Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  "I mean a hand-written log. In case something goes wrong with the ship’s electronics. What we're seeing..." George spread his arms, palms up. "...begin with this moment,” George consulted his watch. “July 12th, 2057, at o-nine-thirty-eight.

  “Sure, Cap.” Farrell nodded.

  “Okay, those going ashore, layer your clothing. It’s damned cold out there.”

  George watched them jump to it, as agreeable a bunch as he could hope for, given half had multiple doctorates, the others culled from the elite in their fields of endeavor. They had become what he intended them to be: so reliant upon each other, they would do almost anything to avoid letting the others down. George was damned lucky to have them.

  Chapter Two

  08:00 Hours - July 12, 2057 - Mars

  “Well hello, Colonel.”

  “Hello, Mr. Tammer.” Genuinely pleased, Kaider O’Brien, USAF, rose from the table to shake the newcomer’s hand. “I never expected to see you at Explorer Base. What gives?”

  Seated beside O'Brien in the base cafeteria on the third level of dome nine, Major Andy Clapton acknowledged the stranger with a nod and continued eating.

  “Surely you must know the best reporters go where the news is, Colonel. The great Anderson Palmer himself begged me to do this assignment. You may remember, he was the first vid-barker to set foot on the moon.” Pallid from the three-month journey from Earth, Reginald Tammer took the proffered hand in his meaty paw and shook it vigorously. “Speaking of which, I understand you’ll be leading the esteemed, and egocentric I might add, Robert Mastifson and his entourage out to the dig site this morning.”

  “Glad to have you aboard, Tammer and yes, I am. Were you planning on joining us?”

  “Indeed not, Colonel. I’m a vid-barker, not an explorer. Stepping out into a near vacuum wrapped in a thin polymer suit isn’t my idea of reporting. My primary function is to edit the vid-feeds before they are beamed to the teeming masses on Earth...and to provide a journalistic presence. Everyone knows Doctor Frailer found something of some significance. Something made by intelligent hands, I’m told.”

  O’Brien chuckled. “We don't know anything for sure, but the last cavern we entered has a section that doesn’t appear to be a natural formation.”

  “Well then, I must truly be blessed to come all this way...to be the only journalist present when something, perhaps of alien construction, is revealed. Makes the galaxy seem rather small, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all. In comparison, the length of your flight was like a grain of sand on an endless beach.”

  “Always such interesting analogies, Colonel. That’s what makes you such fun to be with.” Tammer's smile was genuine, though the growling in his belly had become insistent.

  With an open-hand sweep, O’Brien invited Tammer to join them, then took his seat.

  “Thank you no, Colonel. I see that you're about finished and I don't wish to keep you from your duties.” Tammer rubbed his great belly and grinned. Despite his gregarious and often misleading manner, the journalist rarely got involved in field-remotes unless there was more to the story than was generally known.

  O'Brien lowered his voice and leaned toward Tammer, engendering a complimentary reaction. “Since you’ve got connections your competitors only dream of, tell me, what gives with the secrecy? The last vidcom from NASA was terse. Mastifson and his group are to go the site within an hour of their arrival. No tour of the facility, lunch with the base commander...none of the standard protocols. I'm baffled why I wasn't informed you were aboard.” He was comfortable discussing such things with Tammer. The journalist had proven his fidelity to O'Brien's satisfaction during previous encounters.

  Assuming a conspiratorial air, Tammer leaned even closer, brushing O'Brien with sweetened breath. “Not much of anything I'm interested in gets past me, Colonel. I was a last minute addition, and I believe you and your staff were purposely kept out of the loop. The current administration sees media spies everywhere."

  "Even more reason to have given me a detailed dossier on everyone arriving."

  "I'm sure it wasn't meant to impugn you. I'm told the order came from the President himself...at the behest of his brother-in-law, the CEO of WorldVid. I'm certain it has everything to do with first vid rights. It appears they suspect someone up here, possibly one of your officers. It wouldn't be hard to sell out to a non-authorized event manager...given recent technological advances. Pirate vid, you know. That kind of stuff. WorldVid thinks the other networks are figuring ways to get an unedited download.” Tammer shook his head and smiled broadly. "Nothing military or political...terrorists or anything like that."

