by John Olson
The half‑hour science briefing was over now. Time for a few questions.
Steven Perez stepped carefully to the podium. Watching him, Nate winced. Perez had looked run‑down all last summer. They all had, of course. Way too many sixteen‑hour days. But once the mission on the Martian surface began, they all started getting some rest and feeling better. All but Perez. By late fall, Perez finally took some time off to see his doctor.
The news was bad. Real bad.
Perez had Parkinson’s disease. He wasn’t going to die anytime soon, but he wasn’t going to get better either. And so NASA, in its infinite wisdom, was looking for a replacement for the Director of Johnson Space Center. Crazy. If Perez was careful, he would be good for another five or ten years. But somebody up high wanted Perez out within twenty‑four months. And Nate didn’t want the job. He wanted to retire as soon as this sorry mission was over so he could go fly ultralights in Colorado, where he belonged. That didn’t stop the water‑fountain experts around JSC from speculating, though. Everyone thought Nate was just playing hard to get. Bunch of morons. What did they know, anyway?
“Good evening.” Perez’s voice rasped over the PA system. “This is an extraordinary day in the history of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. We’ll now move into the press conference. I’m sure many of you know Nate Harrington, the Mars Mission Director. Mr. Harrington will take questions from the floor.”
Applause. Perez stepped back to his chair. The spotlight zoomed over to Nate.
Nate smiled and leaned toward his mike on the table in front of him. “Good evening. It’s nice to see a few new faces around here this late at night.” He peered into the sea of frantically waving hands and pointed to a clean‑cut young guy in the front row. He looked safe enough.
The guy stood, and one of the sound techs hurried over to him with a cordless mike on the end of a four‑foot boom. “Ron Sanders, religion editor of the Houston Chronicle.” He waited while the TV cameras zoomed in on him.
Nate swallowed hard. Religion editor?
“Mr. Harrington, how does today’s discovery impact the question of creation versus evolution?”
Oh good. A nuclear bomb in my face on the first question. Nate cleared his throat while he tried to figure out what to say. There were still people in America who thought that question hadn’t been resolved. As far as Nate could see, it was answered a hundred years ago. “Thanks for that insightful question, Mr. ... um, Sanders. As you know, I’m not a biologist, but I do have a pretty good handle on the science mission we’re trying to accomplish here. While today’s discovery is a remarkable one that opens up a large number of new questions, it really doesn’t change anything in that particular arena you just mentioned.” A nice ambiguous answer. Sanders would probably read it one way, while people who had a clue would read it the exact opposite.
Sanders raised his eyebrows, and his jaw dropped open. He reached for the mike, but Nate pointed at a graying woman in the third row. “Next question.”
The tech took the mike around to her. “Michelle Owens, New York Times science editor.” Short pause for the cameras again.
Nate wondered if she’d hopped the first plane to Houston or if she’d somehow been in town already.
“Mr. Harrington, I’m sure you’re aware that a sample of halophilic bacteria here on Earth was brought back to life after being encased in a salt crystal for two hundred and fifty million years. Will there be any efforts to revive the halobacteria Dr. Jansen discovered today?”
Nate felt his gut relaxing. Nice to get a pro. “That’s an excellent question, Ms. Owens. We’re not sure at this time that the fossil contains DNA, but even if it did, it’s very likely that the DNA would be damaged beyond repair. The issue is pretty simple. The sample you mentioned was found deep underground, where it was well shielded from cosmic rays. Those spores were able to last hundreds of millions of years with minimal damage to their DNA, which is the genetic information that encodes life processes. That’s not likely to be the case on Mars. Today’s sample was found underground, but not all that deep. And as you know, the Martian atmosphere is less than one percent the density of ours, so it provides little protection from ionizing radiation. We don’t have a firm age yet for Valkerie’s discovery. It was partially protected by its underground location, but if it’s more than a few thousand years old, I’d be doubtful it can be revived. You can be sure we’ll be looking at that question very closely in the coming weeks.”
Nate leaned back a little. As long as they kept to science, this wasn’t going to be too bad. “Next question.” He pointed toward a sea of hands in the fifth row. Let the fittest of them grab the mike.
