As he wiped, he relaxed into the rhythm of it. It was something he was used to doing, and by the time he’d finished and shaken out the cloth—upwind, as best as he could judge—he felt calmer.
He spun his nut runner through his fingers and checked the torque on several bolts on each ring; he paid special attention to the workshop, because although he knew there was nothing wrong with the build, he still had the abiding memory of Zeus being stuck in the airlock, boiling his life out into the near-vacuum through a crack in the door that Frank himself had created.
He knelt down in the dirt and examined the pipework that led from the hot-water tank to the habs, pipes that ran underground through insulated wraps. There was always going to be a possibility of the soil shifting. Permafrost, which was something that Frank had never had to deal with on building sites across California, had a habit of heaving or collapsing. That was what Zeus had said.
Frank missed the man. Stupid, really. Or not. He didn’t know. He even missed Declan, who was by far the most abrasive and awkward of those who’d made it as far as Phase two. And he couldn’t talk about them to anyone. They were never on Mars. They’d died, somewhere on Earth, their bodies cremated, their death certificates written up and their effects dumped into storage somewhere. Or burned along with their bodies.
He checked the buggies for charge, and inspected the main dish for dust, not that it had ever caused problems before, but it was worth worrying about. At least, it was if he was looking for jobs to do to avoid going back inside.
Eventually, there was nothing for it. He re-entered through the cross-hab, and as the airlock repressurized the unfamiliar sounds—long, slow chords overlaid by rapidly changing patterns of notes—seeped back in. Voices. Clattering of unpacking and moving equipment.
Frank racked his suit and life support, just like he’d done hundreds of times before. He did remember that he needed to get dressed in his overalls. Brack’s overalls. They felt tight, tighter than when he’d first tried them on. It was all he had. He could say that XO had sent the wrong size.
The crew had clearly taken Lucy’s warning to heart. They were leaving him alone, but their mere presence was still too much. He let himself into the greenhouse and immersed himself in the damp, green fug.
This was better, running his fingers through the seedlings—apparently it helped them grow strong—and on seeing that the corn was putting out silk, snapping off some of the pollinating tassels and dusting each plant in the block, again working methodically so as not to miss any out.
What he did miss was Isla standing just inside, by the airlock door, perfectly still so that his gaze just slid over her because he didn’t expect to see anyone there. Then she raised her hand to indicate her presence, and Frank yelped.
He did more than that. He stumbled backwards, banging awkwardly against the staging, and had to lose the corn-tassels in order to stop himself from falling. That indignity spared, he clutched at the racks of slowly dripping plants while he composed himself.
He’d thought it was a ghost. Or more than that. He’d thought it wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean… anything.”
He’d be bruised, but that was nothing really. What was wrong with him was what was happening inside, not out.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Nothing is your fault. I’m not saying it’s mine either, but I got some stuff I need to work through, and it looks like that’s going to take some time.” He straightened himself up, felt the pull of his too-small overalls, and took in her scraped-back white-blond hair before looking down for the tassels he’d dropped.
He dipped down for them, gathering them up and discarding them in the compost bin. “What can I do for you?” he finally asked.
“I just wanted to have a proper look around,” she said, and pointed at the airlock behind her, “but if you want some space I can come back later.”
“It’s fine. This isn’t mine. You come and go as you want.”
“We’re new here, Lance. We… we don’t want to crowd you.”
Frank turned away, turned back. “It’s OK. We’re all here to do a job, right? I’m not going to get in your way, and this place is big enough that if I need to escape, I can.”
“As long as you’re sure. I’ll stay out of your way.”
She maintained a respectful distance as Frank went round checking the reservoirs and the nutrient levels, topping up those which seemed low; but he could quite easily have left them. It struck him just how much make-work he’d invented for himself, and just how much the routine had held him together. Because of the disruption caused by the arrivals, his tablet was full of missed alarms and notifications, and most of those, if not all, weren’t urgent at all.
He climbed downstairs to the lower level, checked the water temperature in the tilapia tanks both with his hand—the fish swam up to investigate, butting against his fingers—and on the digital read-out.
“Holidays are over, kids,” he said to them. “They’re not going to be as good to you as I have.”
“Did you say something, Lance?”
He raised his voice. “Just talking to the fish.”
“OK. Sorry.”
He leaned over the closest tank. “Nothing I can do about it. Whether it’s better you live and eat and do whatever it is you do to make little fishes, or just stay as frozen eggs, I don’t know.” He looked at his broken reflection in the always-turning water. “I just don’t know.”
They were going to get eaten. He’d ramped up production to allow for that. What he didn’t know was whether any of the new crew were vegetarian, or even whether he could eat the fish himself just as long as he didn’t have to kill them. He’d give it a go. Maybe. Goddammit, he liked the taste of it, but that sound of the knife going through the bone: even thinking about it made his gag reflex kick in.
He looked at the floor, swallowed hard, and damped his hands in the fish tank to wipe across his forehead. Did that mean he smelled vaguely of fish now? He’d never really had anyone around before. He sniffed at his fingers, and they just smelled of the nutrient-rich water.
He took some readings of the holding tanks, too, that buffered the system and allowed for contraction and expansion in the external pipework. They were well within the tolerances Zeus had built in, and had remained so for the entire time the system had been installed. It was robust to any variation, and had no moving parts to fail. Make-work. That was all.
He climbed back up to the second floor, and she was still there, inspecting the staging where he grew the strawberries. She saw him, or sensed him at least, and spent time examining the plants both above, where the leaves and the fruits were, and below, where the roots hung into the continually seeping nutrient bath.
Her hair extended in a white, woven rope down her back, almost to her waist.
“How were you told to pollinate these?” she asked, fitting the strawberries back into their tray.
“There’s a brush.” Frank went over to the drawer where the smaller tools were kept. His hand hovered for a moment, then lifted out what looked like a miniature shaving brush. “I wash it after I’ve used it, because I don’t actually know whether it matters if I transfer the pollen from strawberries to peppers to zucchini. Whether I’d end up with some weird half-chili, half-melon, or something like that: I really don’t have much idea of what I’m doing, outside of the list of instructions XO gave me. I didn’t starve to death, so I guess I got something right.”
That was the longest speech he’d made in months, and he felt almost giddy. He’d remembered how to speak, and not bite someone’s head off.