Rescue Mode

by Ben Bova

  Benson seemed to suck up his gut. Lifting his chin, he said, “Houston, Darmstadt, Moscow, Tsukuba. The Arrow is away. Our next stop is Mars, where we will take humanity’s first steps on a truly alien world for the benefit of all the people of Earth. Wish us luck.”

  Then he blew out a long, sighing breath.

  “Good luck, you guys,” Mission Control repeated.

  Connover realized that Bee had touched all the bases by addressing the American operations center first, since the United States was footing most of the bill for the mission, and then other three key partners’ operations centers: Darmstadt for the European Space Agency, Moscow for the Russians and Tsukuba for the Japanese.

  Clicking the microphone off, Benson turned to Connover and said, “Ted, can you believe it? We’re really on our way. I was actually starting to wonder if this day would ever come.”

  Connover grinned at Bee. Underneath that layer of ice he’s as excited as I am, he realized.

  “I knew it would happen,” Connover said. “I just wasn’t sure it would come along during my lifetime. It’s been more’n sixty years since Apollo. Hell, von Braun thought that we’d go to Mars in the nineteen eighties. He was off by damned near half a century.”

  “Better late than never,” Benson said, with some fervor. “Did you hear that they’re going to announce the crew for the next mission later this week? We’ll get back about a month before they depart. We might even be out of quarantine in time to shake their hands.”

  “Maybe. Senator Donaldson wants to cut out the manned space program altogether,” Connover said.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “You know that and I know that. But there’s a lot of people who think the same way he does.”

  Benson tilted his head slightly. “Well, our going to Mars ought to take the wind out of his sails.”

  Connover brightened. “Yeah, that’s right. ’Specially if we find something really big. Like life-forms.”

  “Amanda says the best she’s hoping for is maybe finding organisms that have survived from when Mars was a lot warmer and wetter than it is now.”

  “Martians.”

  “Microscopic things. Bacteria, something like that.”

  “But they’ll be Martian, just the same,” Connover insisted. “We’ll be big heroes when we get back.”

  Benson smiled patiently. “We have to get there first.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

  Connover said, “Well, the first step has worked out all right. We’re on our way.”

  “Right. We’re on our way.”

  April 5, 2035

  Earth Departure

  09:30 Universal Time

  The Rock

  Not much happened in the vicinity of the rock as it followed its long, looping path around the Sun. Nothing of particular interest came anywhere near it. Interplanetary space between Earth and Mars was a near-perfect vacuum, averaging no more than five atoms—atoms—per cubic centimeter. Even if the rock had been sentient and possessed of the latest scientific instruments, it would never have noticed the occasional hydrogen atom that collided with it during its seemingly endless journey around the Sun.

  Newton’s laws were at work. A body in motion remains in motion—unless some outside force acts upon it.

  The rock hurtled along as it had for fifteen million years, undisturbed in its orbit between Mars and Earth. However, it was moving blindly toward a spot that, although currently empty, would soon be occupied by another object.

  Newton’s inexorable laws would dictate that these two objects would meet in a violent collision. The second of the two objects was not an inert chunk of rock, but rather it had been purposefully created and powered by the nuclear fires of its engines and the ingenuity of humankind.

  II

  In Transit

  April 5, 2035

  Earth Departure

  17:03 Universal Time

  the Arrow

  Catherine Clermont suppressed an urge to giggle at the newsman. Steven Treadway was standing in a TV studio in New York City, of course, but thanks to the virtual reality electronics aboard the Arrow, he appeared on the monitor screen in the vessel’s small geology lab to be standing in front of her. As carefully instructed before the TV show began, Catherine looked at the monitor screen and Treadway’s image.

  We make a good-looking couple, she thought. Even in her NASA-issue sky-blue overalls, Clermont had carefully arranged her hair and makeup; her petite figure looked trim and attractive, she knew. And Treadway was dashingly handsome, tall, his smile gleaming.

  Yet somehow he looked boyish, slightly disheveled, his customary white shirt a bit askew, as though he had pulled it on at the last moment without checking how it fit. His dark hair, normally perfectly smoothed, was a little disarrayed. He looked . . . excited. That surprised her.

  “I’m reporting from the geology laboratory aboard the Arrow,” he was saying, a little breathlessly, “as it starts out on its six-month flight to Mars.”

  He is excited, Clermont decided. Truly. Just as if he were actually here with us.

  “The crew is in good spirits,” Treadway continued, “after their departure this morning at 7:45 Central U.S. Time. All the ship’s systems are performing as planned and the crew is optimistic and upbeat about their historic voyage.”

  Focusing on Clermont, Treadway said, “To get a perspective on leaving the Earth for a mission that will take the better part of two years, I’m speaking with one of the crew’s two geologists, Catherine Clermont.”

  Clermont nodded and smiled on cue.

  “Dr. Clermont, you won’t be able to do any geology until you actually get to Mars. How are you going to spend your time over the next one hundred seventy-eight days?”

  “Oh, I have plenty to keep me occupied,” she said, keeping her smile in place. “I plan to keep up with the latest work in my field by reading the scientific journals in their digital editions. And I will check all the tools I will use in the field once we arrive on Mars, to make certain they are in proper working order when I need them.”

