Beyond the Stars: At Galaxy's Edge

FRANK BICKHAM, SECOND human to set foot on Mars, punched the ‘send’ key a little too aggressively, accidentally hitting delete instead.

“Aw... sh‌—‌” he began, before looking over his shoulder to see if the great-grandkids could hear. Sure enough, the littlest was peering up at him with her wide six-year-old eyes. “‌—‌amwow,” he finished.

“Don’t you mean shit?”

He spun around to face her. “Samantha! Don’t say that! Who the hell taught you to say that?”

“Grumpy,” she said, laughing, pointing at him.

Frank sighed. “Grumpy,” he repeated. The computer behind him chimed. Another message from his granddaughter, probably wondering why he hadn’t responded yet. When the hell was she going to pick up these rugrats, anyway? He tousled Samantha’s hair playfully.

She grimaced, and in a solemn six-year-old voice said, “Stop, Grumpy. I’m having a bad hair day.”

What six-year-old has a bad hair day? “Go,” he said, pointing to the other room. “Go be a kid.”

Samantha ran off, giggling, and Frank strained to read the new message before cursing again and ramming his reading glasses onto his nose.

He punched out the previous message he’d erased as best he could remember and fired it off, before switching to his other message feed from the pencil pushers over at Interplanetary Reserve Inc. Nothing new yet. Dammit.

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.

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.

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.

The news? Smith was still talking, and Frank raised a hand to quiet him, while simultaneously waving at the monitor hanging from the transparent composite ceiling. “Volume up,” he said.

“‌—‌ently unknown how many casualties we’re looking at here. Reported injuries are ranging from minor to severe, and several colonists are still unaccounted for. Colonial engineering operations chief Cena said just a few minutes ago that the affected area inside habitation module twelve has been fully vented and now has a stable atmosphere, and first responders will soon be able to‌—‌”

Frank bolted out of his seat and started running down the boulevard. He heard a grunt behind him, and saw to his chagrin that Smith was trying to follow. “I’m coming! I can help! You’re right, I need the exercise anyway‌—‌” He cut off as he stumbled stepping from sidewalk to street.

Shit‌—‌the man was probably going to have a heart attack from the effort. Frank waved him off. “Stay. I’ll handle this. You go... eat a carrot, or something.”

Frank was out of breath when he arrived at the entrance to habitation module twelve, and if not for the adrenaline surge he’d have collapsed in a puddle of sweat, leg cramps, and geriatric back spasms. The scene was utter mayhem, with the colony’s emergency team, medical staff, engineers, and even volunteers rushing around, frantically carrying victims out of the habitation module, working on emergency equipment or tending to wounded people lying on the ground.

In a moment of panic, he tentatively approached a blanket-draped figure lying prone nearby. The thick cloth covered the entire body, head and all, and Frank felt the confusing chorus of emotion that alternated between grief for the victim underneath, and rage that he’d missed his chance. Dammit! He’d waited too long. He’d dithered and puttered and postponed his plan for weeks, and now it was too late. Someone else would be the first man to die on Mars. He half-hoped it was that smug self-righteous Su, before he remembered the first man on Mars wasn’t slated to arrive for another six months, at least.

He crouched down and, slowly, mournfully‌—‌for himself and for the stranger‌—‌rested a hand on the blanket-covered head.

“Agh!”

His heart jumped up into his throat and he yanked his hand away from the blanket, which flew off the head as the woman underneath brushed it away in a fit. “You scared the shit out of me!”

He grimaced. “Sorry! I’m so sorry, I thought... well, I thought‌—‌”

Her face changed, and he recognized the look. The look of an expression changing from ‘who the hell is this angry old bastard’ to ‘Oh my god, it’s Frank Bickham.’ “Mr. Bickham! I’m sorry I snapped. I’m just in a daze. Very tired. Very...” She started crying.

Looking up at the frantic scene all around him‌—‌first responders were just now carrying another dazed, bloody victim from the smoking entrance to the habitation module‌—‌he realized he’d be next to useless in the actual emergency response, so he knelt down and reached for the woman’s hand. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have startled you. Are you hurt? Can I help you?”

