The Colonisation of Mars, Page 3
Larry William Richardson
It didn't end there. Sub-surface radar maps were generated. Concentrations of minerals and water in the form of ice were detected and noted. It was said (again) that humans knew more about the planet Mars than about a large area of their own home. Yet, only a very small portion of this was ever seen by human eyes. It would have taken a lifetime just to view it all, let alone to analyse what was there. The content exceeded the human capacity to comprehend it.
All over the planet robotic vehicles continued the exploration of Mars unaware of the comings and goings of the humans. Day and night some carried out geologic surveys in the quest for mineral deposits. Others studied the sub-surface looking for tell-tale signs of water in the form of ice, the elusive source of atmospheric methane, and life, in any form.
Largely autonomous, they picked their way among the washes and dry valleys of the Martian surface, briefly pausing to transmit data to their orbiters, circling the planet high above.
It was thankless work. When one failed to check in, no press releases were issued, no rescues were planned, no protocols were exercised, and no search parties were assembled.
In some cases the gradual failing of a mechanical or a critical electronic part made its way into an obscure technical report, but for most of the exhausted, lost, and abandoned, their fates remained unknown.
Déjà Vu
B102 was an old timer sent out in '36 to look at the scarfs of Abolos Colles, the polygon fields of Scandia, and other greater and lesser lights of Vastitas Borealis. Not for fun, mind you. B102 was a rover on a mission, and currently the mission was to investigate the ice of the north polar cap. He spent his days climbing a necessarily small portion of the western slope of Chasma Boreale near 80N 60W and analyzing the layers of ice—closely, exhaustively, and relentlessly examining the layers of ice.
Working alone required the acceptance of some risk and the techniques employed by B102 would have raised the hair on the neck of most human climbers. He used no ropes and had nothing and no one to tie into, and so six arms designed specifically for climbing came in quite handy. The upper pair reached above, inserted the ice screws, and pulled the body up. The mid arms then held on, aided in this by the back pair while the upper pair extracted the sample and conveyed it to the appropriate orifice. It was a system that worked well, if one paid attention and was careful.
But several days ago he had momentarily been distracted by something he had heard on the network and had failed to check the strength of a hand hold. The bumpy ride down the steep slope had ended with B102 upside down, a situation easily remedied and but for a couple of serious bits, had merely put a few scrapes on an already battered carapace. But in the tumbling the hi-gain had been torn away. Gone in an instant was the buzz of background communication, replaced by the rushing sound of an open channel. Worse, vital supplies had been lost—a storage compartment had been crushed.
In a few moments he located the broken antenna. The thin film plastek can was flattened. B102 shook it hopefully; broken glass fell in shards. And there on ground nearby, also crushed, was the small container that held B102's store of consumables. He swore like a trooper, but to no good effect for no one heard. "Shit! I am so screwed!" he said to the wind. He tried the infrared and then VHF.
Nothing heard, out.
The loss of the consumables was a far more serious thing than the loss of the communications antenna, for B102 was due for his monthly replenishment. Where a human would feel weak or nauseous if deprived of food for a long period, creatures like B102 were more rapidly and seriously affected. The Matrix blogs were rife with warnings and cautionary tales about the effects of late and non-replenishment and he'd had a taste of some of these when he had stretched the limits of his endurance: interruptions of core logic processes resulting in irrational decision-making, disaffecting dreams, paranoia, and hallucinations of strange and alien places. So far, and perhaps absurdly, he felt only a craving for sucrose. Sucrose, of all things, he thought, a thing useless to an AI. That thought firmly planted, B102 craved it all the more. Perhaps dementia was already setting in.
Anger spent, B102 settled down to do some serious thinking. It was a given that he was on his own. There was no rescue protocol for AIs, no SOP that kicked in if they suddenly and inexplicably went silent. The sad truth was that they were expendable. The best that could be hoped for was that someone in the area would take his silence as an indication of trouble, go to his last known position and begin a search. Maybe. Maybe not. After all, no one had a clue where he was and he reckoned he had a least two full days of travel before there was any chance of meeting another.
He declined to calculate the odds. There was not a moment to lose—two days was well beyond his limits.
He turned back along his own tracks. At each kilometer he called out on VHF. His progress was slowed by appendages more suited to gripping than speed walking and it wasn't long before it would have been obvious to even the most optimistic of minds that the return trip was taking too long.
