Any space station had lots of electrical parts, but doors were something sane engineers would make purely mechanical. After all, if the power went out, you didn’t want to be trapped inside or outside. It took Sas and Don a few minutes to work out the logic of the door mechanism—a central disk in the middle of the roof had to be depressed, then rotated counterclockwise. Once that was done, the rest of the hatch irised open, and the locking disk, attached by what looked like a plastic cord, dangled very loosely at one side.
Don glided down the tube first. He wasn’t able to open the inside door until Sas closed the upper lid; a safety interlock apparently prevented anyone from accidentally venting the habitat’s air out into space.
Still, it was immediately obvious to Don, once he was out of the air lock tube, that there was no air inside the habitat. The rigidity of his pressure suit didn’t change; no condensation ap-peared on his visor; there was no resistance to waving his arms vigorously. Doubtless there had been some air once, but, despite the safety precautions, it had all leaked out. Perhaps a small meteor had drilled through the roof at some point they hadn’t yet uncovered.
Sas came down the air lock tube next—the locking disk could be engaged from either side of the iris. By the time he was down, Don had already made his way over to the dead thing. Its rusty color seemed good confirming evidence that Mars was indeed the being’s original home. The creature was about a meter and a half tall, and, if there had been any doubt about its intelligence, that was dispelled now. The Martian wore clothes—apparently not for protection, but rather for convenience; the translucent garment covering part of its abdomen was rich with pockets and pouches. Still, the body showed signs of having suffered a massive decompression; innards had partially burst out through various seams in the exoskeleton.
While Don continued to examine the being—the first alien life-form ever seen by a human—Sas poked around the room. “Don!” he shouted.
Don reluctantly left the Martian and glided over to Sas, who was pointing through an open archway.
The underground complex went on and on. And Martian bodies were everywhere.
“Wow,” said Sas. “Wow.”
Don tried to activate the radio circuit to Earth, but he wasn’t able to pick up the beacon signal from Mission Control. Of course not: this facility had operated a massive radio telescope; it would be shielded to prevent interference with the antenna. Don and Sas made their way up the air lock tube and out to the surface. There they had no trouble acquiring the beacon.
“Mission Control,” said Don. “Tell Chuck Zakarian we hope he has a good time down on Mars’ surface— although, given all the erosion that goes on there, I doubt he’ll find much. But that’s okay, Houston; we’ll make up for that. You see, it seems we’re not the first crew to occupy…” He paused, the perfect name coming to him at last. “…Mike Collins Station.”
THE FRANCHISE
by Julie E. Czerneda
Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the John W. Campbell and Philip K. Dick Awards, as well as two-time winner of the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels with DAW Books, most recently Species Imperative: Survival. A proponent of using SF in classrooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books’ Y/A anthology series Tales from the Wonder Zone, as well as Realms of Wonder. Julie edited the anthology Space Inc. for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming Revisions, alternative science histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel,
ONCE the menace of the Quill, the alien pest accidentally and tragically released on the terraformed planets, had been overcome, and the first of these worlds declared free of the deadly Quill Effect, it was with relief and enthusiasm that humanity undertook Phase Four: colonization. There were, of course, minor details to be settled before full, unrestricted immigration could be instituted. During the two decades of Protective Isolation, the great transit stations had sheltered hundreds of thousands of would-be immigrants. These individuals were now eager to resume their chosen destiny. Earth, and all of Sol System, wished to reestablish routine travel via the stations to the new worlds, but some stations had fallen into disrepair. Fortunately, all affected agencies worked in harmony to move colonization and station repatriation forward as expeditiously as possible. Humanity’s Great Dream had begun anew and the transit stations would prove key to making that dream a reality.
…It’s clear the 16 transit stations presently—viable—will be granted self-governing status as the public demands. Your task in this negotiation, sir, will be to obtain a firm understanding—however worded—that this enfranchisement is conditional upon those stations assuming responsibility for repatriating the nonviable ones. It’s a salvage stationers are uniquely qualified to undertake and our experts predict a success rate of 30%.
There is the obvious added benefit of relieving the extreme population pressure within the surviving stations. Less apparent, but no less critical, sir, is that the System Universities and TerraCor, by providing crucial transport and technical support, will reestablish a permanent presence on the stations before they become too independent.
The stations must remain service-oriented facilities, to be expanded or decommissioned as we see fit, not become homes…
“Doesn’t make much sense,” Annette whispered.
“What doesn’t?”
“Him. Here.”
Dave Bijou didn’t need to follow the slide of his wife’s eyes to know who took up the first bench in the Earthers’ fancy-new shuttle. The rest from Thromberg Station squeezed four together, despite the Earther crew’s uncomprehending stares and their provision of only two safety restraints per seat. Elbow room was a not-yet- accepted luxury; companionship was more reassuring.
Only the old ones remembered when it had been otherwise, more particularly, the Sol-born, who’d come to the station thirty years ago.
Sammie would remember, Dave told himself, thinking of the man alone and silent, back to them all. Samuel Leland, former proprietor of Sammie’s Tavern, Outward 5, Thromberg Station. Undisputed leader of that community and least likely to ever leave it. Forty years since dirtside, some claimed. Could have been longer. On-station since Thromberg powered up, most believed. Rumor said he’d been an educated, cultured businessman, one with connections and backers in plenty on Earth.
Hadn’t mattered. The past wasn’t currency worth spending on any station during the Quill Blockade, when everyone had been quarantined to prevent the spread of the pest to Earth and Sol System, even if no station had ever held a Quill. A liability was more like it, in an environment where pasts no longer carried shields of family, property, or place.
The survivors learned early to deal in the here and now.
For the same reason, the future hadn’t been a popular topic for casual talk, given the lack of it. Then, suddenly, the universe changed. The Quill were no longer a threat. The blockade had been lifted! People could leave!
Those with somewhere to go.
