In microgravity astronauts lose 1 to 2 percent of their bone and muscle mass per month. Some of the astronauts who stayed for months on the ISS lost mass permanently and were never able to get back to normal. That’s dangerous, and for those of us who were going to be in spaceships for seven months, it could be fatal. And it didn’t get much better for people planning to live the rest of our lives on a planet with a third of Earth’s gravity. If we couldn’t counter those negative effects, then leaving Earth would kill us in less than two years. The ARED was part of our survival.
I was streaming sweat when I got a call from Herc. I looked at my watch and was surprised because it was way early in the morning where he was.
“Hey, man,” he said, his voice tight and filled with anger, “something happened.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“It’s not me,” he said. “It’s Izzy. Whoa, wait, it’s not like it sounds. She’s okay, she’s fine. It’s just something weird happened.”
He told me. It was weird. And by the time he was finished I was angry too.
The Drake family had all been in bed sleeping when they heard the downstairs front window shatter. They ran downstairs with Mr. Drake leading the way with a baseball bat. There was glass everywhere and a big rock lying on the carpet. Through the smashed window they could see long streamers of red and white fluttering in the branches of the tree by the curb. They went outside to find that the house, bushes, porch, and tree had been covered with streamers. And a big stick had been driven into the ground with a poster stapled to it.
EARTH IS OUR MOTHER
EARTH IS LIFE
MARS IS FOR THE DEAD
There was no one on the street except for neighbors who’d come out to investigate the noise. None of them had seen anyone, of course. No one saw anything.
But we all knew.
Especially when the other reports came in. This didn’t just happen with Izzy. There were other kinds of vandalism outside the houses and apartments of mission members all over the globe. Not everyone’s family or friends got targeted because not everyone on the mission had family or friends. So between the forty of us going there was a total of thirty-one incidents of what the media called “protest.”
Protest? Really? I can think of better words. Not printable words, but better.
The fact that this wasn’t just directed at Izzy didn’t make me feel any better. Actually it scared me ten times worse because it showed how well-coordinated this stuff was. Thirty-one incidents, all done around the same time, all pulled off so quickly and smoothly that no one was spotted, no one was arrested.
I made a call to Frack and told him about it. He and Frick were back in Wisconsin. I asked him if he could maybe check on Izzy and her folks. He laughed, which was something he almost never did.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“Where do you think we are right now?” he said.
Chapter 36
* * *
I called Izzy about fifty times to see if she was okay. She had her best friends with her now and they were keeping her sane and keeping everyone else away. That was good. Not that there were armed hordes of Neo-Luddites showing up everywhere. Actually there was no sign of any at all, even in the crowds outside Izzy’s house during the taping of her segments for our show. Protestors, sure, but no one with a red scarf. What did that mean? They were lying low or in disguise? How could anyone even know?
The anger and frustration I felt was pretty intense. I wished I could be with Izzy because she was scared. Sure, Frick and Frack were now working for the Drake family, but even so it soured the whole day for me and I decided to try and turn in early. Maybe nicer things were happening in dreamland.
Sleep was just starting to pull me down when I heard my Mom arguing with someone. I sat up and listened. The thing is, they weren’t shouting, so it wasn’t volume that woke me. It was the fake whispering people do when they’re mad and they think they’re keeping it all dialed down, but they’re not. You hear couples do that when they’re fighting in public. I kicked off my blanket and got out of bed, crept to the door, and leaned close to listen.
“. . . being unreasonable, Jean,” said a male voice. Not Dad. Director Colpeys, I thought. “There is absolutely no reason to believe that the Neo-Luddites have anything at all to do with the mechanical faults. Not at the launch site and certainly not up on the Lucky Eight. It’s preposterous.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I want to go up and see for myself.”
“We need you down here.”
“Chu can finish the prep down here. Everything’s set and checked to my standards here. I need to go up and see if someone’s messed with my ships.”
Colpeys didn’t correct her about the ships not being hers.
“Oh, come on . . . how could anyone have even gotten up there? Certainly not the Neo-Luddites.”
Mom fired back, “They could have done something to the machinery before it was launched. That’s why I want to do a thorough inspection.”
“You’re talking about adding four full days to the liftoff. We’re already at the edge of the launch window as it is. You’re overreacting and you’re being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable?” snapped Mom in as cold and sharp a voice as I’d ever heard her use. “How about I pull the plug on the whole damn launch? Would you like that, Jurgen?”
It really surprised me. Mom was having it out with Colpeys.
“Jean, you’re being overcautious,” said the director. “Johannsen and his people have been over the structure and it is absolutely sound.”
“Oh really?” Mom growled, her voice colder and sharper still. “I read those reports. Did you read the same ones I did? Because I seem to recall seeing a notation about the exterior auxiliary docking hatch locking system on the Huginn. It was within one-point-six-six of failing the stress test.”