“Just frightened,” she managed to choke out in between heaving sobs. “I‌—‌i‌—‌it was so horrible!”

“It’ll be all right,” he said, stroking her hand, wanting to believe his own words. Please be all right. Please don’t die. Nobody die. That’s my job. You people better not mess this up for me...

He lost track of how long he knelt there with the woman, but eventually a medic stood over them both. “Mr. Bickham? Thank you so much for your assistance. Mrs. Doughby here was just in shock. We’ll take her into the medical center now, but I expect she’ll be just fine.”

Frank tried to keep his expression neutral, but concerned. “How is everyone else? Any casualties? Everyone alive?”

The question seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Answer the damn question, man!

“Miraculously, everyone is alive. A few are in serious condition, and one in critical, but we’re hoping for the best.”

Frank struggled to suppress his glee, doing his best ‘concerned old guy’ look. “Please let me know how I can help. Consider me at your disposal.”

“Is that Frank Bickham?” said a loud voice nearby. To his chagrin, someone holding a large news camera swiveled his way, and the same anchorwoman he’d seen on TV earlier rushed over, cameraman in tow. “Mr. Bickham!”

“He’s been sitting with Mrs. Doughby here, soothing her,” said the medic.

The anchorwoman beamed at him. “Oh! Of course!” She turned to the camera. “Scarlet Paredes here with our own Mr. Frank Bickham, resident hero, and, if I may say so, an inspiration to us all. I’ve just been informed that Mr. Bickham responded immediately to the incident, and has been sitting here with a wounded colony member for the past hour,” she glanced down at his hand, still holding the trembling Mrs. Doughby’s, “consoling her in what must have been a chaotic and unthinkable situation. Mr. Bickham? Do you have something to say to our fellow Martians?”

He was speechless. “Ah...” he began.

Mrs. Doughby filled in for him. “He’s my knight in shining armor! He could be sitting comfortably in his penthouse over in Huygens, but instead he knelt here and s‌—‌s‌—‌stroked my hand until I stopped crying. G‌—‌g‌—‌god bless you, Mr. Bickham!” she said through sniffs and tremblings.

Oh, god.

The medal ceremony seemed to take for frickin’ ever, and Frank thought it was in poor taste, since there were people still being treated for their injuries at the medical center. But Governor Ladro had insisted, and blathered on for what must have been for over an hour about the heroics and compassion of Mr. Frank Bickham, Martian Citizen Number One‌—‌according to the inscription on the medal‌—‌before hastily adding thanks to the rest of the emergency responders, who all sat in the first row gazing up adoringly at Frank sitting next to the governor at the podium.

That was earlier in the day‌—‌making him miss his morning coffee on Bickam Boulevard, dammit‌—‌and now he was back at the bedside of the youngest victim of the blast, Wixam Hanuman, age six. Exactly the same age as little Samantha. “Did you miss me?” he said, leaning over from the bedside chair, waggling his ears‌—‌Wixam always laughed hysterically when he did that.

“You were here this morning, Grumpy.” The boy’s eyes drifted to the medal hanging against Frank’s chest, and grew wide. “Ooo! Is that for saving Mrs. Doughby?”

“I didn’t save Doughby, kid. She wasn’t even hurt.” He handled the medal and fingered the inscription. Martian Citizen Number One. “No idea why they gave me this sh...” He trailed off, catching his profanity.

“Shit?”

“What? Uh ... no! Shamwow!”

Wixam eyed him skeptically. “Grumpy, that’s not a word.”

“What the hell do you know? You’re six.” He lazily traced the ‘Number One’ on the medal with a finger, the phrase reminding him that if he was going to be successful, if he was going to win the race, he needed to act soon. Very soon. All the survivors of the blast were doing very, very well‌—‌even Wixam, who’d developed a few mysterious complications the day after the accident, was looking like he’d be just fine. But he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. The next accident might be worse. Or there was Ed Smith. The man claimed he was in perfect health, but looked more frail by the day. The old welder might just keel over and buy the farm the next time he tripped on the sidewalk. And where would that put Frank’s meticulous plan? Tits up. That’s where.

