James Scotson: Planets Falling

With that exchange, the Institute was born, although it would not be apparent for years to come. Over the next ten years, Ferris sifted through the best microbiologists, biogeochemists, climatologists, ecologists, engineers, and geologists to work on the project. Many declined to join, staying on earth, continuing to study the gasping, struggling planet they called home. Others came. It was these people and their families that began the organization one day named the Founding Collective or simply the Families, Founders, or Collective. They would become the leaders, the luminaries, behind the many wonders the Institute would bestow upon the galaxy. For now, though, they were simply a group of slightly bewildered, anxious intellectuals living far away from home.

Near her tenth-year anniversary on mars, she welcomed her last batch of recruits. They were assembled in a conference room, with her in front, much like pupils meeting their teacher for the first time or a congregation in the pews ready for a sermon. “Now that you all have arrived and settled in, I want to welcome you.” She sat down on the table next to her, her booted feet swaying. “I’m Pinch Ferris. I’ve already met many of you. For those I haven’t met, we’ll be working closely together and you’ll join what’s already a dedicated, talented pool of researchers. Foremost, our job is to improve the climate and biological integrity of the domes in the colony. We need to keep this moving along for the sake of the colony and to keep the shareholders happy. Money still rules all.” She paused and considered the gathering.

As you all know, we have another opportunity, one that neither we nor our children will probably see to completion. It’s imperative that we and our future families succeed. I fear that the very fate of our species and the biological heritage of earth depend on this effort. How’s that for a little pressure?” She jumped down from the table and mingled with her new family.

During that meeting, the first thing Jon Fuerst noticed about Pinchot was her voice. It was silken but intense, a strange but enthralling combination. As she addressed the crowd, he could tell that she was confident but guarded. Her back was straight, with her arms folded tightly across her chest. As she spoke, her eyes met those of all in the room, as if she knew each individual well. Of course she did. She had hand-chosen ever single person in the room hadn’t she? It seemed corny, but he knew at that moment that he’d found his match. When her eyes met his, it seemed that she paused a moment, holding his gaze? Probably not. He was good at what he did — geology — but otherwise he was not exceptional. He had few family members on earth, hadn’t held a stable relationship in years, and didn’t even have a pet. So, why would he now find himself so interested in another person? This was more than mere attraction and it unsettled him. He was as solid as the rocks he studied. He had no patience for upset in his routine.

Jon settled into his new life perhaps a bit too easily. The lab was his fortress. Mars was as remote as it got and he couldn’t be more content. Soils were his expertise and those of mars were a challenge — full of salts inhospitable to life and fine as talcum. When mixed with water, the dirt became alarmingly acidic. If you were inclined to stick your tongue in it, it’d taste nearly as sour as a lemon. The soil of the gardens in the domes was mostly shipped from earth at great expense. If there was a way to make the martian soil useful — transform it to earthern loam — the savings to the company in shipping alone would be immense. He had been in the colony for six months now and had several experiments running in small environmental chambers. He was working with two students shipped in from earth, explaining to them what to do with the sensor panel, when he heard that damned voice again.

“Hi Jon. I see that you’re busy. I was hoping to schedule a briefing with you.” Ferris was peering in through the chamber’s entryway, her hair pulled back in a bun. A piece of hair had come out and was hanging over her ear.

Jon had an inexplicable urge to brush her hair back. “No, Dr. Ferris. I am — I’m glad to see you. I was just finishing up with these two assistants, Amy and Hama. Let’s go have a coffee if you have the time.”

The assistants looked at each other and smiled. Jon’s sudden perkiness was refreshing. The old rock could melt into magma after all.

At the coffee shop in dome 12, there was the usual line of regulars — mostly permanent colonists and an occasional guest willing to slum it with the commoners. Good coffee was hard to find on the planet. Espresso machines hissed, a rich funk of beans and steamed milk filled the thin air. They found a seat next to a large window overlooking Olympus Mons. The mountain loomed in the maroon sky. Jon expected to be grilled on his research progress and straightened his back.

Ferris blew on her steaming cup and stared into his eyes. “Jon, I never see you. I suspect you’re working too much.” She took a sip, her eyes narrowing. “I know we have a lot to do, but it wouldn’t hurt to have you mingle with us every once in a while. After all, we’re a big family, and need to rely on each other.”

Jon sighed and slouched, a terrible habit. Was this a clandestine psych evaluation? He looked into his cup and muttered, “I don’t have much need for family. I’ve been on my own for about forever. I worked my way through school and only had my uncle to help me out. My parents were killed in one of the regional coups in Europe. Every time I get close to someone, they seem to fade away. The one constant I’ve found in life is my science. It’ll always be there for me.”

“That’s a shame and it doesn’t have to be that way. I love science very much. But there’s so much to be gained from companionship and a little fun every once in a while.” A mild, ruddy heat appeared on her cheeks.

Awkward silence settled in their cups.

At that moment, sirens pierced the air. A mechanical voice reverberated through all solid objects. To Jon, it sounded as if his coffee cup was speaking to him. “Decompression in dome 12, sector 3. Please proceed to nearest shelter.” Jon’s training sessions during his early days in the colony came back to him. He recalled that safety shelters were sealed chambers in which compressed air was pumped. Each sector within each dome had one, similar to the compartments on ocean-faring ships to keep water from completely flooding the hull. If the shelters were visible from the air, they’d make the domes look like a series of oranges cut through the middle.

“Seems like a strange time for a drill,” Jon mused, sipping his drink as patrons filed out and headed to the shelter. Ferris grabbed his hand. He felt like he was twelve again, completely self conscious of his grip. Was he sweating? Her palm was cool and reassuring.

“This is no drill,” Ferris exclaimed.

They hurried along the walkway leading away from the sector’s central plaza when the air pressure sank. Several people struggled to breathe and fell to their knees. Others turned to drag the helpless to shelter. Dust, paper, drops of water lifted into the air and rushed toward the breach, wherever that might be. A tornado had opened up on the paved surface of the dome.

“Follow me.” Ferris pulled him into a small passageway off the walkway. She waved her security card and they entered through a small door. The door slid shut behind them and the pressure rose, wrapping them in thick, luxurious air.

Outside the door, the bodies of four unlucky patrons who waited too long to respond were strewn across the plaza. Their eyes bulged. Engorged blue tongues protruded from their surprised mouths. The sector was completely sealed and silent. The sirens had stopped.