Authors: Janet L. Cannon
Mission Mars
RED
MISSION MARS
anthology edited by Janet L. Cannon
Copyright © 2015 Janet L. Cannon
Walrus Publishing | Saint Louis, MO 63110
All rights reserved.
Walrus Publishing is an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC
For information, contact
[email protected]
Amphorae Publishing Group
4168 Hartford Street | Saint Louis, MO 63116
Publisher's Note: This book is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. While some of the characters, organizations, and incidents portrayed here can be found in historical accounts, they have been altered and rearranged by the author to suit the strict purposes of storytelling. The book should be read solely as a work of fiction.
Cover Design by Randy McWilson and Kristina Blank Makansi
Cover Photography: NASA
Interior Design by Kristina Blank Makansi
Set in Adobe Caslon Pro and Base 02 used by permission of
Clement Nicolle, StereoType
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN: 9781940442075
for explorers everywhere
BUILDING
RED
FIRST WAVE by Cyndy Edwards Lively
TO DREAM IN COLOR by Cyn Bermudez
EXIT INTERVIEW by Laura Luttrell
Phase 2: Through Heaven's Dust
BETTING THE BOOT by Kara Race-Moore
RED CAMERA ONE by Nick Nafpliotis
LAST RESORT PIONEERS by M. T. Reiten
Phase 3: And to Dust We Return
INTO THIN AIR by Jonathan Shipley
NECESSITIES OF LIFE by Kristin Procter
THE RUSTLE OF THE WIND by Carolyn Agee
GROWING SKYLINE by Daniel Stephen Marcus
ASSASSINATION IN THE ARCOLOGY by William Cureton
THE CAVE IN ARSIA MONS by Andrew Fraknoi
THE TRESPASSER by Scott Chaddon
THE GIRL WHO COLONIZED MARS by Bethany Nuckolls
“Lisa, I have this great idea. I want to edit an anthology.”
“Cool! What kind of anthology?”
“I don't know. Something in the science fiction or fantasy genre. You know me. Anything else would bore me to tears.”
“How about ⦠colonizing Mars?”
And thus the next two years of my free time was erased like an electromagnet got stuck to my hard drive.
Building Red
is my first experience working with writers from across the globe, an independent publisher, and the minutia of details of contract law. The experience has been eye-opening and fruitful.
As you are reading the pieces, you may note that the spelling of some words in some of the stories is different. In the pieces written by the authors who live outside the U.S., the British spellings remain intact. I feel this adds a unique flavor to the work, and the anthology as a whole.
As with other publications, this one was not created in a vacuum. Thanks go to Randy McWilson for his awesome cover design and advice. You rock at rock, dude! Thanks to
Clement Nicolle of StereoType for allowing me to use the font Base02 for RED. It made the cover pop! Thanks to Sam Jarrell and Andrew Fraknoi for their technical advice. Not being an expert on Mars, it's nice to have friends who can help point your rocket in the right direction. Or at least set the vector within landing distance. Thanks to Lisa Miller, Donna J. Essner, and Kristina Blank Makansi from Walrus and Amphorae Publishing for your patience with the newbie.
Thank you to all those who submitted but were not accepted to this anthology. Keep writing. Keep revising. Keep submitting. Don't give up!
Thanks, too, to all the authors who submitted their work and were accepted. Without you, there would be no anthology. I've had so much fun living in your worlds. Thank you for sharing your vision of the future. Thank you for your patience in what may have seemed like a never-ending process. But because you stuck with it, revised, and revised again (and sometimes again), your hard work paid off. My philosophy is “Revision is a Dish Best Served Cold,” and we had a sub-zero winter together, my friends, didn't we?
One of the best aspects of this anthology is that it embodies diversity. A diversity of writers of different ages, different walks of life, cultures, and different countries. My hope is that your work opens the eyes of readers across the globe to think beyond boundariesâthose we know now, and those yet to be discovered.
Whether we are traveling to Mars or achieving world peace, we have to work together. Else our work will only be worthâ¦
Dust.
FROM DUST WE CAME
FIRST WAVE
Cyndy Edwards Lively
Mars was named for the Roman god of war. An irony not lost on those of us who'd fought hard to be among the first wave of colonists. After surviving a physical and intellectual regimen designed to weed out the unfit, unmotivated, and just plain incompatible, we felt we had more than earned our berth on one of the first three ships. Unfortunately, those holding the purse strings insisted on one final test before agreeing to pay our freight. In a way, I couldn't blame them. On Mars, we would be far beyond the reach of retribution of investors if we couldn't hold up our end of the bargain.