  Treadway grinned at her. “Don’t you think that will get a little boring after a hundred days or so?”

  She made a Gallic shrug. “Well, I do plan to do more than merely read the journals. I am writing a novel—”

  “No!”

  “Yes. I expect I will have the time to finish the first draft on the outbound leg of our mission. I probably won’t have time to work on it during the trip home, though. I will be too busy examining the rocks we collect on Mars.”

  “A novel,” Treadway said. “May I ask what it’s about?”

  Her smile turning impish, Clermont said, “It is a love story about a field geologist who becomes an astronaut and a handsome news reporter, of course.” Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “Any more questions?”

  Treadway swallowed visibly, then answered, “No, I think that’ll wrap up this session. Good luck with your, er, novel. This is Steven Treadway, reporting virtually from the Arrow.”

  All eight of the crew got together in the galley at the end of the work day. It was a tight squeeze: although the galley had been designed to seat all of them, there was scant room to spare. Lanky Hi McPherson had to pull himself up over the chair’s back and slide his long legs under the table.

  “We ought to just float,” he complained, “while we’re still in zero-g. Take advantage of the weightlessness instead of wedging ourselves around the table.”

  Virginia Gonzalez started to shake her head, but caught herself in time. “I’m having a tough enough time keeping from tossing my cookies, Hi. If you were floating over my head, I think I’d lose it.”

  McPherson cinched his seat belt. “Sorry, Jinny. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

  Though the inflated habitat module was less luxurious than the tourist hotels in low Earth orbit, it was still a big improvement over the more Spartan accommodations of the earlier space shuttles and s
pace stations built by governments. The Arrow’s habitat had been built by a non-traditional contractor, Harris Space Corporation, which had made its mark by constructing the Earth-orbiting hotel getaways for the uber-rich tourists eager to “go where no one has gone before”—and pay for the privilege.

  The orbiting Harris hotels had entertainment options that the Arrow did not, such as three-dimensional virtual reality couches and gourmet meals. Plus acrobatic weightless “play” areas that some tourists used to join the ‘Zero-G Club.’ Harris himself often attributed his corporation’s profits to the thirst of millionaires who were quite willing to part with their money for the excitement of sex in orbit.

  The space agencies that funded the Mars mission officially frowned on the idea of their crew enjoying sex during their mission to Mars and back. But they knew that eight healthy, intelligent men and women cooped up together for nearly two years were bound to make their own arrangements. “I just hope they’re discreet about it,” NASA chief Saxby said with a resigned tone.

  Benson looked around the table at his seven crewmates. They all looked expectantly at their commander.

  “Ginny, your troubles will be over in about an hour,” he said, “when we start spinning up the ship. We’ll have a one-third-gee the rest of the way to Mars, so we won’t be invalids when we get there.”

  Taki Nomura closed her eyes for a moment. She had seen the results of long-term exposure to microgravity: loss of muscle tone, including the heart muscle. Loss of bone mass, making the bones so brittle a man could not stand on his own feet without danger of snapping a bone. Spinning the ship was necessary, a prudent solution to the problem of long-term weightlessness. Should they for some reason have to make the journey to Mars without artificial gravity, the ship had a pair of treadmills stowed on the ceiling just above the galley—complete with a gyroscope to keep it stabilized and a harness to keep the person using it from simply floating away with each step— as well as a stationary bike and even a bench press that used tensioned cables instead of weights. The whole setup could be used where it was, if they were in zero gravity, or lowered to the deck in the space now occupied by the dining table in artificial-gee. Both were modular and easily repositioned. But spinning the ship to simulate gravity was much the preferable solution. They would arrive at Mars fully conditioned to walk and work on the planet’s surface.

  “Ted will fire the minithrusters that will spin us up,” Benson went on, as if reading from the mission manual. “Before he does that, though, I need for each of you to check that all your equipment and belongings are properly stowed or tied down. We don’t want loose stuff flying around and hurting somebody once gravity comes on.”

  Nods and murmurs around the table.

  “Like we rehearsed, the spin-up will take only a few minutes. We’ll need to be back in our launch seats and strapped in while Ted gets us moving. I’ll go around the comm with each of you and get your ‘all clear’ before we start the procedure. Okay?”

  More nods.

  “All right, let’s make it happen.”

  The crew got up at once, taking off in all directions. McPherson slid his long legs out from under the table, bounced off the cushiony ceiling, and bumped into Clermont. His face turned red.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “C’est rien,” she replied, with a smile.

  Gonzales and Amanda Lynn swam through the hatch together, heading for their privacy cubicles. Benson headed for the control center, almost regretting that within a few minutes gravity would return to their little self-contained world. There’d be a definite up and down. He’d miss the ease and joy of floating weightlessly.

  May 14, 2035

  Earth Departure Plus 39 Days

  15:30 Universal Time

  Galley. the Arrow

  Hi McPherson’s normal pleasant grin was gone. He stood staring at the chessboard, scratching at his beard and scowling.

  “Something’s not right. Your rook wasn’t there when I left.”