  Half expecting a far juicer story, O’Brien was mildly disappointed. “You probably know that I find the economic considerations of space exploration irrelevant.”

  “I had assumed as much.” Tammer eyed O’Brien’s meal longingly. “Well, I’ll leave you for now.” His eyes darted away, then back. “The aroma of reconstituted fried eggs and sizzling bacon has gotten my juices flowing. We’ll have time afterward to crack a beer or two...providing those eagles on your collar haven’t muted your taste for a brew?”

  “Not at all, but you’ll have to do with non-alcoholic knock-offs while you’re here. Regs.” O'Brien gave him a what-can-I-say shrug. ”No tobacco products or tokes either.”

  “I’ll make do. My alcoholic consumption is for public viewing only. With the rare exception of visits with those of high-estate and old friends.” Tammer rolled his eyes and grinned.

  “Of course. However, I do have a fifth of scotch I save for special visitors. Rank does have some privileges. I’ll look you up later.” Colonel O’Brien extended his hand.

  With a slight bow and wink, Tammer shook it once, then hurried off. O’Brien sank back into his chair.

  “You must know him well. I've never heard you talk so openly with anyone besides me.” Across the round, polished green surface, Clapton eyed his superior with some amusement. As solidly built as O'Brien, he was a head shorter and far better looking. He sported the same regulation military brush cut and wore an identical, perfectly pressed khaki jumpsuit, but for the oak clusters on his collar. Despite the difference in rank and age — at thirty-nine O’Brien was four years older — he considered Clapton a close friend and ally.

  “Well enough, I guess. Not that I associate with vid-barkers, but Tammer's okay. At least he makes a real effort to get the facts straight.” O’Brien sopped up the last of his egg yolk with a triangle of toast and bit into it, relishing the rare taste of real eggs. While the new arrivals were passing through decon, a gross of brown eggs and five pounds of bacon had been rushed over, compliments of the shuttle’s commander.

  “I’ve only seen him on the vids. How’d you meet him?”

  “He was an indie vidporter during the Afghan Wars. Showed up everywhere I was back in ‘43. Since then, I’ve run across him a few times.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Tammer?” O’Brien took a sip from his cup and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Despite his liberal, dovish leanings, he tends to be fairer than most...avoids the sensation stories. Made himself a fortune and a celebrity by being in the right places at the right time.” He smiled, remembering a drunken card game with Tammer and a pair of officers the night Tammer’s first major heart-rending production aired.

  “You stay in touch?”

  “He looks me up when he needs a military man’s perspective.” O’Brien’s thoughts drifted from Tammer to the sixteen highly acclaimed sociologists, anthropologists, archeologists and an exobiologist, who had arrived with him. They must have made the arduous journey for reasons of posterity alone. With recent advances in digital technology, even those of modest means could sit comfortably in their own living room and experience Mars in near three-dimensional quality. He also understood military politics well enough to know that if they found anything of alien construction, he would be promoted to Brigadier General within days.

  “
Earth to O’Brien.” Clapton stopped eating and eyed him with a bemused smile.

  “Oh, sorry, lost in thought.” An image of Earth surrounded by the vast darkness of space flashed through his mind.

  “I could see that. I was asking, you think you can keep the civvies in line?”

  “Who knows? I’m only hoping one of them doesn’t do something stupid and get himself killed.”

  “There’s always that risk.”

  “The com reports indicate they've all passed standard enviro training.”

  “Can't ask for more than that.” The last forkful of reconstituted hash browns disappeared into Clapton’s mouth. With a satisfied grunt, he set his fork down, swiped at his lips with a napkin and burped. “Aren’t you worried this is going to turn out to be a lot of to-do over nothing?”

  “Yes...I am. I would rather have continued the dig with our resident specialists instead of having to wait for these flash-famers to arrive.”

  “To take the credit for yourself, Colonel?”

  He realized the jab was intended as a joke, but O’Brien was too close to the situation to see the humor in it. He shot Clapton a look of total disgust — a rare display of emotion on his part.

