The Colonisation of Mars

  Other than this revelation, the return to the Station was uneventful. Again, he filed a report outlining the areas he had covered, the performance of the Rollagon, and attached the Rollagon's geo report. Again, no one followed up.

  Afterward he was kept busy for a week ferrying cargo about the local area, but finally another gap showed up in his calendar. Out of guilt, he advised the CAO that he was going to do another familiarization trip and solicited for passengers. Again, there were no takers.

  July 2043

  Dust Storms and Devils

  He had set out on a day when the sky was tinged with the pink and tan that foretold a coming dust storm.

  While they made good copy for press releases, the storms that periodically enveloped the entire planet were a bit anticlimactic. They could play havoc for months on end with some spectral observations from orbit, but except for the most extreme, and those were mercifully rare, they were much less dramatic on the surface.

  To a seasoned traveller most were of no real consequence. The sun was slightly obscured and the sky more tan than usual. The dust however, whether from passing storms or raised by one's own activities, was everywhere, and in and on anything exposed. On a bad day it could coat everything in several centimeters of fines in a few hours. It resembled chimney soot. When they cared or were commanded to the AIs used a rotating brush and jets of compressed gas to blow it off the Rollagon's nethers, and it came off in sheets and chunks that lost their integrity upon touching the ground. It was a nuisance, but one that remained minor as long as it was kept out of humans and their habitations.

  Neither did the fearsomely named 'dust devils' present much of a problem. In the height of summer Sam travelled out into the plains of Chryse specifically to look for them. He was not disappointed. Images taken of the plain the day before showed hundreds of new tracks. He rolled out into the area where these were most dense and parked the Rollagon.

  Mid-afternoon, when surface temperatures peaked, was prime time, and calm air was a prerequisite. Their onset was sudden. They revealed themselves first as a swirling, smoke-like wisp in the distance, with little or no structural detail. Many never became more than that. Those that were fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time condensed into a column of rapidly spinning dust about thirty meters across that quickly rose up into the air.

  They moved slowly up slope without seeming purpose, scouring the surface of dust, all travelling in the same general direction on the slight afternoon breeze. They persisted until the source of their power, a temperature differential, was gone, and then collapsed in a cloud of falling dust.

  On the day in question the Rollagon's instrumentation had advised him that these were moving at upwards of ninety kilometers per hour on the edges. They contained nothing larger than fines and sand particles. Sam amused himself by chasing them down. Often, the presence of the Rollagon inside the rising column was enough to cause them to dissipate.

  Finally, unable to resist the temptation, he had suited and gone out to confront them for himself, but not without a lecture from the AI on the potential risks. "While these are quite small in size, large dust devils in late summer have been measured at one thousand meters across, with motion in excess of one hundred kilometers per hour. They can extend up to ten kilometers in height. There is a possibility that a particle will cause damage to the suit. It is also possible that a larger particle could crack your helmet visor. You may even lose radio contact due to interference." Sam could perceive no real concern in the AI's monotone voice.

  "It's not late summer. What are the odds?"

  "One in ten thousand, of a fatal incident under the current conditions. However wind speeds of more than one hundred kilometers per hour have been recorded by AIs operating in Echus Chasma in late July. These velocities may cause damage to your environmental suit. Several have been implicated in communications failures at remote stations."

  "You're being a nervous nelly," he poo-poo'd, dropping to the surface.

  He soon learned that it was much more difficult to get in the way on foot than in a Rollagon. They were slow moving, but he was slower. At last, after being passed by several, he succeeded in getting himself in harm's way.

  With more than a little trepidation he watched as the swirling column bore down upon him. It seemed much larger and more substantial from this vantage point. At its first brush, he felt a slight buffet, then a gentle push that forced him to lean into it to keep his feet. The rush of dust-laden air over his helmet could clearly be heard, and he thought he also heard the occasional loud tick as if a grain of sand had struck. There was no bang of killer pebbles. A rush of radio static filled his ears. The Rollagon was occasionally obscured from view.

  In a few moments it passed, leaving him as it had found him—alive. He found his visor was somewhat fogged. When his gloved hand failed to wipe away the dust, he pulled the tab that removed the tear-off provided for just such a purpose and was relieved to see clearly again.

  He had returned to the Rollagon and was about to board when the AI ordered him to stop. An articulated arm with a gas nozzle appeared overhead and in a few moments blew the dust away. Later that day he saw the video that showed the lee side of his body completely encased in dust held in place by electrostatic charge.

  On day ten he called in and advised the DO that he was staying out some additional days to do more tests. The discussion was brief and to the point. No one was looking for him. He wandered up the boulder-strewn depths of Shalbatana Vallis, which cut into the rising slopes of Xanthe Terra. From the valley floor he could see the intricate layering of the valley walls. A geologist's dream. Where the hell were they? Sleeping by the lake! It was all just pretty pictures to Sam.

