“So, why did I come to Mars?” Trevor laid out the ingredients he thought he needed for a first attempt at a Martian snack cake. If Hogan had concerns about his using up more of Progress Base’s supplies, she didn’t say anything.
“That’s the question.” Hogan sipped her juice and waited.
There was a new chorus of loud whoops from the rec room, punctuated by shouts of victory from Yusuf and Martin, and a few taunts from Miranda, Guillermo, and Leah. The noise had been grating on him, but the ruckus didn’t seem to bother Hogan at all.
“Thanks for the music, by the way,” he said. “I suppose the short answer to your question is that I didn’t know what else to do with myself.”
Hogan watched him, trying to decide if he was serious. Then she laughed. “No, come on. Why?”
“That’s pretty much it. Well, the longer short answer is that I had a business, and it failed.”
“Your restaurant.”
“My restaurant. Cocina Zarafan.”
“Ooh. That sounds . . . Fancy?”
“It did all right for a couple of years, but it’s a tough industry.” Trevor grabbed a clean mixing bowl and started to consider proportions of ingredients.
“I’m still waiting for the part where you explain the natural progression from restaurateur to Mars colonist. There had to be other options.”
“A few offers from other restaurants, and my parents pushing me to join the family business. Astutable.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s a chain of SAT prep and academic support centers. My parents started it when I was a kid.”
“Never heard of it.”
Trevor shrugged. “Well, it’s pretty big in Oregon and Washington State. I’m from Portland, big food town. My parents thought that when my restaurant closed, I would have gotten the ‘food thing’ out of my system.”
Hogan nodded toward the counter. “Doesn’t look like it to me.”
“There’s a Burger Bunny now where my restaurant used to be.”
“Really? You know, I kind of miss those Hare Fries . . .”
“And the kids’ Bunny Bundle meals, and the Binky, Brownie, and Clover milkshakes everyone’s crazy for. I know.” He measured two cups of green spiruliza powder into the mixing bowl with a nearly equal portion of protein paste. He made a mental note to hunt for some culinary fillers so he wouldn’t overload everybody on protein, and he mostly succeeded at ignoring the travesty of the fast food franchise occupying the space that had been Cocina Zarafan.
“I didn’t want to work for anybody else,” he said. “And I didn’t want the hassle of trying to open and run another restaurant. I didn’t want to try my luck with a food cart, either. I thought maybe I’d relocate to someplace a little drier than Portland.”
Hogan watched him for another long moment, her mouth gradually stretching into a smile. “You’re joking. You’re kidding again.”
Trevor smiled and mixed a few spices and a handful of instant oats into the bowl.
“Frankly, I don’t know if you all are the bravest, most adventurous people I’ve ever seen, or if you’re part of an overly ambitious suicide cult.”
It was Trevor’s turn to chuckle. He’d wondered the same thing, especially during the long months of their journey from Earth.
“I’m sorry, I have to ask, because the topic did come up . . .”
“I’m Muslim,” Trevor volunteered before she could finish. It was a guess, but religion was normally the topic when people apologized before they asked a question. Or if it wasn’t Islam, it was his family heritage.
She nodded and took another sip of juice. “I didn’t want to be rude.”
“You weren’t.” Trevor started mixing the ingredients together with his hands. It felt good—and familiar, constructive—to have edible goop sliding through his fingers and knowing that something surprising and wonderful might come of it.
“Do they know?”
“Have I had a frank conversation with my fellow colonists and revealed the depths of my soul to the people I’ll be spending the rest of my life with?”
“Well, yes.”
Trevor sprinkled a little sugar into the bowl and went back to kneading. “Not exactly. But they do know. We had a lot of time on Red Wing 1 to get to know each other.”
He tensed at the memory of April taking him aside and letting him know that he was facing a lifetime on Mars without a partner.
“What did the producers say, or the Mars Colony Program?”
“Not much of anything, really.” He watched the dough start to take shape beneath his fingers. “I didn’t exactly tell them, and no one exactly asked.”