  “Excuse me.” Clapton, looked away, his cheeks reddening. “I wasn’t aware you were so enthralled with your own legacy.”

  O’Brien relaxed and chuckled. “All right, so you’ve discovered my ulterior motive, a secret, albeit minor desire for unbridled fame. How clever of you.”

  “My apologies, Colonel. The question was insensitive...way off base.”

  “Actually, your jab hit closer to home than I would care to admit. It could put me in line for Major General before my forty-fifth birthday. So, deep down, I’m hoping this turns out to be a significant find.”

  “Good god! I never considered you a soldier-politician.”

  “No. Of course not. It would be a tough row to be who I am and still become a two-star Colonel.” Hands clasped before him, O’Brien hadn’t wanted the conversation to delve so deeply into his personal desires. His strengths were in hands-on management, not political infighting, but a promotion would boost his retirement benefits and allow him to get out of the game early.

  Clapton pushed his chair back and stood. “I’d best be going. With your permission, Colonel.”

  “As you were, Major.”

  Clapton retrieved his tray from the next table, gathered his dishes and, with a final nod, took them to the disposal chute. In a fairly swift process, bacteria would consume attached food particles and sonic cleaners would remove what residue remained before the items were sent to be reconstituted. As with the dishware, more than half of the base's components were formulated from silicates and other minerals mined on Mars, and remolecularized by a Teledyne Rehancer: the latest development in the juvenile field of replication technology.

  O’Brien finished his meal, and sated, looked around. Except for a pair of lime-green jumpsuited specialists in quiet conversation beneath the air circulator and a white-aproned kitchen aide accepting an order from Tammer, he was alone. His thoughts were on the excavation as he emptied his tray into the disposal chute. He caught his reflection in the polished silver silicate backplate, giving him pause.

  He had aged during his brief tenure. His short-cropped dark hair had gone salt and pepper where it receded at the temples. Though not overtly concerned about it, he admitted to himself that his square face and better-than-average looks still easily matched the bioputer-generated images found on recruitment posters. A thin blush washed his face and he turned away, but then a glint off something outside drew him to the observation portal. With two thirds of the dome beneath the surface, he looked out over the Martian landscape at near ground level.

  In one of its calmer periods, Mars' red sky was clear, the sunlight barely diffused by dust suspended in the upper atmosphere. He observed a two-man buggy — an incongruous, dirty gray mesh of tubes and wire — scuttling across the rock strewn red basin. It disappeared beneath the shadow of the near vertical eastern interior wall of the kilometer wide, peanut-shaped crater. A daily patrol on its way to one of several far-flung drone bases servicing a small army of mechanized explorers. Though rare, contact was sometimes made with maintenance patrols from two private sector bases located within a hundred kilometers. One was founded by the Texas Exploratory Group, the other by the Asian Empire. Their motivations were primarily economic: the first to discover anything of political, religious or economic value would most likely attract trillions in investment dollars.

  Still lost in thought, O’Brien approached a large, oblong black hatch that swung soundlessly open before he reached it. He stepped inside and waited as it sealed and another opened, accessing the complex's main corridor.

  Several meters on, he passed through an open hatch on his right and entered another airlock. The hatch closed behind him and moments later, the other opened into the suit room. Thirteen men and two women in black civilian jumpsuits and four in khaki were helping each other don the white polymer envirosuits worn outside. They were sharing jokes, some quite animated, and commenting on the bulkiness of the suits. None appeared worried about the risks inherent in working in a near vacuum.

  A tall, barrel-chested man suited up except for his helmet, hurried over. “Colonel O’Brien! This is such a pleasure! At last we meet!”

  “Doctor Mastifson.” O’Brien extended his hand and the man shook it vigorously.

  “Doctor Mastifson!” Apparently unable to speak in normal tones, his deep baritone boomed throughout the room, making him seem too large for the confines of a simple space station. The snug fit of the generic envirosuit did nothing to deny the comparison.