“But it did not fail that test, Jean,” insisted Colpeys. “You know as well as I do how wide a margin of error we built into our diagnostics. By anyone else’s standards one-point-six-six would be a joke, so far outside of the possibility of failure that even NASA would—”
“Don’t you presume to tell me about acceptable safety standards, Jurgen. We’ve had this discussion before and you know where I stand. If NASA has a lower standard, that’s on NASA. This is my mission and I don’t think a one-point-six-six margin is anywhere near acceptable. It’s not like we can pull into a service station and get it fixed.”
I heard the sound of a long, heavy sigh. “For God’s sake, Jean, we’re talking about the docking hatch. The auxiliary hatch. We’re never even going to use it. Never. It’s a redundant system for a process that plays no part in our mission. The docking mechanisms were meant to be used on the Lucky Eight and if we needed to dock the ships in stationary orbit. They were never intended for docking while traveling at these speeds. And the Huginn and the Muninn will not be docking at all during the transit. It would be an absurd waste of time and money to do what you’re suggesting. Delays would cost us a million dollars a day, not to mention the PR backlash and loss of confidence in the overall mission.”
Mom said, “Listen to me and try to get this through your head. I’m the chief toolpush on this mission. When it comes to all hardware issues I have the final say, and I’m telling you right here and now, Jurgen, that if you push me on this I’ll scrub the launch. You can try again in twenty-six months, but the Hart family won’t be on board and I will make damn sure everyone knows why the mission was scrubbed. I’ll hang you with it.”
“Jean . . . please . . .”
I could hear equal parts fury and exasperation in Colpeys’s voice, but my mom was relentless.
“You know where I’m coming from, Jurgen,” she said. “I was scheduled for the Olympus Space Station mission. I had to withdraw because I got pregnant. I didn’t go and instead they sent Mike Bellamy, and good as he was he didn’t mind cutting corners to catch a deadline. He wouldn’t have minded a one-point
-six-six error. He’d be on your side right now, maybe even have my job, but he can’t. And why? Because he didn’t triple-check everything and then check it again. When that bad wiring faulted and triggered the explosive bolt on the escape hatch, he burned up along with every single person on that station. They all died, Jurgen. Seventeen people. The worst tragedy in the history of space travel. Worse than the Challenger disaster.”
“Look, Jean, I know you blame yourself for not being on that mission, but—”
“Don’t,” snapped my mom in a low and very dangerous voice. “You think we’re having this conversation because I’m on a guilt trip? Really? How about crediting me with a little professionalism. My concern is for this mission.”
“Look, Jean, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you listen to me,” Mom fired back. “I’m going up to recheck everything on that transit vehicle and I swear to you, if I find a single screw or wire that isn’t one hundred percent, I’ll bury Mars One and you along with it. Look into my eyes and tell me if I’m joking. No? Good, now get out.”
I was frozen to the spot as I listened to Colpeys mumble some kind of apology. Then I heard the front door close. Hard. My guess, it was Mom who slammed it behind him rather than Colpeys yanking it shut.
A heavy silence seemed to fill the world on the other side of my bedroom door. I debated going out and seeing if Mom was okay. I didn’t. Nor did she come into my room to say good night.
Chapter 37
* * *
We spent the next day in the pool doing equipment drills, undertaking emergency EMU repairs, practicing EVA—extravehicular activity—techniques, and a lot of other things. It was stuff we’d done before, but they had a couple of NASA experts there as part of some kind of cooperation deal. I’m not sure of the details, but the NASA people were clearly looking for things they could criticize. It’s not like they wanted us to fail and they certainly didn’t want us to get hurt, but I hadn’t met too many of them that thought we were going to succeed. They gave us glassy smiles.
But we surprised them.
Mars One may not have been an official government agency, but Lansdorp and his people hired the best of the best. They trained our butts off. Everyone on the mission now had skills way beyond expectations. Mars One wanted everyone cross-trained in as many things as possible. When a 911 call is fifty-four million miles away, you have to have mad skills.
After the space suit drills, the trainers said that we could put on our regular swimsuits and relax in the lap pool. It was the first time we could just chill out. Before I changed into my trunks I stood in the shower for a while. Space suits make you sweat and after a day in one you smell like an armadillo’s armpit. Luther was in the next stall, singing some South African rap. I couldn’t help but move under the spray along with the beat. It was a good song. Then we put on our suits and grabbed towels and headed into the pool area. We saw Zoé come out of the girls’ locker room and then it was an instant race to see who could be the first into the water. Luther won but I cannonballed down next to him.
Then for a long time it was the three of us, floating there, not saying much.
Feeling weightless.
I closed my eyes and imagined we were in the ship, deep in the black, millions of miles away from Earth. After a while I peeked and saw that the others had their eyes closed too. Drifting, dreaming in the weightlessness. Maybe practicing not being here anymore.
I let my eyelids drift shut again, and the black pulled me back and wrapped itself around me.
Chapter 38
* * *
It was 8:20 at night in Amsterdam, which made it 1:20 in the afternoon back in Madison. I went into my bathroom and closed the door and called Izzy. I knew she’d be in class, but I also knew that the teacher would let her take my call.
“Tristan!” she cried. “Gimme a sec.”
She muffled the phone but I could kind of hear her tell someone—the teacher, I guessed—who it was.