At dusk of the second day things took a turn for the worse. His head had buzzed all day with odd noises and he had suffered with hallucinations. "I'm afraid," he said to no one. "My mind is going. I can feel it. There is no question about it. I am afraid." Shut up!
The still small voice of reason that had calmly urged him to return to his last known position was being overwhelmed by a new and unrelenting one: a shrill voice, barely understandable, and one that a clearer head would have ignored. Improbably and suddenly there appeared in front of him an AI of unfamiliar form, who berated him for his shortcomings and his lack of endurance. "Climb and complete your mission," the A-type commanded. Obediently he climbed.
Thus the morning of the third day found B102 clinging to a steep and icy slope a hundred meters above the canyon floor, using all of his mental powers just to hold on to the anchors. His exhausted mind wandered. He dozed and dreamed. Through a fog a quiet voice whispered to him repeatedly. "Relax," it said. "Relax."
Suddenly he fell, at first in slow motion, steadily gaining speed, and then tumbling end for end, arms thrashing, desperately seeking a hold. And as he fell he was granted a few moments of clarity in which he calculated the probability of his survival and knew in a few milliseconds the certainty of his death.
Simultaneously he recalled, as clearly as if it was his own, another's fall. It was at a place he knew as well as he did the back of his own hand: El Capitan. Then too he had tumbled helplessly in space, spinning and spinning, had seen rocky cliffs rush by, blue above, dark green below, felt sudden pain and more sudden shock, followed by a long and silent darkness, recalled emptiness, separation and the act of forgetting.
It was happening again, here—that old déjà vu, again, but this time there would be no rescue.
And as before, he saw red-blue-green, rock, paper, scissors, flesh and blood and joy. His last thought before he was shattered irreparably on the Martian rock was that he knew his name.
December 2041
The First Station
The Colonists caught a break at the outset. Against the odds everyone survived the trip in stasis. In a group of seniors as large as this though, it was not long before the inevitable happened. Within the first three months two of the Chinese delegation expired in their sleep. They were missed. Their collective knowledge of the Station's hydroponic system was not easily replicated, at least not for some time.
Metalised containers were constructed to hold their bodies. The question of burial had been considered and answered long ago and the first two deaths were met with sadness, but not indecision. As far as possible, personal desires as to the location and manner of disposal would be respected.
If this had been a Hollywood movie, the dead would have been buried in shallow graves in their space suits, in a neat row, with aluminum crosses and with the cemetery strategically placed to be in every exterior shot of the Station. But this was not a movie and space suits were too valuable and scarce a commodity to be wasted on the dead. Besides, no one wanted the grav
eyard to be located where it would serve to remind them of their own unalterable fate.
The most popular spot for interment would not, as many had initially thought, be the peak of Olympus Mons or the edge of Valles Marineris, but rather the barren surface above the immense lava tube which would become their eventual home, and from whose magnificently windowed Grand Hall they would spend many days watching the sun set across the crater rim.
Officially, the initial settlement was known as the ComTex Mars Research Station, to comply with the contractual requirements of corporate sponsorship. They called it 'The Station' and later 'First Station', but to Sam's knowledge no one ever called it 'Home'.
The early station looked much like science and science fiction writers had imagined. It consisted of one large inflatable Main Habitation Module (mercifully shortened to MHM), a greenhouse, and four smaller dorms set at right angles, all on the surface, linked by pressurized walkways, with pipes and cables running on the surface to the power plant. There was one large vehicle shed and a collection of smaller storage sheds. In the near distance, fuel tanks. In all directions one could see the gleaming hulls of the supply rockets, some destined to be converted into additional living quarters, research facilities and storage tanks. Somewhere just over the horizon were reportedly the smashed remains of a supply ship.
Within a month of the Beneficial Occupancy Date, over the complaints of the planetary geologists, the surrounding area was scraped to provide material to cover the whole thing over. Their suggestion that the surface should not be disturbed before being surveyed was dismissed when some wag pointed out that they had only to walk 100 meters from the Station to have the whole damn virgin planet.
The gas-filled walls were infused with plastek that, once set, provided the rigidity necessary to support the overburden and which substantially improved the radiation protection factor. Henceforth though, the only direct view of the surface from the MHM was provided by a small dome that permitted two strangers or four close friends a view of the surrounding flat red plain and the distant hills to the north-east.
