five? And if a new aortic valve lasts twenty more years, it’ll be the diabetes that gets me. And if that doesn’t, the prostate. We talked about this before I left, and I thought we understood that I was mortal, and I was old, and that this was a one-way trip. Plus, I signed the contract. No one leaves unless congress approves a spending authorization to shuttle someone back, and that ain’t happening for some eighty-year-old welder who‌—‌”

  Frank yelped and almost jumped as his pocket started chirping with an incoming call. He breathed a curse, jabbing it through the cloth of his pants to silence it.

  “‌—‌hold on, sweetie...” Frank could hear the other man in the kitchen stand up from his chair with a labored grunt, and approach the window. He squeezed up against the siding underneath as best he could and held his breath. A creak from above told him the old man was leaning against the windowsill. Labored breathing filtered down through the leaves of the hydrangea.

  “Move along, nothing to see here,” mouthed Frank.

  “Sorry, Sweetie, thought I heard something out the window. Probably one of the feral squirrels we’ve got around here. Now, as I was saying‌—‌”

  Frank crawled away military-style, and once he’d passed another unit’s window he stood up.

  “Frank Bickham?”

  He recognized the voice. His face was turned away from her, so he allowed himself a grimace. “Mrs. Doughby?” He turned to face her. She was leaning out her window. Did she really live right next to Ed Smith? Shit. Just his luck.

  “Mr. Bickham!” she said again, excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. “What are you doing here?”

  “Uh, just checking on you, my dear. To see if you were doing ok after your terrible ordeal.”

  She covered her mouth with her hands, looking as if she was about to cry. “So thoughtful! What a wonderful man you are!” She paused. “Through the window?”

  “I... uh...” he stammered, searching for words. “Yes. Through the window. Didn’t want to bother you.”

  The awkward conversation took far longer to extricate himself from than he would have liked, and he half suspected that the house call would make it onto Scarlet Paredes’ evening news broadcast as another heroic example of Frank Bickham’s care for the common man, or ferret-faced woman in this instance. But he finally made it the last few blocks to his lunch meeting, worrying the entire time about Ed Smith’s message to his daughter, or whoever Marie was.

  The man needed an aortic valve replacement. Frank was no doctor, but it sounded terminal. And by the time he was shaking hands with the corporate board and the city council, he’d made his decision.

  Tonight was one for the history books.

  Later that evening

  The preparations were made. He’d rechecked the Rube-Goldberg sequence of planned systems failures in the auxiliary airlock that would result in the appearance of the colony being placed at grave risk and result in his heroic death.

  He’d had a close one. Habitation module twelve‌—‌the site of the explosion and decompression last week‌—‌was still leaking a minute amount of atmosphere that the engineering team couldn’t lock down, and it led to him nearly being discovered at the auxiliary airlock during the team’s extra safety walkdowns of the rest of the colony. But he managed to slip out just in time, and when he returned later, none of his preparations had been disturbed.

  And now he was sitting in his usual chair at the cafe on Bickam Boulevard, enjoying his last cup of coffee.

  It tasted like victory.

  He typed the final few lines of one of the last messages he’d write.

  Anyway, Su, it really is great up here. But I have some unhappy news for you. I’ve been feeling ill lately. Not sure how long I’ll last. Could be years. Could be days. Just thought you’d like to know.

  Signed,

  Frank Bickham, First Man to Die on Mars, baby.

  He tapped send, glanced up at the TV monitor hanging nearby. Scarlet Paredes was talking earnestly into the camera with a grave expression on her face. Hell, what now?

  Before he could turn the volume up, his hand device started beeping with an incoming call. The screen showed Doctor Pratt’s face‌—‌the medical center’s chief.

  “Frank,” he said, tapping the line open.

  “Mr. Bickham, I’m afraid we have terrible news.”

  Oh. Shit. He was too late.

  He was too late.

  Ed Smith must have gravely overestimated how much time he had left. And Frank had fiddled and twiddled and now...

  He’d lost. The second man on Mars would always just be that. The Second.

  “Yes?” he said, tentatively.

  “You know the boy? Wixam Hanuman? He’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  Frank jumped up with a start. “Wix? What’s wrong?”

  “The injuries he sustained are healing, but they’ve revealed an underlying condition that has now been aggravated by what he’s been through. Long story short, he’s in desperate need of a blood transfusion.”

  “Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be by to visit him in the morning, if that’s ok. Please tell his parents that if there’s anything I can do‌—‌”

  “Actually, there is something you can do, Mr. Bickham. It turns out that our Wixam has a very rare blood type, rendering all our blood stores we have on hand useless for him.”

  Shit.

  “And...?” he asked, tentatively, though he knew, and feared, the answer.

  “And it turns out that the only other person with that blood type on Mars is a Mr. Frank Bickham. I’m afraid that Wix doesn’t have the three months it will take the next shipment to arrive from Earth. He needs the transfusion, Frank, and he needs it now.”

  Shit.

  But there was no internal debate. The response was automatic. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  He tapped the channel closed, and collapsed back into his chair.

  Shit.