“You shouldn’t swear around a six-year-old, Grumpy.”

Frank let the medal drop to his chest and grinned a lopsided smile. “You said ‘shit’ first. I only said ‘hell.’”

“Hell’s bad too,” Wixam said earnestly.

“It’s in the bible. It can’t be bad.” Before the kid could respond, Frank reached over to his chart and perused it, nodding approvingly. Any other person would be kicked out of the hospital for looking over the chart of a non-relative, but he was Frank frickin’ Bickham. “Looking good here, kid. I bet they’ll get you out of here later today. Tomorrow, tops.” He set the chart down. “Where are your parents, anyway?”

Wixam shrugged. “Getting sissy from school,” he said, probably referring to his sister.

“Good, then they’ll be here any minute‌—‌school’s only a block away.” Frank stood up, and formally extended a hand. “Mr. Hanuman, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Bye, Grumpy.” Frank turned to leave, but Wixam added, “You know, you’re not really grumpy.”

Frank turned back, raising an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“You’re not really grumpy.”

“All my grandkids and great-grandkids call me Grumpy. It’s my nickname. Don’t you like it?”

“You’re just pretending to be grumpy. I can tell.”

Frank had no response to this, so he frowned, and gave a small mock-salute. “Catch you later, kid.”

The walk back to Huygens Dome would only take ten minutes, and he didn’t need to be anywhere until his noon meeting with the city council and the corporate board, so he decided to head to the emergency airlock just outside the city park. The site of his plan’s impending execution. The place he’d find his way into the history books. Second man on Mars? Screw that. First man to die on Mars, coming right up, baby.

Only a few people strolled the green park grounds under the huge transparent dome of the city park. Red light filtered down through the foliage from the inhospitable paper-thin atmosphere beyond the composite glass. The atmosphere that would kill him. The atmosphere that he’d be hailed as a hero for saving the population from.

Once inside the emergency airlock, he checked the automatic visitor log. Sure enough, no one had been there since the last time he’d checked his handiwork. No one would have noticed the imperfection in the inner airlock’s door, which would surely cause a major spark when shut in an emergency. No one would have noticed the constant background drain on the outer airlock door’s battery, which, inexplicably, was not connected to the central computer‌—‌Interplanetary’s singular focus on the stock price knew no bounds, apparently. And no one would have noticed the fact that the oxygen line over in the corner was clogged. And several other pieces of the Rube Goldberg-esque series of technical problems that would culminate in the appearance of the colony being put at grave threat of catastrophe, and his own death as he sacrificed himself to save them all.

It would be glorious.

And by all accounts, quite painless, given that the near vacuum would put him to sleep far sooner than it would kill him.

He double checked his handiwork before exiting the room, being sure to use his special security access to erase the record of his visit. The perks of being a hero‌—‌they trusted him with top secret security clearance and all-system access.

Lunchtime was approaching fast and he hurried to Huygens Dome, but a glance at his watch told him he still had twenty minutes to burn before the meeting. According to the street sign he was just a block from Ed Smith’s apartment, and so he decided to make an unscheduled visit‌—‌the unannounced kind, where the visitor peers in through the window from under a bush rather than take the more obvious route of knocking on the door.

Before long he found himself on the flimsy plastic sidewalk staring up at the apartment building. Luckily, it was surrounded by bushes, and Ed’s unit was on the ground floor, so with a surreptitious glance to either side he wandered around the side of the building, and assuring himself no one was watching, plunged into a hydrangea bush under what he supposed was Ed’s kitchen window.

“‌—‌told you, Marie, there’s nothing to be done about it. Look, sweetie, yes, I could come back to Earth and have the operation. But what would it get me? Three more years? Five? And if a new aortic valve lasts twenty more years, it’ll be the diabetes that gets me. And if that doesn’t, the prostate. We talked about this before I left, and I thought we understood that I was mortal, and I was old, and that this was a one-way trip. Plus, I signed the contract. No one leaves unless congress approves a spending authorization to shuttle someone back, and that ain’t happening for some eighty-year-old welder who‌—‌”

Frank yelped and almost jumped as his pocket started chirping with an incoming call. He breathed a curse, jabbing it through the cloth of his pants to silence it.