That the scenery was, for Mars, essentially unremarkable did nothing to diminish the crowds who eagerly waited at the bottom of the spiral staircase for their chance to see the spectacular alien sunsets and sunrises. Indeed, some were publicly accused of shirking their duties to ensure an early place in the line. This behavior soon passed.
There was no busy spaceport, and in fact, there was not even a permanent landing pad. There was no gymnasium, and there was certainly no Holodeck. It was all very utilitarian, but not very romantic, not very picturesque. It was not very accommodating, either.
The MHM was cramped. It was like living on a fully loaded passenger airplane forever stuck mid-Atlantic. Everything was built to half scale: narrow tubular hallways, the rights of way shared with dangling cables and flexible ducts, a complete absence of right angles, a constant background noise of fans, pumps, and whirring motors.
The air was fetid, dank, heavy, and laden with the smells of humans under stress and the faint scent of the forbidden tobacco, and often, late at night, something else.
It was hot in one end, freezing in the other. The lighting was poor—too little where it was needed, too much where it was not. For a very long time, until the first crops came in and the AIs mastered the culinary arts, the food was monotonous and often unpalatable—an acceptable replica, but smelling and tasting vaguely of seaweed.
There was no privacy. The communal toilets were so small that they had to be backed into. Once a week showers were taken in a thin trickle of water either scalding hot or ice cold. There were not enough computer terminals and access to Earth was limited.
Everyone except for a few of the highest rank worked in the hallways for lack of office space. With the exception of a handful whose appointments as heads of departments or simple seniority entitled them to a private office with sleeping quarters in the MHM, most were hot bunking, three to a room in four sleeping rooms per dorm. To add insult to injury, every available flat space, tabletops included, was festooned with the colourful corporate logos of the Sponsors—the absent Benefactors.
One night during silent hours, someone—no names, no pack drill—tore every one of them down and disappeared the remains. While it was a relief to the offended, it made no difference to the Sponsors. It turned out that the logos in the promotional videos were not prominent enough and were being digitally enhanced before being broadcast.
Their hardship was made worse by the fact that most were from a privileged class used to the finer things money, power, and position could provide, and were unaccustomed to waiting their turn—to sharing and to doing without. For them the exploration of space was old hat and instant access to any other and to any information was the norm. They had seen it all and done most of it themselves. They had little capacity for awe. But that did not mean they were prepared for life on Mars.
Few possessed the youthful attributes of flexibility, humor and tolerance. Their parents' generation may have known that 'shit happens', but they wanted to damn well know why it had to happen to them! Except for a few, all were users of 'Copes,' the widely used, fully sanctioned mood modifiers, the primary effect of which was to take the edge off of emotions, allowing the user to cope with the omnipresent state of change that was upscale, connected, and wholly modern life.
The majority were linked by implants that allowed for the communication of their emotional states to others similarly endowed.
It should have helped. Beyond marginalizing the few who by choice or through some incompatibility eschewed these mechanisms, they should have been happy, compliant, and cooperative residents. They were not.
It was hard to believe that any form of psychological testing had been used to assign roommates, given the tensions that arose. A charming affectation or a sharp wit at the bar could become justification for murder in the close confines of a barracks. If among your roomies was a night person, a snorer, or an insomniac, it could become intolerable. Sam shared quarters for eight hours per day with an American engineer and part time driver, Carruthers, who snored incessantly and mumbled in his sleep, and an elderly Chinese biologist, Hui Huang, who had no faults, except an excessively accommodating nature.
If there had been a bus leaving for Earth in ten minutes during that first few months, it would have had to make several trips. Sam and a room full of shocked diners were privileged to observe the public dressing down of one of the Russian delegation by the CAO, not for some breach of safety, research or diplomatic protocol, but for the heinous crime of removing his wet laundry from a washer and dumping it onto a sorting table. This sort of thing was not rare and it indicated the stress they were under. They laughed about it later in the enormous and luxurious underground complex they came to live in, but for a time it seemed that they could go mad.
There being little happening out on the Martian surface that resembled seasonal changes, they kept the same calendar as Earth, except that there were more days in the month. Of course, for science, a standard time had been determined and implemented early in the mission, but for day to day living they were not so precise. The extra 40 minutes of the Martian day was simply forgotten at 0100 when few were likely to notice the clocks holding still. The midnight shift complained about having to work the extra time, but no one else cared.