“I think I understand.”
Trevor wasn’t sure that she did. Even in the twenty-first century, Trevor had sometimes felt uneasy just walking down the street in Portland. Too many people heard the word “Muslim” and reacted with fear and even hate.
“But how does that work? Don’t you have to pray five times a day? And which direction do you face . . . ?”
His parents and sisters were secular, though his grandparents were observant. Even in his thirties, Trevor wasn’t sure where he fell on the spectrum, or if he was on it at all. But he’d made time to perform the Hajj before he entered Mars Ho medical isolation. He didn’t want to find himself at the end of his life on a faraway planet, wishing he’d made his pilgrimage to Mecca while he had the chance.
“I don’t have to do anything.”
This was precisely the conversation Trevor had been avoiding with the colonists. He’d left his middle name—Ali—off of his Mars Ho application because he didn’t want to fall victim to other people’s prejudices. It was his version of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and if the reality show producers had known about his background, they didn’t make it an issue—a small mercy that took him by surprise. It was also the primary reason he was fussy about keeping himself clean-shaven.
He didn’t want anyone worrying about terrorism in the spacecraft or Sharia law on Mars or whatever other bullshit somebody might have come up with to keep Trevor out of the competition or to prevent him from participating in the colony once he’d arrived.
But maybe, slowly, people on Earth would see Cooking for Martians and would read about Ares City, and they wouldn’t even care about his background or whether or not he prayed. And then maybe a few more brothers and sisters in Islam would find their way to the Red Planet, too.
“I never wanted to be the Muslim on Mars.” Trevor had to laugh at himself, because that’s precisely what he was, for better or worse. “I am a Muslim. And I happen to be on Mars. But I’m not trying to start up a new branch of Islam or anything.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
He looked up and realized he’d been ducking her gaze. Instead of finding judgment in her eyes, he saw curiosity. He was the one who was being unfair, and he started to feel warm, maybe even a little ashamed.
Was he hiding who he was? Or still figuring out who he was.
“Sorry,” he said at last. “I shouldn’t have implied that . . . That you were implying anything.”
Hogan laughed. Her smile was beautiful, and he felt a weight lift off his chest as she looked at him. She put down her drink and practically sashayed a few paces across the floor to turn up the music. The rhythmic beat of West African drums thrummed beneath a melody of Peruvian flutes and synthesized strings. World pop. Trevor felt his body loosen.
“Do you dance?” Hogan asked.
Trevor was about to respond with a pat answer about the role of music and movement in Islam, and which sects were more and less strict about men and women dancing together. But that wasn’t the question she was asking.
“Sure, I can dance.”
Hogan looked at him with impatient expectation, her smile growing wider.
“You mean right now?” Trevor shook the globs of dough from his fingers and quickly rinsed off his hands in the sink. He stood before her, his heart beating in his chest in syncopation wi
th the music. She was nearly his height and as they stood facing each other, eye to eye, Hogan reached for his hands, wrapped them around her waist, and started to move with him.
“I didn’t think the commander of the UNSC base was allowed to fraternize.” Trevor looked down at his feet and tried to identify her pattern.
There was a sharp chuckle from the kitchen doorway. Trevor turned to find Miranda coming into the kitchen, and he immediately took a step back from Hogan. But Hogan pulled him close again.
“The commander of the UNSC base can do whatever she damned well pleases.” Hogan shot a sharp look to Miranda as she hurried across the floor, grabbed a bag of granola cubes, and ducked back out.
But Trevor caught Miranda’s nod of approval before she disappeared down the corridor.
Hogan pressed closer, using her legs to guide his and turning him around the room. She was leading. Trevor was feeling warm and tingly in all sorts of special places, but he bristled, too. He’d had strong women around him all his life, and Hogan was a fine example of a capable woman in command. But there were some concessions he was reluctant to make.
“I should get back to work.” He stepped away.