“‌—‌hold on, sweetie...” Frank could hear the other man in the kitchen stand up from his chair with a labored grunt, and approach the window. He squeezed up against the siding underneath as best he could and held his breath. A creak from above told him the old man was leaning against the windowsill. Labored breathing filtered down through the leaves of the hydrangea.

“Move along, nothing to see here,” mouthed Frank.

“Sorry, Sweetie, thought I heard something out the window. Probably one of the feral squirrels we’ve got around here. Now, as I was saying‌—‌”

Frank crawled away military-style, and once he’d passed another unit’s window he stood up.

“Frank Bickham?”

He recognized the voice. His face was turned away from her, so he allowed himself a grimace. “Mrs. Doughby?” He turned to face her. She was leaning out her window. Did she really live right next to Ed Smith? Shit. Just his luck.

“Mr. Bickham!” she said again, excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, just checking on you, my dear. To see if you were doing ok after your terrible ordeal.”

She covered her mouth with her hands, looking as if she was about to cry. “So thoughtful! What a wonderful man you are!” She paused. “Through the window?”

“I... uh...” he stammered, searching for words. “Yes. Through the window. Didn’t want to bother you.”

The awkward conversation took far longer to extricate himself from than he would have liked, and he half suspected that the house call would make it onto Scarlet Paredes’ evening news broadcast as another heroic example of Frank Bickham’s care for the common man, or ferret-faced woman in this instance. But he finally made it the last few blocks to his lunch meeting, worrying the entire time about Ed Smith’s message to his daughter, or whoever Marie was.

The man needed an aortic valve replacement. Frank was no doctor, but it sounded terminal. And by the time he was shaking hands with the corporate board and the city council, he’d made his decision.

Tonight was one for the history books.

The preparations were made. He’d rechecked the Rube-Goldberg sequence of planned systems failures in the auxiliary airlock that would result in the appearance of the colony being placed at grave risk and result in his heroic death.

He’d had a close one. Habitation module twelve‌—‌the site of the explosion and decompression last week‌—‌was still leaking a minute amount of atmosphere that the engineering team couldn’t lock down, and it led to him nearly being discovered at the auxiliary airlock during the team’s extra safety walkdowns of the rest of the colony. But he managed to slip out just in time, and when he returned later, none of his preparations had been disturbed.

And now he was sitting in his usual chair at the cafe on Bickam Boulevard, enjoying his last cup of coffee.

It tasted like victory.

He typed the final few lines of one of the last messages he’d write.

He tapped send, glanced up at the TV monitor hanging nearby. Scarlet Paredes was talking earnestly into the camera with a grave expression on her face. Hell, what now?

Before he could turn the volume up, his hand device started beeping with an incoming call. The screen showed Doctor Pratt’s face‌—‌the medical center’s chief.

“Frank,” he said, tapping the line open.

“Mr. Bickham, I’m afraid we have terrible news.”

Oh. Shit. He was too late.

He was too late.

Ed Smith must have gravely overestimated how much time he had left. And Frank had fiddled and twiddled and now...

He’d lost. The second man on Mars would always just be that. The Second.

“Yes?” he said, tentatively.

“You know the boy? Wixam Hanuman? He’s taken a turn for the worse.”

Frank jumped up with a start. “Wix? What’s wrong?”

“The injuries he sustained are healing, but they’ve revealed an underlying condition that has now been aggravated by what he’s been through. Long story short, he’s in desperate need of a blood transfusion.”

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be by to visit him in the morning, if that’s ok. Please tell his parents that if there’s anything I can do‌—‌”

“Actually, there is something you can do, Mr. Bickham. It turns out that our Wixam has a very rare blood type, rendering all our blood stores we have on hand useless for him.”

Shit.

“And...?” he asked, tentatively, though he knew, and feared, the answer.