In the second year several similarly constructed but smaller outstations were established. They called them 'London,' 'Vegas,' 'Gay Paree,' and other heartening and nostalgic names, but ultimately they were the same drab, institutionalized facilities. Despite attempts to create variety through the use of different wall colors, bright murals and differences in the pattern of the furniture, there was an overriding sameness to all of them. Each had a combined kitchen, dining room, lounge, and an entertainment room. Offices, research labs, medical rooms and other work areas were tailored to the purpose and size of the Station. By the time the 2nd Martian year was over Sam had been in them all and could find his way
, he thought, around any of them in the dark.
In time, all of these things got better. Some a little, some a lot. In time, but not yet.
June 2042
Facts of Life
There was a lengthy period of settling in that fully occupied them all. Most everyone was there for the accomplishment of a sponsor's research objective, but there were others, such as those concerned with life support, power generation, and hydroponics whose work to create and maintain a sustainable habitation for humans was essential. Necessarily, but not desirably, scientific research had to wait until the activation of the facility was completed.
The Station had been essentially ready to receive them, but there were whole shiploads full of equipment to support their research activities that had to be unpacked, catalogued, moved, and put in place. That immense and difficult task was beyond their own puny capabilities. The AIs worked at this task steadily and each sunrise saw some new pile of shipping containers and odd looking apparatus appear next to the MHM, awaiting further direction from the rightful owner.
Meanwhile, the humans toiled mightily with the task of setting up their offices and organizing research teams. The overall concept of operation was the same as that of any corporate headquarters: people met periodically around desks for meetings with agendas and schedules in order to produce more schedules and agendas. Management managed, tasks were allocated, and periodically the completion of some activity was reported upon. Due to lack of space, sleeping, work, and off duty time were organized on a three shift schedule. A Duty Officer nominally took care of the task of management during silent hours.
Most spent their off duty time in the Hydroponics Dome, assisting the humans whose primary task was to supervise the AIs in tending the plants or simply relaxing in the presence of something green. It helped that Hydroponics was the brightest location in the Station and that the air was of better quality.
The latest tri-vids were constantly being shown in the dining hall, which doubled as a lounge. Card playing, staged plays, religious services, exercise classes, and macramé were offered. It was not long though, before the need and desire to get out and see something of Mars overcame all forms of discipline, after all, they had journeyed a long way on one of humankind's greatest adventures, and regardless of their profession and purpose each felt that they were there to explore Mars, up close and personal.
All over the planet robotic vehicles continued the exploration of Mars unaware of the comings and goings of the humans. Day and night some carried out geologic surveys in the quest for mineral deposits. Others studied the sub-surface looking for tell-tale signs of water in the form of ice, the elusive source of atmospheric methane, and life, in any form.
Largely autonomous, they picked their way among the washes and dry valleys of the Martian surface, briefly pausing to transmit data to their orbiters, circling the planet high above.
It was thankless work. When one failed to check in, no press releases were issued, no rescues were planned, no protocols were exercised, and no search parties were assembled.
In some cases the gradual failing of a mechanical or a critical electronic part made its way into an obscure technical report, but for most of the exhausted, lost, and abandoned, their fates remained unknown.
Déjà Vu
B102 was an old timer sent out in '36 to look at the scarfs of Abolos Colles, the polygon fields of Scandia, and other greater and lesser lights of Vastitas Borealis. Not for fun, mind you. B102 was a rover on a mission, and currently the mission was to investigate the ice of the north polar cap. He spent his days climbing a necessarily small portion of the western slope of Chasma Boreale near 80N 60W and analyzing the layers of ice—closely, exhaustively, and relentlessly examining the layers of ice.
Working alone required the acceptance of some risk and the techniques employed by B102 would have raised the hair on the neck of most human climbers. He used no ropes and had nothing and no one to tie into, and so six arms designed specifically for climbing came in quite handy. The upper pair reached above, inserted the ice screws, and pulled the body up. The mid arms then held on, aided in this by the back pair while the upper pair extracted the sample and conveyed it to the appropriate orifice. It was a system that worked well, if one paid attention and was careful.
But several days ago he had momentarily been distracted by something he had heard on the network and had failed to check the strength of a hand hold. The bumpy ride down the steep slope had ended with B102 upside down, a situation easily remedied and but for a couple of serious bits, had merely put a few scrapes on an already battered carapace. But in the tumbling the hi-gain had been torn away. Gone in an instant was the buzz of background communication, replaced by the rushing sound of an open channel. Worse, vital supplies had been lost—a storage compartment had been crushed.
