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  BUILDING 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.

  www.amphoraepublishing.com

  www.walruspublishing.com

  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

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Phase 1: From Dust We Came

  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

  DESCENT by Mark Isherwood

  Phase 3: And to Dust We Return

  INTO THIN AIR by Jonathan Shipley

  NECESSITIES OF LIFE by Kristin Procter

  HELL’S DEEP by Lloyd Vancil

  THE RUSTLE OF THE WIND by Carolyn Agee

  GROWING SKYLINE by Daniel Stephen Marcus

  STORM SEASON by Chuck Regan

  ASSASSINATION IN THE ARCOLOGY by William Cureton

  REPETITION by R. L. Andrew

  THE CAVE IN ARSIA MONS by Andrew Fraknoi

  THE TRESPASSER by Scott Chaddon

  THE GIRL WHO COLONIZED MARS by Bethany Nuckolls

  Author Biographies

  About the Anthologist

  FORWARD

  “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 boundaries—those 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 worth…

  Dust.

  PHASE 1

  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 simulator—if all went well—we 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 i
nto 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 crewmember—a ranking officer whose insignia I should’ve recognized—intercepted 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. Today—to my surprise—he 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.”

  “Which—in your case—is 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?”

  “No, Celia.” The smile was back. “But we need to talk before you take the final step.”

  Many of our earlier conversations had revolved around motivation. Why was a young woman with stellar academic qualifications eager to give up a spot at an elite university, and the likelihood of a promising career, in order to spend the rest of her life in harsh and dangerous conditions? There was really nothing more I could say that hadn’t been said before. I resorted to my fallback position: watchful waiting.

  His sigh carried more than a hint of exasperation. Maybe he was as fed up with me as I was with him. “What if I could guarantee that your withdrawal would not affect your family’s status? That they’d be allowed to remain with the colony regardless of your decision.”

  One of the major sticking points in our discussions had been his insistence that I make my decision based on what was best for me, not my family. “What do you mean?”

  “You could freely decide for yourself. To go, or stay.”

  “I already have.” My face felt hot and I couldn’t muster the control necessary to hide the socially inappropriate desire to smack him in the mouth.

  “A decision made under coercion is not made freely.”

  “Coercion? Do you really believe my parents forced me to join the colony?”

  “I believe the knowledge that your family would not have been accepted as finalists without your presence was a strong motivating factor.”

  No wonder he’d spent the last two years pushing me so hard. I’d assumed the constant harping on motivation was just part of the process every applicant went through. For once, my silence had nothing to do with a test of wills.

  “You didn’t know?”

  I shook my head and waited for the tightness in my throat to subside enough to allow me to speak. “I thought it was my parents they wanted. I thought my brother and I were just part of the package.”

  “Far from it. The skills your parents bring are replicated hundreds of times over in the applicant pool. Our aim is to build a viable, self-sustaining colony. Young people like you are the key to our success.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I assumed your parents told you.” His gaze slid away from mine, finding refuge in the space that separated us. Lines appeared at the corners of his mouth and eyes that I’d never noticed before. “Your refusal to discuss it convinced me you weren’t being entirely honest.”

  “I’m not the one who has a problem with honesty.” A month ago, I would’ve enjoyed his wince and shift in posture, but now I knew that he really has had my best interest at heart all along. “Emigrating to Mars has been my dream since I first learned about the colonies. I made my decision freely.”

  My eighteenth birthday brought a perk I never expected: a berth of my own. When the scanner confirmed my identity and the door slid back, I was sure there’d been a mistake. The room, as large as my bedroom at home, was furnished with a pair of couches separated by a low chest. A table with seating for four hugged the far wall. A workstation and food prep area occupied the space to the right. Meals would be served communally, but we had the option of eating in our quarters. The wall color was set to the red-yellow spectrum I preferred; the first hint that I was probably in the right place.

  I dropped my pack on the table and logged on to the workstation. The computer greeting left no doubt that the space was truly mine. The excitement I’d held at bay to avoid disappointment sent me scurrying around the room. But after inspecting every surface and all the furnishings, I still couldn’t locate the bed. Chiding myself that it was ridiculous to hope for such an extravagance as a separate bedroom, I walked over to the door next to my dining table, pressed my hand against the doorframe, and took a deep breath before opening it.

  To my surprise the room beyond contained not just a bed large enough for two, but a separate toilet and shower. Plus, cabinets built into the walls held an assortment of clothing and linens, and open shelves provided storage for items I wanted to keep in view. The thought of having so much space to myself brought a twinge of guilt, but it didn’t dim my joy at the unexpected gift I’d been given.

  I spent the next hour meticulously arranging the contents of my pack in the cabinets and shelves, fascinated by the ingenious devices designed to secure objects in zero gravity. The warning chime and the holo text message from the computer reminded me that I was due at the first general meeting of the colony. I didn’t want to risk being tardy.

  Benches rose in tiers from floor to ceiling in the circular room. It felt like the first day of school as I climbed to my assigned seat. A girl from an early training group waved from across the room. I responded enthusiastically, happy to see a familiar face I had not expected. My little brother Barry and my parents hadn’t arrived yet.

  As I scanned the crowd, I remembered we all had been chosen to represent all the mental and physical skill se
ts necessary for colony survival, as well as computer matched for social compatibility. The next three months were a test of whether the computer algorithms proved to be right.

  I located my seat in a nearly ceiling-level row to the left of the podium. The man next to me acknowledged my greeting but immediately returned to his conversation with the woman on his right. I scanned the room for Alex and Marta. The three of us had bonded during physical training and had spent most of our free time—what little there had been—hanging out together over the last year. They were both twenty and had entered the program on their own, leaving behind large, extended families who would grieve their absence. I knew from our discussions that their psych sessions had often taken on a very different tone from my own.

  The room filled quickly. I watched a thirty-something woman shuffle past a row of people in front of me to finally arrive at an occupied seat. She didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “You’re in my place.”

  The man stood. “O-15?”

  “That’s right. Are you sure you’re where you belong?”

  He pulled a compad from his pocket and I could see his ears flush. “Sorry, my mistake.”

  Instead of retracing the woman’s path, he hopped to an empty seat one row up, then repeated the maneuver to land in the seat beside me. I watched in admiration, positive I’d end up with more than one broken bone if I attempted such a feat.

  “O instead of Q. An easy mistake, don’t you think?” he said by way of greeting. His smile was infectious. “I’m Devon Michaels.”

  “Celia Scott.”

  “Where’s your family?” He looked past me down the row.

  It was my turn to blush. He’d taken one look at me and assumed I was a child. I vowed to cut my hair in a more daring style the first chance I got. Nothing much I could do about measuring a mere one hundred and sixty centimeters and massing slightly under forty-eight kilos. I certainly wasn’t going to admit that I’d only just turned eighteen.