“Liz Proust, author of the Nebula Award‑winning novel Bactamination.”
Nate’s pulse quickened a notch. He’d never met this Proust woman, but she was supposed to be a regular Ms. Loose Cannon on the Titanic. “Yes, Ms. Proust. Go ahead.”
“Mr. Harrington, there are some serious issues that need to be addressed here. As you know, back‑contamination of Earth by Martian microbes is a question that has long been feared.”
Nate cleared his throat. Right, ever since your stupid book came out.
“Mr. Harrington, what are the odds that this bacterium you’ve discovered might be dangerous to humans?”
Somebody at the back of the auditorium laughed out loud, which was exactly the right response.
Nate leaned toward his mike. The answer, of course, was zero. “That’s—”
“Along those same lines, what procedures have you put in place for a quarantine, in case this Martian bacterium turns out to be toxic?”
The room had gone completely quiet, except for a low buzz in the journalist section. Which wasn’t surprising, because most journalists were morons when it came to science.
Nate’s knuckles were white, he was clenching the mike so hard. This was ridiculous. “As I was say—”
“And finally, if there turns out to be a problem in your procedures, have you considered the knotty ethical question of whether it would be right to bring the crew back to planet Earth? In short, have you considered the very dangerous possibility of bactamination?”
Idiot. Nate yanked his mike directly up to his mouth. “Ms. Proust, it’s pretty clear your strength is writing fantasy. If you ever chance to read a book on evolutionary biology, you might ask yourself how any bacterium, evolving on another planet, probably using different DNA base pairs, different codons, different proteins, and different cellular structures, could possibly adapt itself, sheerly by chance, in just such a way as to infect a species on a different planet. Life is extraordinarily complex, and disease‑causing bacteria are adapted to their hosts. Humans don’t get the same diseases hamsters do, and—”
“Mr. Harrington, you haven’t answered any of my questions.”
“Ms. Proust, you haven’t understood any of my answers. Now, if there are any other questions from intelligent life‑forms ...” Nate glared around the room, daring anyone to ask something.
No takers. “Thank you all, and good night.” Nate turned and walked away toward the center of the stage to join Perez. He looked at the enormous video screen behind the podium. The TV camera had zoomed in on Liz Proust’s face.
She was talking to a dozen reporters and holding aloft a copy of Bactamination. And smiling.
Chapter Four
Wednesday, March 18, 12:15 p.m., Mars Local Time
Bob
BOB CLOSED HIS EYES AND tried to pretend he wasn’t getting scalped.
“Don’t keep moving like that,” Kennedy growled. “I’m going to cut off one of your ears if you keep twitching.”
Bob tweaked one eyelid open just a notch and stared again at the worst haircut in the history of mankind. It was even worse than the one Sister Marianne gave him back in seventh grade.
Kennedy snicked the scissors again and swore through clenched teeth. “This is on your head, Kaggo. I told you I don’t cut hair.”
Bo
b heaved a sigh. So much for his great idea. All he’d wanted to do was spend a little male‑bonding time with Kennedy to try to figure out what was going on in the guy’s head. Maybe find out what had really happened two days ago with Kennedy’s helmet. But he’d forgotten rule number one: Never give a grounded pilot a pair of scissors and a razor.
Here, Hampster. You seem to have a lot of pent‑up frustration. Why don’t you take it out on my head?
“Will you sit still! What’s wrong with you? I’m doing this with one eye, you know.”
Bob tightened his grip on the arms of the chair. What was wrong with him? He should have waited for Lex to do the honors. But Lex would have just found an excuse to pawn off the job on Valkerie. And at this point that would be way too ... awkward. Valkerie hadn’t spoken three words to him since bringing home that little chunk of rock. Not that they’d had a lot of time for conversation. Valkerie and Lex were spending about twenty hours a day studying the halobacteria from canyon 13. Even so, it felt an awful lot like she was freezing him out of her life. Even more than before.
“So ...” Bob tried to think of a neutral topic. “How’s the garden going?”