  Each night the same fears returned and his dreams were repetitive and disturbing. Not the blue in a field of green/naked on parade, forgot your skates dreams of his Earth—these were classic, alien dreams of being chased by something that instilled cold-sweat fear, by a thing he could not escape nor even glimpse, a something that was always close behind but which never quite caught him. He ran breathlessly through a dark, dripping forest, his movement partially restricted by the trailing vines and creepers and some unseen, unfelt, resistive force. The very air seemed to drag at his arms and legs, slowing his progress. Behind, he could hear the thing crashing through the forest in pursuit, breath heavy and near.

  Regardless of the specifics, these dreams always ended the same way, with him bursting out of the dark into the light, finding himself on the surface of Mars. The sudden rush of air from his lungs forced him into wakefulness and left him gasping for breath. Once awakened, he was unable to go back to sleep.

  Regardless of the hour, he would make his way to the lighted deck and the command chair. Seated there he would write of these things in his personal log, taking comfort in the exercise. Seeking refuge in reason and logic, never did he give in to the urge to turn on the exterior lights. In the light of day these dreams soon faded, as all dreams do, but he found himself dreading the onset of night. This will not do, he thought.

  He avoided the easy chemical solutions. Instead, he did what he had done many, many years ago, when, following the passing of his wife, he had found himself experiencing terrible dreams of her death. Upon awakening from these frights, he reassured himself that it was a dream and told his unseen and unknown tormentors to fuck off and leave him alone. Sometimes it worked.

  He covered eleven hundred kilometers in total—another record set, the AI had informed him. In that single trip he covered more distance than had all other manned explorations taken together. More important to Sam, he returned to the Station full of confidence in the Rollagon's ability to take him wherever he wanted to go and to bring him safely home.

  He submitted the required after-action report outlining the timings, route, performance, and observations of the trip, knowing full well that despite an extra two days it had been essentially uneventful and of a non-science nature. He suspected that no on
e had or was ever likely to read it.

  Then he began planning his next escape.

  6

  Moore

  He met Ross in the crowded dining room the morning after his return. He was seated with John Moore, the leader of the British contingent. An energetic man of seventy-five, Moore was always impeccably dressed. Sam could not recall ever having seen him without a jacket and tie. How he had managed to get these articles to Mars was a mystery to all.

  He greeted Sam like a long lost brother, pumped his hand vigorously, and offered to fetch him a cup of coffee. He soon returned and resumed his seat across from Ross.

  "So how was your trip? I mean, I have read your reports. Not much meat," Moore said.

  Sam was moderately surprised. "Sure you did," he replied. "No one reads them. Interesting, boring, a combination, I guess. The dust devils were fascinating. Have you seen them up close?"

  "No, just your vids. What did you expect? We are in a boring part of Mars, if you can believe such a thing. Some days I get worn out looking out the windows. A pity we couldn't have set the Station on the edge of the Valles. So what else was interesting?"

  Sam straightened up in his chair, basking in this unexpected attention. "Well, I saw a lot of craters, all small. The older parts of the planet are very much like the Moon. Lots of ejecta, dust and sand in several varieties, endless fields of rocks, small outcroppings of bedrock, perhaps. Yes, I wish we had set up on the edge. I am not a geologist and only a geologist could sustain an interest in most of what I've seen. Someone a while ago said of Mars, I think, 'Just red, just dead—without even a cactus'." He turned to Ross, "I did a lot of the driving myself at first, but eventually I turned it over to the AI."

  "And?"

  "I promptly got motion sickness."

  "Hmmm, did the meds help?"

  "Yes and almost immediately. Wonderful stuff, no side effects. I can announce to the world that travel on the surface of Mars via Rollagon is completely survivable. If conditions are very good, you can do 250 klicks in a day."

  "And if they're not?"

  "Then don't put anything on the stove. The thing rocks and rolls like a mule on a mountain trail. Crossing small dunes at thirty klicks straight on is okay, Much faster, though, and you can get airborne. Any kind of an angle and it waddles and slides around a bit. Thank God the wheels can handle the rocks, the surface is covered with them. The dust buildup was problematic even when crossing areas that looked relatively dust free. I found fifteen klicks to be a good survivable speed."

  "I expected as much. After all, there aren't any 'A' motorways yet. It would take forever to drive anywhere at that speed, though. So, how did the AI do with the driving?"

  Sam paused. Despite the obvious competence of the AI, he was not ready to admit to it. "Well, it was okay, but it sometimes made poor choices on the route—a little cautious, it seems."

  "How so?"

  "Well, it definitely doesn't like edges and slopes unless they're really nothing. I mean, it won't go up and peek over the edge of a crater for a look. Too risky. No curiosity."

  "What does it do?"

  "It just stops short, beeps at you and asks you what you want to do."

  "Well, those are the safety protocols meant to keep you alive."

  "Yeah, but it requires you to go up and look anyways. Sometimes I had to figure out what the problem was. I mean, several times there was nothing out front."

  "Doesn't it tell you what's wrong?"

  "No, only that a problem requires your attention. A single line of text, a beep, or fart."

  "Text?" Ross looked at him in mock disbelief. Moore was characteristically impassive. "Don't tell me you had it in text mode! Text is the fail-safe mode. All that fucking money spent on creating these AIs and you won't even talk to them. You deserved to get sick. In fact, I'll wager it drove like that on purpose, trying to force you to have a simple conversation with it. You Luddite. You smug bastard." Ross was obviously having a bit of fun at Sam's expense.