She grabbed him and pulled him close. He liked that, but then she was leading again.
“This is supposed to be a party,” she said. “Or something like that. You don’t have to work all the time.”
“It’s not really work when you’re doing something you love.”
He wanted to tell her that creating with food was an adventure of discovery. It was his means of providing for his community and of bringing people together.
But he refused to follow her lead. He came close to deliberately stepping on her feet. But Hogan guided him with the steady pressure of her body. She kept him moving in the pattern she had chosen.
Trevor pushed away from her, more forcefully this time. “I don’t think this is really my thing.”
And then she did something he hadn’t seen coming. She took him boldly by the shoulders and she kissed him, right on the mouth.
He was too stunned to react at first. His body started to melt into the softness of her, and he was surprised by how she felt both malleable and formidable as she pressed against him. There was no heady aroma of perfume, just the fruity taste of the juice she’d been drinking.
Hogan laughed lightly as she moved her lips over his. She reached into his hair and tugged at him, guiding him, directing him. She was in charge, and Trevor couldn’t catch his breath.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and forcefully broke her hold. He looked into her eyes for a long moment and saw a mixture of hopeful surprise and embarrassed resignation.
Then she frowned. “Do you, I’m sorry, does it feel warm in here to you?”
Trevor started to laugh, but he saw that she was completely serious. And he was starting to sweat.
8
It wasn’t Hogan’s imagination. The temperature inside Progress Base was on the rise.
After taking a moment to deal with her personal shame in the kitchen, Hogan rolled her shoulders back and made for the recreation room. Because, what had she been thinking? Trevor had only just arrived. He was already having lady troubles—supposedly mated to April, and then with Melissa throwing herself at him. What made Hogan think it was a good idea to add herself to the mix?
And why was it so freaking hot?
And there was something he’d said to Melissa, when she’d argued that none of the colonists were married. You know my position on that. What did that mean? Hogan knew better than to assume everyone else thought the way she did, had the same values, and wanted the same things. For all she knew, she’d deeply offended Trevor with a little dancing and a kiss.
He hadn’t rejected her, exactly, but he hadn’t been blatantly enthusiastic, either.
Now she was sweaty and antsy, and she was going to kill Grigori for putting it into her head that she should proposition one of the Ares City colonists.
Not Ares City, she reminded herself. Dorito Village. She wondered how long it would take before she could show her face there again.
Then she chided herself for questioning her own authority. She was the commander of Progress Base. She was the ultimate authority on this planet. Trevor was the one who would have to get used to working with her, not the other way around.
And then she wondered if she had committed sexual harassment.
With her brain operating at near light speed, she beat herself up like this through the ten meters of corridor separating the kitchen from the main action in the rec room.
The Trojan Assault challenge was petering out—because the players had put down their controllers and were stripping out of their jumpsuits. For a second, Hogan wondered if she had stumbled into an entirely different kind of party. Beads of sweat rolled down everyone’s faces, and Hogan wiped her sleeve across her own slick brow.
“Commander?” Miranda had already shucked off the top half of her jumpsuit, and pools of sweat darkened the bra she wore underneath. “We’ve got an environmental malfunction.”
“You think?” Hogan’s voice was harsher than she intended. She pulled at the zipper on the front of her jumpsuit. “What’s causing the problem?”
“Yusuf is checking the systems now.” Miranda’s breath was uneven, and some of the colonists were starting to pant. “I’d advise getting everyone out of here for now.”
Hogan nodded. It was a good thing the UNSC had neighbors on Mars, with a habitat of their own.
“Okay, everyone listen up!” Hogan called out. The grumbling and cursing in the sauna-like rec room didn’t entirely come to a stop, but it was close enough. “While we figure out what’s gone wrong here, we’re going to need everyone to suit up and head for the rovers. We’re headed back to . . .”
She had to stop herself. She’d nearly said Dorito Village. “Ares City.”