A loud snip snicked in Bob’s ear. “You really like the fact that I got stuck with the poop‑scooping detail. Think it’s funny, don’t you?”
Actually, it was pretty funny. “No, I ... Valkerie told me you got a pansy to bloom. First flower on Mars. That’s pretty cool.”
Kennedy moved around to stare hard into Bob’s eyes. “Valkerie and I did. She’s been helping me a lot the past month. Seems to really like working with me. Why do you suppose that is?” His upper lip curled in a lopsided smile.
“She misses Earth a lot more than the rest of us. I think she just likes being near the plants.”
“She and I both miss Earth. We talk about it a lot. I miss flying, and she misses walking. I never realized how much we have in common.” Kennedy shuffled back behind Bob and took another snip.
Bob clenched his fists. Just make it through the haircut. This is no time for another argument.
“You and Lex seem to be spending a lot of time together too. Anything going on that I should know about?” The scissors clipped across Bob’s forehead, and Kennedy stepped back, frowning for a long minute. “Sorry about that.” He didn’t look sorry. “Tell you what—don’t look in the mirror yet. Papa Kennedy is gonna fix that before you ever—”
Bob fumbled for the sheet tied at his neck. This was crazy. Lex could spare ten minutes to finish the job.
Kennedy pushed Bob’s hands back down. “Stop moving, I’m almost done.” He made a few more snips in front and then stepped to the side. “Now, tell me I didn’t do a great patch.”
Bob winced. It was too horrible for words.
“Stop moving.” Kennedy picked up an electric razor. “Okay, I’m going to cut your neck, big guy.” He flicked it on. The whine for the next few minutes gave Bob an excuse not to talk. Finally the massacre ended.
“And there we go. Good enough for government work.” Kennedy grabbed a small whisk broom and began brushing loose hair off Bob’s neck and shoulders. “I know you had your heart set on Valkerie for a while, but there are other fish in the ocean, ya know, Kaggo. And we’re swimming in a pretty small pond here.”
Bob didn’t say anything. The Hampster was the kind of guy who thought of women as fish. Interchangeable commodities. Fine, let him think that.
Kennedy untied the sheet draped over Bob’s shoulders and shook the contents onto the floor. He grabbed a broom and began sweeping. “And once we get back to Earth, you’ll be swimming in fish. Know what I mean?”
“Kennedy, I don’t—”
“Sure you do. Chicks go for famous guys.” Kennedy knelt down and scooped the loose, sandy hair into a dustpan. “Even guys like you.”
“What’s that supposed to—”
The hatch of the central stairwell burst open. Lex came in, followed by Valkerie.
Bob turned to look at them.
Valkerie’s face blanched.
Lex spun furiously on Kennedy. “Hampster, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Hey, Kaggo, next time let me do it, okay?”
“It looks ... fine.” Valkerie passed through to the galley.
Kennedy disappeared after her.
“It does not look fine.” Lex planted her hands on her hips. “Bob, what in the world were you thinking? Kennedy’s got the artistic sense of a rhino.”
Valkerie reappeared with an armful of food packets. “Let’s get back to work, Lex.”
“Valkerie, wait!” Kennedy came out of the galley. “I’ve been keeping this in my room just for you—a little celebration for your discovery.” He pinned a small pansy to her jumpsuit collar. “The first flower grown on Mars.”
Valkerie smiled at him. “Thanks, Hampster. That’s really sweet of you.”
Kennedy gave her that aw‑shucks look he’d probably practiced in the mirror a hundred times.
Lex grabbed some of the food packets from Valkerie’s arms and pulled open the hatch. Valkerie went through into the stairwell, Kennedy puppy‑dogging right behind her. Lex gave Bob a look that told him he was an idiot, then followed them down.
Bob shoved the hatch shut. He wanted to strangle Kennedy. It was crazy, but that’s what he wanted to do. Wouldn’t that make a nice little male‑bonding exercise? Hold still, Hampster, while I squeeze your neck.
“Ares 7, this is Houston, come in,” Josh Bennett’s voice crackled over the radio. “Ares 7, this is Houston. Just a little update. You guys are still the big story down here on planet Earth. That Proust woman got herself on TV this morning with Karla Faust from Stanford. Karla annihilated her, so don’t worry about a thing.”