  Looking up at him from his chair at the galley table, Mikhail Prokhorov smiled innocently. “Are you saying I cheated?”

  McPherson didn’t reply. He simply stood there, slightly stooped over the table, staring intently at the board. When he’d left the table for one of the ship’s three toilets he had memorized the positions of the pieces on the board. He was certain that Prokhorov’s white rook was not where it had been when he’d left.

  Sitting down slowly, McPherson said, “I’m not saying you cheated, Mikhail, but something’s wrong. I don’t claim to have a photographic memory, but I’m reasonably good at keeping up with the pieces during a game and I know your rook wasn’t there when I left. I had my next move planned and now it’ll be impossible.” Looking into Prokhorov’s face, McPherson suggested, “Are you sure you didn’t accidentally bump the table or something?”

  Still smiling, Prokhorov said, “I did not bump the table and I most certainly did not cheat.”

  “I say you did,” McPherson said, more in sorrow than in anger. “I can’t believe you’d cheat at a game of chess! What’s the point of it?”

  Prokhorov pointed a finger at McPherson’s chest. “I don’t need to cheat, and I certainly don’t need to cheat to beat a player as poor as you are. I think you owe me an apology.”

  Catherine Clermont and Taki Nomura were watching them from the refrigerator/freezer and microwave oven on the other side of the galley. Clermont felt particularly disturbed by the rising heat of their exchange.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “there is no need to become angry. I am sure it’s just a misunderstanding. And after all, it is only a game.”

  McPherson got up from the table. “It’s only a game, sure. But we’ve got to be able to trust each other and right now I don’t think I feel like trusting or believing anything about this guy.”

  “It is only a game,” Clermont repeated, a little more strongly. “Now get your testosterone in check, Hi. Walk away and get over it.”

  McPherson’s face was reddening, but not from anger. He felt embarrassed. This isn’t the way to impress Catherine, he told himself. Gotta cool down. Show her I’m a better man than he is. Cool down.

  He backed away from the table, turned and headed for the hatch. Over his shoulder he said, “I know what I saw, but Catherine’s right: it’s only a game.”

  Prokhorov, still grinning, scooped up the chess pieces and put them back into their box. Then he got to his feet, made a little bow to the two women, and sauntered out of the galley.

  Clermont turned to Nomura. “Taki, I’m going to talk with Hi. I hate to see him so upset.”

  Nomura replied absently, “Sure. You do that. Hi could use some TLC right now.”

  The French geologist hurried out of the galley, leaving Nomura standing by the microwave, alone with her thoughts.

  Mikhail did move the rook while Hi was out of the room, she knew. I saw him. And he saw me watching him. He even winked at me!

  Is this his idea of a joke? Some elaborate Russian prank? Is he sore at Hi for some reason?

  As the ship’s psychologist I’ve got to look into this. We’re going to be living together for a long time, and we can’t afford to have personality clashes. I’ll have to talk to Mikhail, see what’s motivating him. And Hi, get him to relax more.

  Then she wondered, Should I tell Bee about this? He’s the commander, he ought to know if something’s afoot that could endanger the crew’s morale. But he’s got enough to think about. Maybe I ought to keep this to myself until I’ve talked with Mikhail and Hi. Separately, of course. Those two shouldn’t be in the same room for a while.

  * * *

  Two days later, Taki Nomura approached the hatch of the command center, after making certain that Bee Benson would be alone in there.

  “Commander Benson, may I have a moment of your time?” Nomura asked, before stepping through the hatch.

  Benson was in his chair, looking perfectly at ease among the dials and screens that showed the perfo
rmance of all the Arrow’s systems.

  “Sure, Taki, come on in.” He jabbed a thumb at the empty seat beside him. “And don’t be so formal. We’re all team members, shipmates.”

  Nomura slid into the right-hand seat. “I know. But sometimes it’s difficult for me to overcome a lifetime’s training.”

  Benson nodded understandingly. But he said, “Taki, I’m not a samurai. We’ve known each other for more than two years now and we’ve got another two to go.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  Feeling more than a little uncomfortable despite Benson’s reassurance, Nomura began, “I feel I have to make a report about the crew’s psychological condition.”

  Benson’s brows hiked up. “We’ve got problems? Already?”

  “Not problems, really. But there are some troubling indicators that might be pointing to problems in the future.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for instance, this morning at breakfast Jinny Gonzalez got very upset when her food was decanted. She actually cursed at it and threw it directly into the recycle slot.”

  Benson said, “Go on.”

  “Two days ago McPherson and Prokhorov had an incident over a chess game and—”

  “An incident?”

  “Prokhorov moved one of the chess pieces while Hi was off in the lavatory. When Hi accused him of it, Mikhail lied to his face. Hi stormed off and Mikhail laughed about it.”

  “How do you know that Mikhail—”

  “I was there. I saw him do it. He cheated, and then denied it all to Hi’s face.”

  “And Hi got ticked off about it.”

  “Catherine calmed him down afterward. I think she could talk that man into walking out through the airlock without a spacesuit on.” Nomura smiled at the thought. “She might even go with him.”