Jennifer Wells - Beyond the Stars - At Galaxy's Edge

Another chime. Her reply was just a terse, Call me.

“Shit,” he said again, yanking the glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have time for another long conversation with his granddaughter, convincing her why he needed to go to Mars. To go there for good. She had a husband, for god’s sake, she didn’t need old Grumpy around to watch the kids. Why the hell was she clinging on to him? “Aw, hell. Fine. You want me to call you? Let’s talk, sweetie.”

Before he could even pick up the phone, the computer chimed again, this time from the other feed. It was Interplanetary. He punched over, his hand shaking ever so slightly. Parkinson’s? The doc assured him it was under control. Naw, just nervous. Ha. Frank Bickham, second man on Mars, nervous about what a bunch of good for nothing pencil pushers would say.

Mr. Bickham,

Pursuant to our conversation on 10/29/67, your status as Mariner Valley colony member #10,257 is approved. Attached, please find the orientation packet and final paperwork that must be completed by....

He stopped, and began again, rereading to make sure he wasn’t imaging it. A thrilling jolt ran up his spine.

It happened.

He’d done it. Well, almost. One last step remained, but for all intents and purposes, barring any unforeseen unfortunate events, it was going to happen.

Frank Bickham, second man on Mars, was going to be the first man to die on Mars.

Switching over to a third feed, he fired off a message he’d composed months ago, to his rival, Jerry Su, first man on Mars.

Suck it, Su. I won.

Signed,

And he grinned.

Frank looked up from his datapad, thinking the approaching person was his new friend, but no, just another passerby. In Dallas, when random people walked by his table outside the cafe, they wouldn’t even make eye contact. Who cares about some cranky old bastard having his morning coffee? But here, on the main plastic boulevard under the clear composite glass of Huygens dome in Mariner Valley on Mars, he was a goddamned celebrity. Shit, even the street was named after him. Bickam Boulevard. They spelled his name wrong on the sign, but he could look past little details like that. Better than drinking a cup over on ass-ugly Su Avenue. In a few months, he’d be frickin’ immortal. First man to die on Mars. Bam. They’d rename the whole godforsaken valley after that shit.

The approaching woman kept glancing at him surreptitiously, looking like she was taking great pains to not look like she was looking at him, but by the time she passed his table she dropped all pretense.

“Are you...?”

He smiled his strained, fake ‘for the adoring masses smile’.

“The one and only.”

She looked young. Well, probably in her late forties. Young enough for him to not be overly concerned for her health, thank god. And therefore, not worth his time. “Charmed,” he said, accepting her handshake. Briefly. He had work to do‌—‌no time to schmooze with his fans.

She held on to his hand a split second too long. “Ma’am?” he began, before she pulled the hand away, looking mortified. “I’m terribly busy. But so very good to meet you.”

She looked mortified, chagrined, and flustered all at once. “Oh! And, uh, you too! We’re so proud to have you up here with us. Or down here. Or... here. You know. Mars. Huygens Dome. Su Avenue.”

“Bickam Boulevard, actually. Yes, yes, I know, thank you,” he said, smiling his strained smile. He spied an elderly man shuffling down the boulevard towards them. Ah. His new friend. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs....?”

“Martinez. Jackie Martinez. I’m an environmental engineer working on CO2 filtration and sequestration over in satellite pod ten. I don’t get over here to the main strip very often‌—‌I haven’t had a good cup in coffee in forever . How’s this place? I keep meaning to try it, but I’m always so rushed when I come over here, you know, what with work and all, but it certainly looks like a decent coffee shop. You come here often? Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m rambling. Sorry. I’ll be going. So nice to meet you, Mr. Su!”

“Bickham!” he called after her. Once she was gone, he stretched his cheeks and lips. “God, that hurts.” He’d held his ‘for the masses smile’ the entire time, which tended to strain his face. He stood up to greet the elderly man who’d finally made it to the coffee shop. Bickam Boulevard in Huygens dome wasn’t that long‌—‌just under a kilometer, but his new friend looked like he’d just completed a fifty kilometer hike.

That didn’t bode well.

“Mr. Smith? Very pleased to meet you. Frank Bickham.” He extended a hand.

“Mr. Bickham! A pleasure!” Smith’s handshake felt weak. Damn. Another bad sign.

Frank waved him to a chair at his table on the narrow, plastic composite sidewalk. “Have a seat. Can I order you something? Coffee? Orange juice? Quinoa extract? Something healthy?”

Smith waved him off. “Just had breakfast, thank you.”

“Good. Best meal of the day. Very healthy habit. Good, good,” mumbled Frank.

Smith nodded and glanced up at the monitor hanging from the roof of the boulevard, gaudily flashing the news and analysis as delivered by some loud-mouthed talking heads and competing news ticker streams. Luckily, it was muted. Smith pointed up at the screen. “Can’t get enough of us back on Earth, can they? We’re celebrities. If only they knew what it was really like up here. All work, no play, no booze, no women. At least, none for me. Who the hell wants to get in the sack with a eighty-year-old man?”

Frank laughed gruffly. “Tell me about it,” before adding, tentatively, “so, you drank a lot before you got here?”

“A lot? Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. Just a beer or two after a day’s work. Welder,” he added, tapping his chest. “After a day of gluing aluminum prefab modules together, a man needs a cold one, you know what I mean? But do they think about us? Nope. Just their goddamned bottom line. That’s Interplanetary for you. Profit margins and stock prices. They’re up, the colony’s a success. They’re down, and we’re all horseshit, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, you said it, brother.” Frank nodded, watching the monitor switch over from Earth’s CNN feed to a locally produced news program. Hell, they even brought an anchorwoman up here. They were talking frantically about something, with earnest expressions. Probably the stock price. “Say, Ed‌—‌can I call you Ed? You getting good exercise?” He noticed the other man’s raised eyebrows. “Just wondering, you know.” He tapped his datapad. “For the job. You know they sent me up here to be a community health analyst, or whatever bullshit they want me to do. Honestly, I’m just here for the low gravity. Good for the joints. Arthritis sucks, man.”

Smith chuckled. “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”

Frank nodded. “So? Exercise? Generally feeling pretty good? No major health issues?”

Smith looked mildly flabbergasted. “Well, I‌—‌”

His datapad chimed. A message from Earth, probably Samantha‌—‌the little girl must send him five video messages a week. Sometimes five a day. Earth was still close to inferior conjunction with Mars so the delay was only five minutes or so. God‌—‌he loved that little girl. He was half tempted at times to scrap the whole plan, just to have a few more years hosting tea parties with her and her stuffed fluffy friends. But no turning back now.

He tapped the pad. It wasn’t from Samantha, but a note from her mom, Ramona, his granddaughter.