The Pedestal (23 page)

The countless images I’ve absorbed of Mars over the years have grossly underprepared me for the real thing. It’s not that they’ve built up grandiose expectations; on the contrary, actually. Everything I’ve ever seen of Mars has depicted a generally bland ball of dirt and ice—a planet only a scientist could love.

In reality—at least, in my view of it at this particular moment—Mars is nothing like that. Well, in a way it is—but it mostly isn’t. Laying eyes on its surface for the first time, it’s clear that no picture will ever do this place justice. You need the face-to-face depth of true binocular vision to fully appreciate its grandeur.

I’ve never seen a desert before today; I can’t count Nevada, since every square inch of the state is covered in solar panels and rainwater collectors. Though the term—desert, I mean—implies a certain barrenness—which is of course fitting—the surface of Mars is teeming with mountains, valleys, and some of the most dramatic rock formations I’ve ever seen. They’re like the fingerprints of the cosmos, left behind for my humble amazement. But all of this is incidental to my expectations when compared to what I see as I follow Grogan out of the cargo bay and onto the gritty surface of Mars.

At first, I think I’m misinterpreting what I’m seeing—perhaps my oxygen mix is too rich, and that my mind isn’t processing things correctly—but when Grogan comes to a halt and I nearly ram him from behind, I realize that I’m not imagining anything.

“Oh my God,” he exclaims. “What’ve they done?” Directly ahead of us, the ground is punctured in a neat row by an array of bizarre plants. How they got there, I can surmise from Grogan’s reaction. How they’ve managed to survive there, on the other hand, is something I’m incapable of wrapping my mind around.

Grogan storms toward the nearest building, unleashing a few expletives along the way that tell me someone just made his scrap list. The airlock is barely large enough to accommodate the two of us, and I’m quietly grateful that we’re at least helmeted right now—I can’t speak for Grogan, but I haven’t brushed my teeth in days. I feel the pressurization of the room change, and with a hiss, oxygenated air blows into the lock.

Until now, I suppose I’ve envisioned a small complex of cluttered labs, overcrowded by bumbling scientists. But the reverse seems to be the case; the complex is huge—even larger inside than out, because the lower third of the structure is buried in the ground—and seemingly void of human habitation. Grogan leads me deeper into the complex, which is effectively a large honeycomb of modular rooms. The farther he takes me, the more startled I am by the gluttonous ratio of person to square inch.

As if reading my mind, he explains: “Isn’t normally like this, in case you’re wondering.”

I nod, forgetting that he can’t hear my body language. “Is it lunchtime, or what?”

“Not even close,” he grumbles. “Think it’s more of a case of
when the master’s away, the cats will play
.” I’m thinking he must mean
when the cat’s away, the mice will play
, but I hold my tongue.

We’ve been here for nearly ten minutes before we finally see another human being. I can tell that Grogan’s relieved, yet his relief is shadowed—or even masked—by irritation.

“What’s going on around here, Winkley?” Grogan demands as he fumbles to disengage his helmet. I follow suit with my own and instantly wish I hadn’t. The air is stuffy, thick with the funk of body odor and mildew—and something else, something sewery.

“Gross,” I gag. “What’s that smell?”

Grogan regards me with surprise, as if he’s only just remembered that he didn’t arrive here alone. He wrinkles his nose and defers to Winkley. “You smell something?”

Winkley, who seems grateful for the momentary lapse in his rear-chewing, smiles broadly. He’s short and husky, maybe in his midforties. He looks at me with an amused grin and makes a show of sniffing the air. “Not a thing, boss. You?”

Grogan claps me on the shoulder and says, “Don’t worry, newbie. Just a little methane—you won’t even notice it in a week or so.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I gag.

Winkley dials down his smile, just a notch. “Seriously; something about the soil here; it deadens your olfactory glands. Pretty sure most of us could walk right over a dead skunk and wouldn’t even smell it.”