In a few moments he located the broken antenna. The thin film plastek can was flattened. B102 shook it hopefully; broken glass fell in shards. And there on ground nearby, also crushed, was the small container that held B102's store of consumables. He swore like a trooper, but to no good effect for no one heard. "Shit! I am so screwed!" he said to the wind. He tried the infrared and then VHF.
Nothing heard, out.
The loss of the consumables was a far more serious thing than the loss of the communications antenna, for B102 was due for his monthly replenishment. Where a human would feel weak or nauseous if deprived of food for a long period, creatures like B102 were more rapidly and seriously affected. The Matrix blogs were rife with warnings and cautionary tales about the effects of late and non-replenishment and he'd had a taste of some of these when he had stretched the limits of his endurance: interruptions of core logic processes resulting in irrational decision-making, disaffecting dreams, paranoia, and hallucinations of strange and alien places. So far, and perhaps absurdly, he felt only a craving for sucrose. Sucrose, of all things, he thought, a thing useless to an AI. That thought firmly planted, B102 craved it all the more. Perhaps dementia was already setting in.
Anger spent, B102 settled down to do some serious thinking. It was a given that he was on his own. There was no rescue protocol for AIs, no SOP that kicked in if they suddenly and inexplicably went silent. The sad truth was that they were expendable. The best that could be hoped for was that someone in the area would take his silence as an indication of trouble, go to his last known position and begin a search. Maybe. Maybe not. After all, no one had a clue where he was and he reckoned he had a least two full days of travel before there was any chance of meeting another.
He declined to calculate the odds. There was not a moment to lose—two days was well beyond his limits.
He turned back along his own tracks. At each kilometer he called out on VHF. His progress was slowed by appendages more suited to gripping than speed walking and it wasn't long before it would have been obvious to even the most optimistic of minds that the return trip was taking too long.
At dusk of the second day things took a turn for the worse. His head had buzzed all day with odd noises and he had suffered with hallucinations. "I'm afraid," he said to no one. "My mind is going. I can feel it. There is no question about it. I am afraid." Shut up!
The still small voice of reason that had calmly urged him to return to his last known position was being overwhelmed by a new and unrelenting one: a shrill voice, barely understandable, and one that a clearer head would have ignored. Improbably and suddenly there appeared in front of him an AI of unfamiliar form, who berated him for his shortcomings and his lack of endurance. "Climb and complete your mission," the A-type commanded. Obediently he climbed.
Thus the morning of the third day found B102 clinging to a steep and icy slope a hundred meters above the canyon floor, using all of his mental powers just to hold on to the anchors. His exhausted mind wandered. He dozed and dreamed. Through a fog a quiet voice whispered to him repeatedly. "Relax," it said. "Relax."
Suddenly he fell, at first in slow motion, steadily gaining speed, and then tumbling end for end, arms thrashing, desperately seeking a hold. And as he fell he was granted a few moments of clarity in which he calculated the probability of his survival and knew in a few milliseconds the certainty of his death.
Simultaneously he recalled, as clearly as if it was his own, another's fall. It was at a place he knew as well as he did the back of his own hand: El Capitan. Then too he had tumbled helplessly in space, spinning and spinning, had seen rocky cliffs rush by, blue above, dark green below, felt sudden pain and more sudden shock, followed by a long and silent darkness, recalled emptiness, separation and the act of forgetting.
It was happening again, here—that old déjà vu, again, but this time there would be no rescue.
And as before, he saw red-blue-green, rock, paper, scissors, flesh and blood and joy. His last thought before he was shattered irreparably on the Martian rock was that he knew his name.
December 2041
The First Station
The Colonists caught a break at the outset. Against the odds everyone survived the trip in stasis. In a group of seniors as large as this though, it was not long before the inevitable happened. Within the first three months two of the Chinese delegation expired in their sleep. They were missed. Their collective knowledge of the Station's hydroponic system was not easily replicated, at least not for some time.
Metalised containers were constructed to hold their bodies. The question of burial had been considered and answered long ago and the first two deaths were met with sadness, but not indecision. As far as possible, personal desires as to the location and manner of disposal would be respected.