“And it turns out that the only other person with that blood type on Mars is a Mr. Frank Bickham. I’m afraid that Wix doesn’t have the three months it will take the next shipment to arrive from Earth. He needs the transfusion, Frank, and he needs it now.”

Shit.

But there was no internal debate. The response was automatic. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

He tapped the channel closed, and collapsed back into his chair.

Shit.

Poor Wix. He’d only known the boy for a few days, but he’d visited with him for hours already. He was another one of his great-grandkids now. Like Samantha.

The history books would have to wait. And he might have to put a twenty-four hour watch on Ed Smith. Possibly put him on precautionary life-support. He could arrange for that, right? He was Frank frickin’ Bickham.

His handset beeped again, indicating an incoming message. It was from Su. He’d received Frank’s message and must have immediately fired off a reply.

Etcetera? That was a shot across his bow. Su was taunting him. And he’d be here in three months.

Shit.

The blood transfusion was quick and painless. But the baggy circles under little Wixam’s eyes were disconcerting. Frank glanced nervously from Wix to his parents sitting nearby. His mother, a small, pretty woman, was making a valiant effort to contain her distress, and tousled her boy’s hair, forcing a thin smile. His father sat stoically in the corner.

“Are you feeling ok, Grumpy?” said the boy.

“Me? You’re asking me if I’m feeling ok? You’re the one in the hospital bed, kid. Have you looked in a mirror lately?” he said with a good-natured smile. He’d gotten the impression early on from little Wix that he was the type of kid that appreciated a gentle ribbing, and his giggle confirmed it.

“They said I’ll need your blood for a long time.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not think about that. I’m sure they’ll come up with a way to fix you good. You’ll be healthier than I am within a few days, and I’m as healthy as they come.”

Wixam nodded solemnly. “I thought maybe, instead of coming to the hospital for more transfusions, I thought maybe we could stuff you into my backpack and just hook up a tube between us.”

His father looked mortified. His mother’s jaw hung half-open.

Frank laughed. “You got it, kid. If you can carry me, I’m all yours. Your own personal blood bank, on tap at all hours of the day. Just save a few pints for me, wouldya?”

They continued their banter, and before long little Wix’s eyes got droopy and he fell asleep. Frank glanced from one parent to the other. They both looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

“Mr. Bickham, thank you so much for doing this. I have no words...” the mother trailed off.

The father nodded. “I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t here. If there’s ever anything you need, anything at all, please let me know. My father is the vice president of Interplanetary‌—‌just one word from me and it happens. Whatever you want.”

A wicked thought crossed his mind. “Can you revoke Jerry Su’s colonist application?”

“What?”

“Just kidding,” Frank said with a wry chuckle.

The father laughed nervously, and yawned. Damn, these people needed sleep.

Frank tapped a finger on his armrest. “I know what you could do for me.”

“Name it.”

“Go to bed. Both you and your wife. Get some sleep‌—‌I’ll be here all night.”

They both stared at him.

“No, I mean it. He needs you,” he said, pointing at the sleeping boy, “but he needs you to be awake, alert, and healthy. Go to bed. Don’t make me pull rank,” he added, with a grin.

After another round of profuse thanks, they left.

“Just you and me, kid. And I’ll be damned if you leave before I do.”

An hour passed, and he was dozing off when something jolted him awake.

“Mr. Bickham?”

Dr. Pratt was looking at him through the half-opened door.

“Yes, Doctor?” he croaked.

“Would you mind coming back tomorrow evening? I want to build up a short-term supply of your blood. Just in case... you know.”

Frank nodded. It wasn’t immediately clear to him what you know meant, but it didn’t matter. “Very prudent. In fact, how about we build up a long-term supply? I can come in twice a day for the next two weeks or so, if needed. Let’s make sure we have at least a year’s worth, wouldn’t you say? At least until the next shipment comes in from Earth. I assume they’re going to send over a supply of his blood type?”

Doctor Pratt’s face broke out into a huge smile. “Yes, they will. You never cease to amaze me, Mr. Bickham. Yes, that would be perfect. God bless you.”