A few seconds later Izzy spoke again, her voice hushed and warm and familiar. It also sounded a lot less stressed than I expected. She was still coming back from the shock of the Neo-Luddite thing at her house. “I’m out in the hall,” she said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, and very nearly told her about what had happened between my mom and Mr. Colpeys. I’d told Izzy about the Olympus Station disaster a long time ago, and once I laid everything out to her she said that maybe Mom’s anger was tied to guilt. She hadn’t been there to make sure everything was in top shape and blamed herself. It was a sad thought because it wasn’t her fault at all, but guilt’s a funny thing. We keep taking it on as if it’s ours even when it’s not. And, I have to admit that I had a flicker of it too. After all, Mom didn’t go because she was pregnant with me. If I could feel guilt like that, what Mom was going through must have been a hundred times worse.
What I didn’t tell Izzy was the other thing that was making me feel guilty—that I was kind of praying Mom would find something wrong. Something so bad the whole mission would have to be scrubbed. Even though I really did want to go, there was that nasty little part of me that wanted an out.
It wasn’t something I could ever tell Izzy. If I told her the truth then she’d also start hoping and praying that the mission would never get off the ground. Wanting that would hurt, and it would hurt worse if we still left. Sometimes I’m not a total clueless moron.
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I said. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Oh,” she said, then, “Are you sure . . . ? Your voice sounds funny.”
“No, really, I’m good.” I hated to lie to her, and I knew I wasn’t very good at it. If she hadn’t been at school she’d probably have grilled me and gotten it out of me. I was glad I called her at the wrong time. “They’ve been working us really hard and I’m really out of it. Heading to bed, but I wanted to hear your voice and tell you I love you.”
There was the kind of pause that let me know she was evaluating what I just said.
“I love you, too,” she said slowly. Almost putting it out there as a question, or as an invitation for me to say something else.
“Talk with you soon,” I told her.
And hung up.
Chapter 39
* * *
Dinner was weird on the day after Mom’s fight with Colpeys. Dad was all chatty, telling us about the mutant species of superbarley he’d developed, which was growing like crazy on the ISS and in trays on the transit vehicles. It was going to be the most important crop on Mars. He went on and on about it, apparently unconcerned that I only grunted and Mom didn’t say a word. Not one word, all through breakfast.
When Mom finished and got up and left, all the air seemed to go out of Dad. He exhaled slowly and sat back in his chair.
“Mom okay?” I asked.
After a few seconds of him staring into the middle of nowhere, he looked at me. “Your mom is the single most stubborn woman on this or any other world,” he said. “It’s actually one of the reasons I love her.” He reached over, patted my arm, got up, and left.
“What the actual hell was that about?” I asked the empty room. Nobody materialized out of thin air to fill in all the blanks. But let’s face it, I probably already knew.
The lumpy gray science project in my bowl that was supposed to be high-nutrition stew sat there and dared me to eat another bite. I couldn’t do it, though. So I bailed and went to the gym and had spent three grueling hours on the ARED, trying to work up a decent sweat, when the door opened and Luther strolled in. He took one look at my face and shook his head.
“Jeez. You look like someone kicked you in the nethers, boy,” said Luther.
I only grunted at him. Luther pulled over a stool and sat down to watch. He’d brought in a pair of protein shakes and set mine on the floor. It looked like bile. He sipped his and tried not to wince. The protein shakes were packed with vitamins, nutrients, and calories, but they tasted like camel vomit.
br /> I groaned my way through another set of dead lifts. My thighs were on fire and there were angry fireflies dancing in the air in front of me. Luther sat and watched me, his earbuds in, head bobbing to the beat of whatever he was listening to. South African stuff, probably Kwaito, which is a slow-tempo house beat style where the singer shouts out the words rather than raps. I was still getting used to it. Right then, though, the only sounds were the noises I couldn’t help but make while I lifted what felt like a Mack truck for the zillionth time.
When I finished the last rep I paused, then did five more. That was a thing with me. Doing a set was okay, but that was hitting a goal. I liked exceeding goals. It set a standard for myself. Go the extra mile.
The last three reps were, I was absolutely positive, going to rupture something very important in my extreme lower abdomen. Screw it. I doubted I’d ever have sex once we blasted off. Even if the science guys figured out how we could safely reproduce I’d be the crippled virgin who died alone and sad on Mars.
But I eased the weight back into place, released the wing bar . . . and collapsed down against the back wall of the cramped gym. My heart was a machine gun and it felt like I was breathing fire. I flopped a hand out and Luther bent and put the protein drink against my palm. I drank half of it. It still tasted like camel vomit. But it was wet and cold camel vomit.
Luther stood up and inspected the fittings on the flywheel and resistance pistons. He frowned. “Did they rebuild this? I’ve never seen this stuff before.” He grabbed the bar and lifted one-handed. It didn’t budge and he gave a grunt of surprise. He tried it again with two hands and it rose, but he had to put some muscle into it. He let it sink back. “Holy smokes, this is set all wrong. Who messed this up? It’s broken.”