  Poor Wix. He’d only known the boy for a few days, but he’d visited with him for hours already. He was another one of his great-grandkids now. Like Samantha.

  The history books would have to wait. And he might have to put a twenty-four hour watch on Ed Smith. Possibly put him on precautionary life-support. He could arrange for that, right? He was Frank frickin’ Bickham.

  His handset beeped again, indicating an incoming message. It was from Su. He’d received Frank’s message and must have immediately fired off a reply.

  Bickham. Great news. My status as Mariner Valley colony member #10,451 is approved. See you soon!

  Signed, Jerry Su, First Man to Walk on Mars, etc., etc.

  Etcetera? That was a shot across his bow. Su was taunting him. And he’d be here in three months.

  Shit.

  Thirty minutes later

  The blood transfusion was quick and painless. But the baggy circles under little Wixam’s eyes were disconcerting. Frank glanced nervously from Wix to his parents sitting nearby. His mother, a small, pretty woman, was making a valiant effort to contain her distress, and tousled her boy’s hair, forcing a thin smile. His father sat stoically in the corner.

  “Are you feeling ok, Grumpy?” said the boy.

  “Me? You’re asking me if I’m feeling ok? You’re the one in the hospital bed, kid. Have you looked in a mirror lately?” he said with a good-natured smile. He’d gotten the impression early on from little Wix that he was the type of kid that appreciated a gentle ribbing, and his giggle confirmed it.

  “They said I’ll need your blood for a long time.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s not think about that. I’m sure they’ll come up with a way to fix you good. You’ll be healthier than I am within a few days, and I’m as healthy as they come.”

  Wixam nodded solemnly. “I thought maybe, instead of co
ming to the hospital for more transfusions, I thought maybe we could stuff you into my backpack and just hook up a tube between us.”

  His father looked mortified. His mother’s jaw hung half-open.

  Frank laughed. “You got it, kid. If you can carry me, I’m all yours. Your own personal blood bank, on tap at all hours of the day. Just save a few pints for me, wouldya?”

  They continued their banter, and before long little Wix’s eyes got droopy and he fell asleep. Frank glanced from one parent to the other. They both looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

  “Mr. Bickham, thank you so much for doing this. I have no words...” the mother trailed off.

  The father nodded. “I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t here. If there’s ever anything you need, anything at all, please let me know. My father is the vice president of Interplanetary‌—‌just one word from me and it happens. Whatever you want.”

  A wicked thought crossed his mind. “Can you revoke Jerry Su’s colonist application?”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding,” Frank said with a wry chuckle.

  The father laughed nervously, and yawned. Damn, these people needed sleep.

  Frank tapped a finger on his armrest. “I know what you could do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Go to bed. Both you and your wife. Get some sleep‌—‌I’ll be here all night.”

  They both stared at him.

  “No, I mean it. He needs you,” he said, pointing at the sleeping boy, “but he needs you to be awake, alert, and healthy. Go to bed. Don’t make me pull rank,” he added, with a grin.

  After another round of profuse thanks, they left.

  “Just you and me, kid. And I’ll be damned if you leave before I do.”

  An hour passed, and he was dozing off when something jolted him awake.

  “Mr. Bickham?”

  Dr. Pratt was looking at him through the half-opened door.

  “Yes, Doctor?” he croaked.

  “Would you mind coming back tomorrow evening? I want to build up a short-term supply of your blood. Just in case... you know.”

  Frank nodded. It wasn’t immediately clear to him what you know meant, but it didn’t matter. “Very prudent. In fact, how about we build up a long-term supply? I can come in twice a day for the next two weeks or so, if needed. Let’s make sure we have at least a year’s worth, wouldn’t you say? At least until the next shipment comes in from Earth. I assume they’re going to send over a supply of his blood type?”

  Doctor Pratt’s face broke out into a huge smile. “Yes, they will. You never cease to amaze me, Mr. Bickham. Yes, that would be perfect. God bless you.”

  Pratt left him alone with the boy, and his thoughts.

  Two weeks. Build up enough of a supply, make sure that the boy would live a long, happy life, and then Frank Bickham was heading to the history books.

  “Grumpy?”

  The boy’s small voice made him jump. “Yeah, Wix?”

  “Don’t ever go anywhere.”

  Dammit. Kid’s not helping. “I’ll be right here, kid. On Mars. Forever.”

  “Good.” The kid’s voice sounded remote and slurred, as if he was sleep-speaking. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too, kid.”

  And it was even true.

  The next week

  The urgent call from Dr. Pratt came early in the morning on a Tuesday. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bickham. Your friend went into a coma late last night. He was just in for a regular checkup, and keeled over right in the office.”

  “Shit.” Frank had nothing else to say. A hole started opening up in the bottom of his gut. All he could think about was the kid. About his parents‌—‌how he could possibly console them. For the kid’s big sister, who now had to deal with not only a sick little brother, but one who was asleep, possibly for good. “I just went to the house yesterday, Doc. He looked fine then. What gives?”