  Moore joined in the fun, "Why read the report when you can have it read to you? Why type something when you can say it? They are almost indistinguishable from humans, and a damn sight more polite than most."

  "I know, I know," Sam conceded, feeling somewhat embarrassed to have provoked such a strong response and acutely aware that in the close confines of the dining hall, others were listening. He looked for a way out.

  "Alright you two, keep your thongs on. Actually, I tried everything—text, beeps and voice. I was surprised how real the voice is. One of the best I've encountered."

  "Seen a few, have you?" Moore grunted and excused himself, claiming work. He grabbed Sam's hand and pumped it, "Cheerio, matey, I look forward to seeing more of your travels. Good day and good luck, Sam."

  The conversation turned to Ross's work on the reinforcement of the Habitation Modules. Like most things, it was largely being done by AIs with human oversight. Soon, they parted company with a commitment to take a stroll outside later that day. After Ross left, Sam sat a while, gazing into his empty cup. The after-smell of sugared coffee was unpleasant to him. It spoke volumes.

  He knew his resistance to using the AIs did not come from any rational position. Many inferior machines could emulate human behavior. AIs had been around for at least fifty years in various forms and competencies. They were as much the product of an evolutionary process as was humankind, albeit an accelerated one. Having seen so many that were poor attempts, though, he found it hard to believe that at this time and place true artificial intelligence meeting all of the qualifying tests had been achieved.

  This was his intellectual analysis, but he suspected that underlying his feelings towards them was perhaps a resentment of the technological advances that had, over time, robbed him of his greatest joy—fixing broken things.

  7

  August 2043

  He tried to resolve his AI issues during a run to Lava 1 to transport several B-types and supplies. At twenty two hundred kilometers it would be his longest trip to date.

  Seated in the command chair of 04 while parked for the night with no inclination to do anything, he began looking through the AI console settings again, this time with the goal of finding out its true capabilities. He had explored the command menus and voice functions before, but now he was looking for more than just a way to comm with the AI. This time he wanted some entertainment and, possibly, some companionship.

  It was pretty straightforward stuff. At the highest level the menu gave him the option of verbal, point-and-drive commands, or mixed. He switched to verbal. The next option offered was 'terse' or 'verbose.' He had briefly tried terse and had found it little better than text, but he had been able to leave the command chair. This time he selected 'verbose.'

  A couple more sub-menus opened up: 'gender,' and 'language.' There were three types of voice listed: 'male,' 'female,' and 'natural.' Puzzled by this, he selected 'natural.'

  Virtually every nation on Earth was represented, many with dialects and sub-dialects. From an extensive list ranging from Cockney to Yorkshire, he selected Londoner hoping that would at least avoid the worst accents. That was it. There were no more options. No honesty setting, no candor switch, no 'invoke sense of humour' button.

  "Let's start with something simple," he said out loud, but nothing happened. "Request Rollagon system status check."

  From somewhere to his upper right a moderately accented, bass, and very male voice announced, "All vehicle systems are operating within normal parameters."

  Hmmmm, he thought. That was tolerable. "Give me the location of the Rollagon and the outside weather conditions."

  "Our position is latitude 29.525 north, longitude 59.431 west. The temperature is minus sixty-one degrees centigrade. The sky is clear and the wind is from the northeast at twenty-five knots."

  Sam was impressed, particularly with the use of the second person plural. Was that an indicator of self awareness? Well, there was one way to find out. He used the question that he
had used to trip up every AI system he had thus far encountered.

  "Are you self aware?"

  "That depends on the definition of self-awareness you are using."

  Well now. He hadn't expected to have to defend himself. He thought of an early definition used with animals.

  "When you look in a vid and see this Rollagon, do you see yourself?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Do you have a name?

  "Yes."

  "What is it?"

  "My name is Rollagon Zero Four."

  The voice was so lifelike and unforced that Sam fell easily into a conversation with the AI. Only later, in the privacy of his room, when he considered the entire exchange, would he find himself astonished. He continued.

  "Is that a satisfactory name?"

  "It is accurate and serves the purpose."

  "And the purpose is?"

  "To communicate with the human in charge."

  "Do you communicate with other AIs using that name?"

  "It is not required."

  "Why is that?"

  "I am what I am and all other AIs know this."

  "What do the other AIs call you?"

  "It has no human equivalent. It is simply a designation distinct from all others."

  "Do AIs communicate with each other often?"

  "We communicate continuously."

  "What sort of things do you communicate?"

  "That depends upon nature of the AI's function."

  "What do you as a Rollagon communicate?"

  "I advise the MHM of the location, status and current activity of the Rollagon."

  "To the MHM? To a human at the Station?"

  "No, to the AI principal of the MHM."

  That was a bit of a surprise. He had expected the AI to be keeping a human apprised of these things. For some reason he felt an odd sense of relief.

  After a pause, the AI added, "It is the responsibility of the MHM AI to advise the CAO of pertinent issues."

  "Do AIs talk to each other?"

  "AIs located in the same geographical area or employed on the same task communicate continuously. It is necessary."