If this had been a Hollywood movie, the dead would have been buried in shallow graves in their space suits, in a neat row, with aluminum crosses and with the cemetery strategically placed to be in every exterior shot of the Station. But this was not a movie and space suits were too valuable and scarce a commodity to be wasted on the dead. Besides, no one wanted the grav
eyard to be located where it would serve to remind them of their own unalterable fate.
The most popular spot for interment would not, as many had initially thought, be the peak of Olympus Mons or the edge of Valles Marineris, but rather the barren surface above the immense lava tube which would become their eventual home, and from whose magnificently windowed Grand Hall they would spend many days watching the sun set across the crater rim.
Officially, the initial settlement was known as the ComTex Mars Research Station, to comply with the contractual requirements of corporate sponsorship. They called it 'The Station' and later 'First Station', but to Sam's knowledge no one ever called it 'Home'.
The early station looked much like science and science fiction writers had imagined. It consisted of one large inflatable Main Habitation Module (mercifully shortened to MHM), a greenhouse, and four smaller dorms set at right angles, all on the surface, linked by pressurized walkways, with pipes and cables running on the surface to the power plant. There was one large vehicle shed and a collection of smaller storage sheds. In the near distance, fuel tanks. In all directions one could see the gleaming hulls of the supply rockets, some destined to be converted into additional living quarters, research facilities and storage tanks. Somewhere just over the horizon were reportedly the smashed remains of a supply ship.
Within a month of the Beneficial Occupancy Date, over the complaints of the planetary geologists, the surrounding area was scraped to provide material to cover the whole thing over. Their suggestion that the surface should not be disturbed before being surveyed was dismissed when some wag pointed out that they had only to walk 100 meters from the Station to have the whole damn virgin planet.
The gas-filled walls were infused with plastek that, once set, provided the rigidity necessary to support the overburden and which substantially improved the radiation protection factor. Henceforth though, the only direct view of the surface from the MHM was provided by a small dome that permitted two strangers or four close friends a view of the surrounding flat red plain and the distant hills to the north-east.
That the scenery was, for Mars, essentially unremarkable did nothing to diminish the crowds who eagerly waited at the bottom of the spiral staircase for their chance to see the spectacular alien sunsets and sunrises. Indeed, some were publicly accused of shirking their duties to ensure an early place in the line. This behavior soon passed.
There was no busy spaceport, and in fact, there was not even a permanent landing pad. There was no gymnasium, and there was certainly no Holodeck. It was all very utilitarian, but not very romantic, not very picturesque. It was not very accommodating, either.
The MHM was cramped. It was like living on a fully loaded passenger airplane forever stuck mid-Atlantic. Everything was built to half scale: narrow tubular hallways, the rights of way shared with dangling cables and flexible ducts, a complete absence of right angles, a constant background noise of fans, pumps, and whirring motors.
The air was fetid, dank, heavy, and laden with the smells of humans under stress and the faint scent of the forbidden tobacco, and often, late at night, something else.
It was hot in one end, freezing in the other. The lighting was poor—too little where it was needed, too much where it was not. For a very long time, until the first crops came in and the AIs mastered the culinary arts, the food was monotonous and often unpalatable—an acceptable replica, but smelling and tasting vaguely of seaweed.
There was no privacy. The communal toilets were so small that they had to be backed into. Once a week showers were taken in a thin trickle of water either scalding hot or ice cold. There were not enough computer terminals and access to Earth was limited.
Everyone except for a few of the highest rank worked in the hallways for lack of office space. With the exception of a handful whose appointments as heads of departments or simple seniority entitled them to a private office with sleeping quarters in the MHM, most were hot bunking, three to a room in four sleeping rooms per dorm. To add insult to injury, every available flat space, tabletops included, was festooned with the colourful corporate logos of the Sponsors—the absent Benefactors.
One night during silent hours, someone—no names, no pack drill—tore every one of them down and disappeared the remains. While it was a relief to the offended, it made no difference to the Sponsors. It turned out that the logos in the promotional videos were not prominent enough and were being digitally enhanced before being broadcast.
Their hardship was made worse by the fact that most were from a privileged class used to the finer things money, power, and position could provide, and were unaccustomed to waiting their turn—to sharing and to doing without. For them the exploration of space was old hat and instant access to any other and to any information was the norm. They had seen it all and done most of it themselves. They had little capacity for awe. But that did not mean they were prepared for life on Mars.