  “Frank‌—‌can I call you Frank? Look, sometimes people just get to this point, and there’s nothing we can do.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Frank yelled into the phone. “I did what you asked, and then some. We’ve saved up the blood. He’s got a six month supply now.” He could hear the doctor try to interrupt, but he steamrolled right over him. “Did you miss something? You missed his condition the first time around‌—‌it wasn’t until the habitation module blast that you discovered this thing. Could there be something else? Think, man!”

  “Mr. Bickham, please! If you’ll let me speak. I was trying to tell you‌—‌it’s not Wixam. He’s fine. I’m talking about Mr. Smith.”

  “Ed?”

  “Yes, Ed. He came in yesterday. Said he felt a little funny. But we had a nice visit‌—‌he mentioned you several times. Said you were a good friend, that you visited at least twice a week. And then... well, he passed out. I couldn’t revive him. I’m sorry.”

  Oh. Damn. Ed Smith was in a frickin’ coma.

  “Aortic valve?”

  “Huh? Oh, well, as his doctor, I can’t discuss his medical history with you. But since you’re, well...” Frank imagined the doctor was about to say, since you’re Frank Bickham. “Since you’re a close friend of his, I’ll say, no. It wasn’t his heart. It was something else. But I’m not at liberty to say, exactly. But his heart is not exactly an asset at the moment.”

  “And? How long does he have?”

  “Could be months. Could be hours. Or he could wake up tomorrow.”

  Frank sighed. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. He was going to lose. He’d forever be known as the second man to set foot on Mars. And the second to die. Or the third. Maybe the fourth, given his terrible luck.

  A siren jolted him out of his reverie. Red lights flashed, and the regular lighting dimmed down to auxiliary power levels.

  “What the hell?” Those were the emergency evac lights. Every month the colonists of Mariner Valley participated in an emergency readiness drill, but that wasn’t scheduled for another week.

  He looked out the window of his penthouse apartment. People were rushing out into the streets, and heading towards Huygens Dome’s emergency shelter. A minute later he’d joined them, shuffling down the street, urging people not to run, but to hurry, giving a hand to a lady that had stumbled over a dropped bag.

  “Anyone know what’s up?” asked a man nearby.

  An engineer nearby answered, “Must be Hab Mod Twelve. We’ve been having problems down there ever since the explosion. Ain’t surprised something else happened down there.”

  Habitation module twelve. He’d read reports about the persistent air leak over there, and now it looked like the situation had deteriorated.

  He changed direction, and a minute later he was outside the administration building. The desk operator was gone, so he strolled right into the emergency meeting of the governor and the corporate board, who were grilling the senior engineering staff.

  “So you’re saying there’s no oxygen left in Huygen’s tank? None? What the hell happened to it?” said Governor Ladro to an engineer, who looked like he’d rather be fixing something than explaining something.

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “How? Oh. Don’t tell me.” He slapped a hand mockingly on his forehead. “Let me guess. It was an engineering shortcut by Interplanetary staff when they set the place up.”

  “That about sums it up, sir. It cost far less for habitation module twelve to share the auxiliary oxygen tank with Huygens. And then the explosion last week damaged the sensors in the tank, so that we had no idea it was empty until an hour ago. The persistent leak over in twelve sucked it dry, and we never even knew.”

  The governor glared at the corporate board. “Good thing the stock price is up, huh? Sure made this whole adventure worth it.” He turned back to the engineering staff. “Ok, I want a solution. Fast.”

  The engineer stammered. “Well, the other problem is tha
t... well, there’s about ten other problems. All video feeds in Twelve are out. Repair drones are inoperative since the main comm package linking Twelve with Huygens was still being repaired. Half of Twelve is still at vacuum, and the other half is steadily losing pressure. I won’t bore you with the details, but we have a solution. All it will take is someone going in, repairing a few valves, pushing a few buttons that we can’t do remotely, and hightailing it back to the airlock just in case we have an explosive mix with the methane leak again.”

  “Methane leak?” said Ladro. “Unbelievable.”

  One of the assistant engineers raised a hand. “Methane leak. Just discovered it this morning when we switched over to the auxiliary sensors in Twelve. We think the methane check valves... uh, let’s just say they didn’t so much check as they encouraged the flow. Cheap Chinese knockoffs.”

  Ladro eyed the corporate board cooly. “And the stock price keeps going up.” They all either glared at him, or squirmed in their chairs.

  The head engineer nodded. “As I was saying, one person can do it, but it will be extremely dangerous. The risk of injury‌—‌or worse‌—‌is very high. I’d say we send either Farnsworth or‌—‌”

  “Send me.”

  Frank could hardly believe the words came out of his mouth. So he repeated them to make sure they were his. “Send me.”

  Governor Ladro shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. We need you, Mr. Bickham. You’re too important to spare. You’re an inspiration to everyone in the colony‌—‌if we lost you, we’d have a serious morale problem on our hands.” He turned back to the head engineer, but before he could say anything else, Frank decided to lie. There simply wasn’t time to come up with an excuse that would mask the truth.

  “Governor, I’m dying. Doc Pratt says I’ve got a month. Tops. Chronic, terribly painful condition‌—‌this doesn’t end well for me know matter how you look at it. Seriously‌—‌send me.”