Pratt left him alone with the boy, and his thoughts.

Two weeks. Build up enough of a supply, make sure that the boy would live a long, happy life, and then Frank Bickham was heading to the history books.

“Grumpy?”

The boy’s small voice made him jump. “Yeah, Wix?”

“Don’t ever go anywhere.”

Dammit. Kid’s not helping. “I’ll be right here, kid. On Mars. Forever.”

“Good.” The kid’s voice sounded remote and slurred, as if he was sleep-speaking. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too, kid.”

And it was even true.

The urgent call from Dr. Pratt came early in the morning on a Tuesday. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bickham. Your friend went into a coma late last night. He was just in for a regular checkup, and keeled over right in the office.”

“Shit.” Frank had nothing else to say. A hole started opening up in the bottom of his gut. All he could think about was the kid. About his parents‌—‌how he could possibly console them. For the kid’s big sister, who now had to deal with not only a sick little brother, but one who was asleep, possibly for good. “I just went to the house yesterday, Doc. He looked fine then. What gives?”

“Frank‌—‌can I call you Frank? Look, sometimes people just get to this point, and there’s nothing we can do.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Frank yelled into the phone. “I did what you asked, and then some. We’ve saved up the blood. He’s got a six month supply now.” He could hear the doctor try to interrupt, but he steamrolled right over him. “Did you miss something? You missed his condition the first time around‌—‌it wasn’t until the habitation module blast that you discovered this thing. Could there be something else? Think, man!”

“Mr. Bickham, please! If you’ll let me speak. I was trying to tell you‌—‌it’s not Wixam. He’s fine. I’m talking about Mr. Smith.”

“Ed?”

“Yes, Ed. He came in yesterday. Said he felt a little funny. But we had a nice visit‌—‌he mentioned you several times. Said you were a good friend, that you visited at least twice a week. And then... well, he passed out. I couldn’t revive him. I’m sorry.”

Oh. Damn. Ed Smith was in a frickin’ coma.

“Aortic valve?”

“Huh? Oh, well, as his doctor, I can’t discuss his medical history with you. But since you’re, well...” Frank imagined the doctor was about to say, since you’re Frank Bickham. “Since you’re a close friend of his, I’ll say, no. It wasn’t his heart. It was something else. But I’m not at liberty to say, exactly. But his heart is not exactly an asset at the moment.”

“And? How long does he have?”

“Could be months. Could be hours. Or he could wake up tomorrow.”

Frank sighed. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. He was going to lose. He’d forever be known as the second man to set foot on Mars. And the second to die. Or the third. Maybe the fourth, given his terrible luck.

A siren jolted him out of his reverie. Red lights flashed, and the regular lighting dimmed down to auxiliary power levels.

“What the hell?” Those were the emergency evac lights. Every month the colonists of Mariner Valley participated in an emergency readiness drill, but that wasn’t scheduled for another week.

He looked out the window of his penthouse apartment. People were rushing out into the streets, and heading towards Huygens Dome’s emergency shelter. A minute later he’d joined them, shuffling down the street, urging people not to run, but to hurry, giving a hand to a lady that had stumbled over a dropped bag.

“Anyone know what’s up?” asked a man nearby.

An engineer nearby answered, “Must be Hab Mod Twelve. We’ve been having problems down there ever since the explosion. Ain’t surprised something else happened down there.”

Habitation module twelve. He’d read reports about the persistent air leak over there, and now it looked like the situation had deteriorated.

He changed direction, and a minute later he was outside the administration building. The desk operator was gone, so he strolled right into the emergency meeting of the governor and the corporate board, who were grilling the senior engineering staff.

“So you’re saying there’s no oxygen left in Huygen’s tank? None? What the hell happened to it?” said Governor Ladro to an engineer, who looked like he’d rather be fixing something than explaining something.

“That’s correct, sir.”

“How? Oh. Don’t tell me.” He slapped a hand mockingly on his forehead. “Let me guess. It was an engineering shortcut by Interplanetary staff when they set the place up.”