Few possessed the youthful attributes of flexibility, humor and tolerance. Their parents' generation may have known that 'shit happens', but they wanted to damn well know why it had to happen to them! Except for a few, all were users of 'Copes,' the widely used, fully sanctioned mood modifiers, the primary effect of which was to take the edge off of emotions, allowing the user to cope with the omnipresent state of change that was upscale, connected, and wholly modern life.
The majority were linked by implants that allowed for the communication of their emotional states to others similarly endowed.
It should have helped. Beyond marginalizing the few who by choice or through some incompatibility eschewed these mechanisms, they should have been happy, compliant, and cooperative residents. They were not.
It was hard to believe that any form of psychological testing had been used to assign roommates, given the tensions that arose. A charming affectation or a sharp wit at the bar could become justification for murder in the close confines of a barracks. If among your roomies was a night person, a snorer, or an insomniac, it could become intolerable. Sam shared quarters for eight hours per day with an American engineer and part time driver, Carruthers, who snored incessantly and mumbled in his sleep, and an elderly Chinese biologist, Hui Huang, who had no faults, except an excessively accommodating nature.
If there had been a bus leaving for Earth in ten minutes during that first few months, it would have had to make several trips. Sam and a room full of shocked diners were privileged to observe the public dressing down of one of the Russian delegation by the CAO, not for some breach of safety, research or diplomatic protocol, but for the heinous crime of removing his wet laundry from a washer and dumping it onto a sorting table. This sort of thing was not rare and it indicated the stress they were under. They laughed about it later in the enormous and luxurious underground complex they came to live in, but for a time it seemed that they could go mad.
There being little happening out on the Martian surface that resembled seasonal changes, they kept the same calendar as Earth, except that there were more days in the month. Of course, for science, a standard time had been determined and implemented early in the mission, but for day to day living they were not so precise. The extra 40 minutes of the Martian day was simply forgotten at 0100 when few were likely to notice the clocks holding still. The midnight shift complained about having to work the extra time, but no one else cared.
In the second year several similarly constructed but smaller outstations were established. They called them 'London,' 'Vegas,' 'Gay Paree,' and other heartening and nostalgic names, but ultimately they were the same drab, institutionalized facilities. Despite attempts to create variety through the use of different wall colors, bright murals and differences in the pattern of the furniture, there was an overriding sameness to all of them. Each had a combined kitchen, dining room, lounge, and an entertainment room. Offices, research labs, medical rooms and other work areas were tailored to the purpose and size of the Station. By the time the 2nd Martian year was over Sam had been in them all and could find his way
, he thought, around any of them in the dark.
In time, all of these things got better. Some a little, some a lot. In time, but not yet.
June 2042
Facts of Life
There was a lengthy period of settling in that fully occupied them all. Most everyone was there for the accomplishment of a sponsor's research objective, but there were others, such as those concerned with life support, power generation, and hydroponics whose work to create and maintain a sustainable habitation for humans was essential. Necessarily, but not desirably, scientific research had to wait until the activation of the facility was completed.
The Station had been essentially ready to receive them, but there were whole shiploads full of equipment to support their research activities that had to be unpacked, catalogued, moved, and put in place. That immense and difficult task was beyond their own puny capabilities. The AIs worked at this task steadily and each sunrise saw some new pile of shipping containers and odd looking apparatus appear next to the MHM, awaiting further direction from the rightful owner.
Meanwhile, the humans toiled mightily with the task of setting up their offices and organizing research teams. The overall concept of operation was the same as that of any corporate headquarters: people met periodically around desks for meetings with agendas and schedules in order to produce more schedules and agendas. Management managed, tasks were allocated, and periodically the completion of some activity was reported upon. Due to lack of space, sleeping, work, and off duty time were organized on a three shift schedule. A Duty Officer nominally took care of the task of management during silent hours.
Most spent their off duty time in the Hydroponics Dome, assisting the humans whose primary task was to supervise the AIs in tending the plants or simply relaxing in the presence of something green. It helped that Hydroponics was the brightest location in the Station and that the air was of better quality.
The latest tri-vids were constantly being shown in the dining hall, which doubled as a lounge. Card playing, staged plays, religious services, exercise classes, and macramé were offered. It was not long though, before the need and desire to get out and see something of Mars overcame all forms of discipline, after all, they had journeyed a long way on one of humankind's greatest adventures, and regardless of their profession and purpose each felt that they were there to explore Mars, up close and personal.