  “No need to stand on formality, Colonel. My friends call me Rob. Since you’ll be seeing to our safety out there,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, “I consider you my friend!” His graciously winsome smile contrasted starkly with his physical size.

  “You may wish to reconsider. This excursion will be digitally mapped. Everything said and seen will be recorded. Since this might turn into an historical event, you may want to retain some degree of formality.”

  “Well said, Colonel! Quite logical. I shall attempt to carry this off with a great show of dignity, even though we both know it will be edited for commercial breaks. I can be me when we’re blocked out.” Again the gracious smile, unbesmirched by even a taint of insincerity.

  “I’m sure you will, Doctor Mastifson.”

  “Doctor will do fine, Colonel." His cheeks flushed and his bellicose manner faded momentarily. "When formality dictates, otherwise Rob.” He winked.

  “I’ll lead you out as soon as I’m suited up.”

  O’Brien stepped around Mastifson and reached for a suit held out by Airman Lestiss, the only woman on the base security force. She was a full head taller than the young, pretty brunette with an inviting smile standing beside her. For too long a moment, O’Brien hesitated midway into shrugging on his suit. The excitement welling within him was inappropriate. His biomods should have made him impervious to female allures. It was a social device he felt compelled to employ as long as he was stationed on Mars. His personal relationships with women had a habit of falling apart when his love interest realized his military responsibilities came first. Still, he was pleased that his reaction was not lost on her.

  Her eyes demurred beneath his penetrating gaze. “Linda Myer...Doctor Linda Myer, Colonel.”

  O’Brien quelled the excitement stirring within him. This was not the time or place, though he would have to find time to be with her before she returned home. Her smile warmed as he continued to stare. It was all he could do to keep from splitting his face with a silly grin. Instead, he smiled with his eyes, keeping a firm check on outward reactions. Airmen Lestiss' knowing grin revealed he was not entirely successful.

  “Thank you, Airmen. And welcome, Doctor Myer.” He turned his back to them and slipped his feet into the boots, then leaned back into the suit.

 
“My pleasure to be here, Colonel.” Though her tone was cool, her smile hinted at her pleasure.

  Mastifson stooped before O’Brien and pressed the suit’s seams together, rising as he closed it from the ankles up. With the Airmen’s help, O’Brien wriggled his fingers into his gloves. Thick and warm, they formed to the shape of his hands. He felt the suit adapt to his requirements amid small movements generated by the suit’s electro-mechanics.

  Envirosuit MF365 systems diagnostics: No malfunctions detected. The mechanical, slightly nasal voice emanated from the suit’s right shoulder.

  “Everyone ready?” A chorus of answers told O’Brien they were. “Helmets on. Final suit check. Non-suits evacuate the chamber.”

  Airman Lestiss and three security officers left as O’Brien did a head count. His two people were amid the scientists, indistinguishable from the others, but for large, webbed pocket belts at their waist. They contained small tools, repair kits, and hand lasers. They helped each other seat their helmets, white polymer globes with clear face shields, and power-up their enviropaks. Each success was accompanied by a resounding metallic click as the helmets locked in place, a slight swelling of the suits and a tinny acknowledgment.

  First Lieutenant Dirk Paider, in charge of mission security, locked his helmet and checked his pressure settings before doing the same for the rest of the party. He winked at Doctor Myer, who winked back and blushed. It was Paider who had welcomed and escorted the group from the Mars Explorer to the base. The exchange had not gone unnoticed by O'Brien, but when Paider got to him, he was all business.

  His inspections completed, Paider gave O’Brien the thumbs up. In turn, O’Brien counted heads: thirteen, plus himself, all looking to him for direction. The remaining specialists who came in on the shuttle were staying at the base to handle the technical vidfeeds.

  "I would warn you that the enviropaks hold only six hours of air," O'Brien cautioned, "so keep calm and breathe normally, or you'll shorten that time frame considerably." At a nod from him, Technical Sergeant James Doomes secured the chamber from a panel mounted flush with the wall at eye level. At each prompt, Doomes tapped in a different sequence, choosing from eight colored squares by twos on the left side of the panel. Red 'vacuum complete' warnings flashed along the walls.