She looked around the crowded room for Trevor, and she wondered if he’d already thrown on his suit and headed out the door for the long walk home after she’d practically forced herself on him in the kitchen. Instead, she found Mark’s gaze.
“Are you prepared for some visitors?” she asked. “I’m afraid we may have to impose on you folks for a while.”
Mark responded with a quick nod, and then Lori chimed in as sweat poured down her face and matted her long hair against her scalp. “It’s the least we can do, after the hospitality you’ve shown us. We’ll, uh, make it work?”
“Everyone to the rovers!” April shouted over the steamy din. She kept her voice cheerful, probably to keep people from panicking. Hogan remembered something about April having some counseling or therapy experience. It would come in handy now.
It was a tricky business, getting everyone back into their surface suits when they were all perspiring so heavily. They leaned against the walls in the control room, red-faced and sluggish as they pulled on their suits. Hogan’s fingers kept slipping over the material of her suit and sliding across the sealing mechanisms. It was counterintuitive and a real psychological feat to layer on more clothing when the temperature inside Progress Base had climbed high enough that Hogan wanted nothing more than to claw her way out of her own skin.
“We’re at forty-six Celsius, commander, and rising. Humidity at sixty-percent and rising,” Miranda called out from her workstation. She had stripped down to her underwear and stood barefoot in front of her computer. Her short, dark hair was spiky with sweat.
“You and Yusuf good to stay?” Hogan clutched her helmet and watched Leah, Lori, Martin, and April head through the airlock.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Yusuf kicked off his jumpsuit and shook the sweat from his fingers before typing on his computer keyboard.
“Fifty-two degrees Celsius,” Miranda called out. “Should we put on our suits? We could stay cooler.”
Yusuf shook his head. “Not yet. I can’t type worth a damn with those gloves on.”
“What’s your cutoff?” Hogan asked.
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Miranda and Yusuf glanced at each other.
“With the humidity increasing, seventy, seventy-five degrees Celsius,” Yusuf answered. “If it gets to that point, I guess we’ll just have to abandon ship, let whatever this is burn itself off and then try to repair the damage.”
If the damage can be repaired. Hogan wiped the sweat from her eyes. It was getting hard to breathe. They were nearly at the end of their long shift on Mars. This was the first major glitch of the mission, and it was a doozy. The temperature would soon climb high enough that hyperthermia was no longer a risk but a certainty.
“It’s like a steam room in here!” Melissa was slumped in the chair at Grigori’s workstation. She struggled to slide her sticky arms into her pressure suit, and she was starting to hyperventilate. “I can’t, I don’t think . . .”
Guillermo tried to help her, but she pushed him away and started to cry.
“Grigori.” Hogan nodded to her second to help Melissa. Guillermo lingered behind her, watching as Grigori suited her up with practiced efficiency.
Hogan turned back to Miranda and Yusuf. “Make it sixty-eight degrees. Not a second longer. You see the thermostat hit that mark, you throw on your suits and head for Ares City. Don’t push it.”
Hogan turned toward the airlock, where Mark, Trent, and Guillermo were waiting to go through with her.
Trent started frantically patting the front and back of his suit. “Mark? Mark!”
Mark and Hogan turned to Trent with alarm.
“I, well, gosh, I think I’ve lost my keys.” Beneath his visor, Trent’s sweaty face broke into a wide grin. “I sure hope we won’t get locked out of Ares City.”
Mark chuckled uncomfortably, while Hogan resisted the urge to slap Trent across the helmet. It was one thing to relieve tension with poor attempts at humor, and quite another to be easy and cool-headed in a crisis—and that came with training the colonists didn’t have.
“Let’s go.” Hogan took a deep breath of air hot enough to scorch her lungs, then pulled her helmet on and sealed it into place. There was a tense moment when her visor fogged up and obscured her vision, but her suit’s systems came online and she soon felt the soothing, reassuring relief of cool air moving over her body.
Mars Heat (Mars Adventure Romance Series (MARS) Book 3) Page 10