I grimace in disgust, and in dismay. How sad that will be, to lose the ability to smell my own need for a shower. For now, I guess the upside is that no one’s likely to notice the neglected state of my breath. That aside, what I wouldn’t do for a toothbrush!

“Where exactly is everyone?” Grogan wants to know. “And what are the BPs doing outside?”

Winkley cringes, as if he’s been waiting for one or both of these questions with trepidation. “Yeah, that. Well, let’s see: Rogers and Cutterly are both recovering in the infirmary—I think the stitches came out earlier—and Fiona’s probably in her lab.”

“And the BPs?”

“You’ll have to ask the missus about that, boss. I’m out of the loop on that one.”

Without another word, Grogan sheds the remainder of his atmospheric suit and stomps past Winkley, pushing farther into the complex.

Winkley whistles a sigh through his round nose. “Always a treat, that guy.”

“He usually this tense?”

“Only when he’s awake. Actually, he’s perfectly happy on his ship. Me? I need a little ground under my feet.”

I nod, thinking,
Here, here
.

I get the impression that first names are silent with this group. Maybe it’s a blue-collar thing. If so, it’s all the more important for me to tread carefully; a name like
Abby
begs for mockery in a group of working-class men. Perhaps wisely, I introduce myself as Wilson and then begin the difficult process of removing my suit. It’s a substantial set of gear; thick, stiff and heavy. “Man, this thing’s a beast,” I wheeze.

Winkley snorts. “You won’t complain the first time you’re actually outside for more than a few minutes.”

“What do you mean?”

“These babies aren’t designed for occasional use in low-atmospheric conditions; they’re built to withstand serious abuse in the worst of conditions. Even then, when they’re all that’s between you and Mars, they don’t seem like much. You end up out there”—he gestures with a hooked thumb out toward the dirt—“without one of these on? You’re done for.”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly full of cotton.

“Never mind the air supply; even if you got past that, the temperature out there is all over the map—thirty degrees Fahrenheit one minute, seventy below the next. If the cold doesn’t get you, the solar winds’ll impregnate you with radiation. Believe me—we’re lucky to have these.”

I am sufficiently convinced on this subject and decide to bite my tongue, lest I say something else I’ll immediately regret.

Grogan returns, and he’s not alone. As his associate steps into the room, my breath snags in the mousetrap of my throat. She’s startlingly beautiful, and her presence seems blatantly at odds with the drabness and stench of this place. She’s like a rare and exotic flower growing inextricably from a trash heap.

My reaction is lost on no one, least of all Winkley. He laughs boisterously at my expense, remarking: “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to her, too. Eventually, you’ll start to see her as just one of the guys.”

I sense a thought gathering on my tongue—the kind one might playfully consider inside, but would never speak aloud—and though I know I’ll regret it if the words slip into open space, I realize I can’t stop them.

“Let’s get started, then,” my traitorous mouth defects. “You wanna play fort in my room?”
Oh, Wilson; you sad, little idiot.

The room resounds with a sharp intake of breaths—including my own—followed by a terrible period of dead silence. My ears burn as if aflame.

Keith would be so proud, you loser.

In unison, we dance a nervous shuffle until—at once—Grogan erupts into a blasting guffaw; Winkley squeezes out a weird laugh between clenched lips, sounding remarkably like a fart.

While welcome, the merriment quickly dwindles to a timid clearing of throats, ushering in a terrible spell of sheer awkwardness. All eyes shift to the woman, whose face seems paralyzed in an expressionless mask. Slowly, she trains her magnificent green eyes on me in a challenging squint—the way gunslingers do in old movies, just before they start counting off steps in a duel. It might be my imagination, but I think I detect a faint smile behind that façade, begging for freedom. I feel my heart swell in a lovesick hiccup.

The last thing I want right now is a shootout with the village supermodel, so I do my best to backpedal.

“Listen,” I plead, “I’m sorry. That just went right past my filter before I could stop it.” I’m speaking both literally and figuratively here; throughout my life, my NanoPrint has helped shape my thoughts, funneling them into socially acceptable parameters. Now that it’s gone, I’m finding it incredibly difficult to do things the old-fashioned way.