Bob had a lot bigger things to worry about than some idiot novelist with delusions of adequacy. He pulled up a stool to the CommConsole and adjusted the gain on the signal. The radio had been on‑again‑off‑again ever since Valkerie and Lex had come back with the fossil. No one at NASA seemed to know what the problem was, but they all agreed on one thing: The interference wasn’t coming from Earth.
“Anyway,” Josh continued, “if Bob is around, I wanted to check in with him to see how things are going with ... the MAV and everything. Bob, if you want to talk things over, I’ll be in a private room on an encrypted link. Standing by for your response.”
Bob grabbed the mike. “Josh, this is Bob. And, boy, do I need to talk. Everyone else is busy right now, but I’m gonna switch this channel with full crypto to my room and pick it up again in fifteen seconds. Stand by.”
He walked through the galley and into the circular hallway that ran around the stairwell. He passed Kennedy’s room, checked to make sure it was unoccupied, and jerked open the door to his own quarters. It was a tiny wedge of a room—like a piece of pie with the point bitten off, maybe seven feet long, and five feet at its widest point. Home sweet shoebox.
Bob slammed the door shut, threw on a headset, plopped down on his bed, and punched in the password to pick up the encrypted comm session he’d started at the console.
“Hey, Josh, this is Bob again. I’m in my room, and the others are all downstairs—for the moment. I’ll get to the point and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m real worried about ... all of us. Kennedy’s acting weird. Valkerie and Lex are off in la‑la land with that fossil. And I’m ... Josh, I think I’m cracking up.”
Bob took a deep breath. Okay, he was committed. Better get it all out. “Josh, remember the flight docs talking about hypervigilance? About how, when monkeys leave the rain forest and head out on the plains, they just amp out because of all the pressure? Anyway, I think I’m starting to go into that mode. Maybe Kennedy too, but me for sure. I had another panic attack a couple days ago, the worst one yet—really lost it for a few minutes. Then, just now, Kennedy gave me a horrible haircut, and I got so mad I wanted to ... kill him. Literally, for a second I wanted to strangle him. Scared myself to death. Josh, you know me. I’m not like that—not
even with Kennedy. But he’s really starting to get to me. Everything is. I think I need help. Maybe a neuro exam or something. If the Hampster pulls one of his ... you know—one of his stunts again, I’m scared I’m gonna murder him.” Which was an exaggeration. He hoped and begged and prayed it was just an exaggeration. But what if he was cracking? Under the pressure they all lived under, who wouldn’t crack?
Bob sat back to wait out the radio delay. He hated talking like this—sending a long message, then waiting for a long response—but there wasn’t any choice until somebody figured out faster‑than‑light communications. It was better than nothing, but not by much. So he talked to Josh at least twice a week, despite the agonizing delays. With Lex giving him Miss Manners tips twice a month, Valkerie playing the role of the sleeping princess, and Kennedy doing the Dr. Strangelove bit, Bob needed Josh more than ever.
A few months ago, Josh had been promoted to Flight Director. Good for him. As long as nobody spilled Josh’s secret, his job was safe. No way was Bob planning to rat on him. Josh hadn’t meant to endanger the crew on the way to Mars. It just kind of happened. Bad luck. And anyway, all he’d been trying to do was make sure that a week like this one would come along.
Life on Mars. It feels a little anticlimactic, but we found it, buddy, and we didn’t even need your insurance policy.
* * *
Wednesday, March 18, 12:30 p.m., CST
Josh
“Hey, Kaggo, this is Josh.” Josh hesitated. The shrinks thought the rest of the crew should be kept in the dark about Kennedy, but if Bob thought the problem was him and not Kennedy … What if he started questioning his judgment in other areas? “Listen, there’s nothing wrong with you. If you want to kill Kennedy, it’s because you’re normal. Everybody here wants to kill him too. He’s a snake. The lowest kind of snake. Don’t trust him as far as you can throw him—back here on Earth I mean.”