S Morden - One Way

Frank nodded slowly to himself as he digested the information.

“You haven’t rejected the idea out of hand,” said Mark.

“Just give me a minute. I’m thinking.”

Once the insanity had been stripped away, it was actually a straightforward offer: die in prison or live on Mars. He was never getting out of this penitentiary alive: he’d been sentenced to a hundred and twenty years for shooting a man in the face, in broad daylight, in front of a crowd of witnesses. Only the fact that he could prove that the dead man was his son’s dealer saved him from going down for murder in the first, and onto death row.

He hadn’t contested the charges. He hadn’t spoken in his own defense. He’d taken what was coming, and he was still taking it. By mutual consent, his wife and his son had disappeared after the trial and they’d both moved a very long way away. Bad people, like the associates of the man he’d killed, had long memories, and longer reaches. No one had ever contacted him subsequently, and he’d never tried to contact anyone either. No, tell a lie: he’d had one message, maybe a year into his sentence. Divorce papers, served out of a New Hampshire attorney’s office. He’d signed them without hesitation and handed them back to the notary.

There was literally nothing for him here on Earth but to die, unremembered and unremarked on.

But Mars?

He’d heard the news about the plans for a permanent Mars base, back when he was a free man, but he couldn’t honestly say he’d paid much attention to it: he’d been in the middle of hell by then, trying to do the best thing for his family, and failing. And afterwards? Well, it hadn’t really mattered, had it? Someone was putting a base on Mars. Good for them.

He hadn’t thought for the smallest fraction of a moment of a second that it might include him.

Now, that would be a legacy worth leaving. Somewhere, his son was grown up, hopefully living his life, hopefully doing whatever he was doing well. He’d been given a second chance by Frank, who had loved him more than life itself, even if he’d had a strange way of showing it.

Did the boy think about his father? At all? What would it be like for him to suddenly discover that his old man was an astronaut, and not a jailbird? “This is the big Mars base, right?” Frank asked. “The one they announced a few years back?”

“Mars Base One. Yes.”

“That’s… interesting. But why would you pick cons? Why wouldn’t you pick the brightest and the best and let them be the goddamn heroes? Or did you already throw this open to the outside world, and there weren’t enough young, fit, intelligent people with college educations and no rap sheet beating down your doors for an opportunity like this. Is that it? You’re desperate?”

Mark stroked his top lip. “It’s because, while the company wants to minimize the risks involved, it can’t completely eliminate them. And when a young, fit, intelligent person with a college degree dies, the publicity is terrible. Which is why they’ve offered you this opportunity instead. There’s also the need to prove that this isn’t just for the very brightest. Antarctic bases need plumbers and electricians and cooks. Mars bases will too. The company wants to show the world that, with the right training, anyone can go.”

Frank hunched forward. “But couldn’t you just hire the right people?”

“Frank, I’m going to level with you. Arranging a big spaceship, that costs a lot of money and time to build, which will take people out there, and will also bring them home? That isn’t a priority right now. As it stands, the company get something out of this, and you get something out of this. They get their base built, quickly and yes, cheaply. You get to spend the rest of your life doing something worthwhile that’ll benefit the whole human race, rather than rotting to death in here. Quid pro quo. A fair exchange.”

Frank nodded again. It made some sort of sense. “OK, I get that you don’t want the pretty people dying up there, but just how dangerous is this going to be?”

“Space is a dangerous place,” said Mark. “People have died in the past. People will die in the future. Accidents happen. Space can, so I’m told, kill you in a very great number of different ways. We don’t know what your life expectancy on Mars will be. We’ve no data. It may well be attenuated by a combination of environmental factors, which you’ll learn about in your training. But you’ll be able to minimize the risks and increase your chances of survival greatly by following some fairly straightforward rules. Whereas the average life expectancy behind bars is fifty-eight. You’re currently fifty-one. You can do the math.”

“Mars.”

“Yes, Mars.”

Frank poised the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and bit lightly. He could feel himself on the threshold of pain, and that was the closest he ever got these days to feeling anything. But to feel pride again? Achievement? To think that his son would be able to look up into the night sky and say, “There he is. That’s where my father is.”

Were those good enough reasons? He wouldn’t be coming back: then again, he wasn’t really here either. It’d be a second chance for him, too.

“Where do I sign?”

From:Bruno Tiller

To:Xavier Hildestrom

Date:Fri, April 29 2039 15:35:02 +1000

Subject:Big news

Xavier,

Just a note to say how much of a pleasure it was to meet you and the rest of the gang down at Gold Hill. You’ve got some fantastic facilities to play with down there, and the views are incredible! You’re so lucky to be there, and while I realize that you’ve been plenty busy, I know how much of a wrench it must be for you to be away from Maria.

As you know, Paul’s now put me personally in charge of all aspects of the project, and we’re moving on to the next exciting phase. You’ve excelled at everything you’ve done so far, and I think it’s high time you got your reward. There’s a position back here in Denver I need someone of your caliber to fill—no one else will do. What’s more, I want you to bring your whole senior team with you.

That’s right: you’re all coming back to the Mile High City! I’m going to oversee your replacements at Gold Hill, and we can have a smooth transition in, say, end of July? I can’t tell you how jazzed I am at the prospect of having you back here at XO HQ. And you are going to love your new project. Trust me. It’s a doozy.

Bruno

It had taken all day. Ten hours in an unadapted minivan, with him sitting in the back seat, handcuffed but otherwise free to move around, just one man in with him to nominally drive—once out of the prison gates, the autopilot had dealt with most of that—and frequent stops for him to use the restroom or just stretch his legs, and be asked what he wanted to eat.

Tosh, the driver, wasn’t even armed. He was just a guy who punched buttons on the dash and sat behind the wheel in case something happened that the car couldn’t cope with. Most states had done away with that requirement. Not California.

The men in the other two cars were armed, though. The black SUVs went in front and behind in a linked convoy, always pulling in and driving off in a synchronized ballet of speed and direction. Tosh had warned him that if Frank had it in mind to jump him and try to redirect the car, he’d be rammed off the road, dragged out, and unceremoniously shot in a ditch. Otherwise, Tosh was good enough company. He knew when to speak, and he knew when to shut up.

Once they’d left the prison behind and crossed the bay on the snaking, uppy-downy Richmond Bridge, they’d headed east, into the mountains, where there was still snow piled up by the sides of the roads from plowing. The blue sky of the coast, with its salt smell and warm breezes, was exchanged for low cloud and a gaspy, blustering wind.