I tried to squelch my disappointment when the tram arrived at a nondescript six-story building. Barry, my little brother, didn't bother to hide his disgust. “I thought you said it was just like the real thing. You know ⦠a similar.”
“Simulator.” Mom hunched forward to get a better
look out the window. “That's just a façade. Probably don't want the competition getting a look at the design.”
During our training, we'd been warned about corporate espionage. Anyone caught discussing any aspect of the program with an outsider was immediately dismissed. Plus, the penalties in the contract we'd signed made the idea of selling data downright scary.
Dad shouldered Barry's pack along with his own, and the four of us joined the queue on the sidewalk. People stared upward for one last glimpse of Earth's sky. Once we entered the simulatorâif all went wellâwe wouldn't be setting foot on our planet again.
After what felt like an eon, we crossed the threshold into a narrow corridor of rough concrete walls that ended in an airlock. No wonder progress had been so slow; they were cycling us into the simulator as if we were stepping into the ship already circling in a geo-stationary orbit overhead.
Just outside the airlock, a crewmember weighed our packs. We each had a twenty-kilo allowance for personal items. Clothing, toiletries, and bedding were provided. I'd checked mine a dozen times, petrified I'd be forced to discard something at the last minute. My breath released in a whoosh of air when the scale registered nineteen point eight kilos.
The door opened and my family and I entered the airlock with a group of crew no more than a few years older than me. They spent the time in good-natured banter laced with enough profanity to have my mom glancing toward the six year old at her side. Either the group was too oblivious to take the hint, or they didn't care what kind of impression
they made. We colonists hadn't had much exposure to the crew responsible for our transport, so maybe a period of adjustment wasn't such a bad idea after all.
The airlock opened into a bay that housed dozens of vehicles, which we would use once we reached Mars. The adults had practiced operating the machines as part of training. Too bad my eighteenth birthday had come just a little too late, or I'd have been able to try them out.
A senior crewmemberâa ranking officer whose insignia I should've recognizedâintercepted us as we trooped across the cavernous space, and pointed to me. “Ms. Celia Scott, I need you to come with me, please.”
I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question, but snapped it shut when I caught my father's warning glance. During transport we were nominal crewmembers, and as such, we were expected to obey orders. Questions weren't appreciated, especially if the order came from someone sporting braid on his or her shoulder. So, I did what I was told.
We entered a lift that rose soundlessly and made my stomach queasy. One thing we hadn't been allowed to study was the habitat's schematics. No reason to trust us with information we'd learn quickly enough once inside. The doors slid back to reveal a softly lit hallway decorated in what was supposed to be a soothing blue. Med-Psych, no doubt about it. Now my stomach flip-flopped as I imagined all of the possible reasons I'd been separated from my family: Had I acquired some incurable disease that had shown up on my last scan? Had they discovered I'd locked Barry in the bathroom after he hacked my diary? Was I really as dumb as my kindergarten teacher had feared, not just a late bloomer? We walked down
the corridor and stopped in front of the third door. When it opened, the sight of the man sitting behind the desk ratcheted my pulse into the stratosphere.
“Celia, please come in and have a seat.” He waited until I chose the small sofa before he sat down in one of the two facing armchairs.
Psychs didn't have conversations with clients from behind a desk. At least Dr. Grant didn't. Over the last two years meeting with him, I'd learned that particular rule of engagement well.
I feigned indifference. Dr. Grant smiled in a detached way, which only irritated me. Todayâto my surpriseâhe didn't bother to hide his awareness of my animosity.
“Happy Birthday, Celia. I'm sorry there won't be a chance to celebrate such an important occasion as your eighteenth birthday in the way you might have liked.”
As always, I looked for an ulterior motive in the comment, but decided he was being genuine. At least as genuine as someone trained to elicit the most personal information possible from a client, while offering nothing of himself. Obviously, though, I'm not a psych-in-training. But, if being closed-mouthed were to disqualify me as a colonist, I would've been screened out long ago. In spite of questions that screamed for answers, I decided to wait him out.
He nodded as if he expected my silence. “Legal notified the Colony Administrator that your parents' authorization for your emigration is no longer valid. You'll need to give consent on your own behalf.”
“I've already done that. Everyone over twelve had to sign.”
“Whichâin your caseâis no longer legally binding.”
I felt like I'd stood up too fast after a long nap. “Are you saying I'm out of the colony?”