“Grogan,” says the woman, though her eyes remain firmly locked on mine, “who is this Neanderthal?”

Winkley snorts with a hearty slap to an ample thigh.

“This raving misfire is Wilson,” Grogan responds, his voice aflutter with bridled amusement. “Fiona, meet your new help.”

Mars has a daily sun cycle very similar to Earth’s. I consider this to be good news, because my body craves a normal sleeping routine, just as it does air and food—and without the sun to set the pace, my systems are hopelessly without tempo. I experienced this firsthand aboard Grogan’s ship, trekking through space for the better part of a week with no distinct night or day. Since then, I’ve learned that recovery is a game of inches; it may be weeks or even months before I fully recuperate. Nevertheless, with an actual dusk and dawn to aid me, I’m at least headed in the right direction.

Shortly after settling in, I discover that my body burns through much more energy here than it ever did on Earth. I’m a little surprised by this. After all, the gravity here is a fraction of Earth’s; by my estimation, things ought to be less taxing.

As usual, my estimation is faulty.

For example: walking from one building to another nearly drains me. In theory, it should be easy—a leisurely series of bounces, like tiptoeing across a swimming pool—but in reality, the task is made much more difficult by my cumbersome atmospheric suit, and by my inability to reconcile the energy requirements of walking outside with those of inside—the same pressurizing system that keeps indoors livable makes it impossible to ever really acclimate to conditions outdoors.

Another contributing factor to my exhaustion is the food. I’ve always been pretty thin, yet I don’t doubt I’ll be much thinner a month from now. Food is strictly rationed among us. We don’t skip meals—nothing as drastic as that, so far—but our portion sizes are just a little smaller than our bodies crave; as a result, we’re always hungry. I’m told this is one of a few things I’m not likely to get used to.

Probably the worst part of living on Mars is the cold. Really, I never minded the cold on Earth. That’s not to say I wouldn’t prefer a constant seventy-five degrees with a light breeze over the discomfort of a snowstorm, but I distinctly remember looking forward to winter as much as I did summer. The contrast of seasons gave me something to look forward to year-round.

In many ways, Mars is similar to Earth. It’s considerably smaller, but otherwise fairly comparable. Climate, however, is not an attribute they have in common. The day I arrived here, temperatures hovered around the low forties. When I awoke the next morning, I could see my breath; the thermometer had plummeted to twenty below during the night. I’m told Mars has its seasons, but when the daily forecast has a standard deviation of plus or minus a hundred degrees, seasons don’t count for much.

The complex is heated, but it doesn’t cope well with temperatures this extreme, and I’m told I haven’t seen the least of it yet. Our climate control system was undoubtedly designed in the comfort of a board room back on Earth, relying heavily on some under-the-gun assumptions regarding the anatomy of Mars. Few of these assumptions were accurate.

Our heating system utilizes ambient ground heat, which is absorbed by a buried array of fluid-filled manifolds. This concept has proven wonderfully reliable on Earth and has been refined over hundreds of years to the extent that supplemental heat sources are literally a thing of the past. In terms of engineering, it works because the planet’s core and subcutaneous layers remain at a fairly constant temperature. Apparently, there was reason to believe that Mars would behave likewise.

As it turns out, Mars does not.

Something mysterious is amiss at the heart of this planet. Whatever the anomaly is, it causes the ground temperature to be far more dynamic than anyone expected. It’s as if the soil has little or no insulating properties.

With all that said, our system does manage to reap some heat—enough to keep us from a popsicle’s fate, anyway. Since the day when Grogan first soiled his boots with smears of Martian rust, he’s been working toward a more effective heating solution. Without help from his Earthly engineers—who purportedly washed their hands of the situation, calling it an issue of comfort over survival—it’s been an uphill battle of trial and error, importing refined system components one piece at a time from Earth.