“That about sums it up, sir. It cost far less for habitation module twelve to share the auxiliary oxygen tank with Huygens. And then the explosion last week damaged the sensors in the tank, so that we had no idea it was empty until an hour ago. The persistent leak over in twelve sucked it dry, and we never even knew.”

The governor glared at the corporate board. “Good thing the stock price is up, huh? Sure made this whole adventure worth it.” He turned back to the engineering staff. “Ok, I want a solution. Fast.”

The engineer stammered. “Well, the other problem is that... well, there’s about ten other problems. All video feeds in Twelve are out. Repair drones are inoperative since the main comm package linking Twelve with Huygens was still being repaired. Half of Twelve is still at vacuum, and the other half is steadily losing pressure. I won’t bore you with the details, but we have a solution. All it will take is someone going in, repairing a few valves, pushing a few buttons that we can’t do remotely, and hightailing it back to the airlock just in case we have an explosive mix with the methane leak again.”

“Methane leak?” said Ladro. “Unbelievable.”

One of the assistant engineers raised a hand. “Methane leak. Just discovered it this morning when we switched over to the auxiliary sensors in Twelve. We think the methane check valves... uh, let’s just say they didn’t so much check as they encouraged the flow. Cheap Chinese knockoffs.”

Ladro eyed the corporate board cooly. “And the stock price keeps going up.” They all either glared at him, or squirmed in their chairs.

The head engineer nodded. “As I was saying, one person can do it, but it will be extremely dangerous. The risk of injury‌—‌or worse‌—‌is very high. I’d say we send either Farnsworth or‌—‌”

“Send me.”

Frank could hardly believe the words came out of his mouth. So he repeated them to make sure they were his. “Send me.”

Governor Ladro shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. We need you, Mr. Bickham. You’re too important to spare. You’re an inspiration to everyone in the colony‌—‌if we lost you, we’d have a serious morale problem on our hands.” He turned back to the head engineer, but before he could say anything else, Frank decided to lie. There simply wasn’t time to come up with an excuse that would mask the truth.

“Governor, I’m dying. Doc Pratt says I’ve got a month. Tops. Chronic, terribly painful condition‌—‌this doesn’t end well for me know matter how you look at it. Seriously‌—‌send me.”

Ladro eyed him skeptically, but asked the chief engineer, “can he do it? If you guide him over the comm?”

“I don’t see why not. He was the third man on Mars, after all. He should know his shit.”

“Second.”

“Excuse me?” said the engineer.

“Second man on Mars. But the first to die, apparently. What luck!” He laughed a little too loud, and started coughing when no one else joined in. “Well, shit. I guess I better go suit up.”

Frank cranked on the wrench, tightening one last gas fitting into place. “That’s it,” he said into his commlink. “How’s the flow?”

The chief engineer’s voice sounded over the speaker in his helmet. “No flow yet. Still not getting an accurate atmospheric composition over there. You’re either at ten percent methane, ninety percent methane, or, well, there could be no atmosphere at all. What do you read on your suit?”

Frank eyed the analogue pressure gauge on his forearm‌—‌luckily it was a pre-Interplanetary Reserve suit, so the damn thing still worked just fine. “I’m reading half an atmosphere. But no idea how much is methane, how much is nitrogen, and how much is hot air escaping from Interplanetary’s CEO’s hairy ass.” He grinned. He knew the conversation was being broadcast throughout the colony, and would be heard on Earth about six minutes later. The CEO would probably bust a gasket, but served the bastard right.

Whatever he did, Frank was minutes away from glory. No matter what happened when the flow turned back on. He’d repeated his little trick on habitation module twelve’s airlock as soon as he passed the threshold, the outer door had sealed, and he was out of sight of the engineering crew. The moment he stepped back into that thing and cycled the air, the inner airlock door would jam, permanently lock, and all the air in both the airlock and half of habitation module twelve would escape out into the near vacuum of Mar’s atmosphere.

“Ok,” said the engineer. “We’re going to start the flow. You’re either about to be able to breathe without your suit, or explode. Godspeed, Mr. Bickham.”

“Roger that.” He raised his voice, knowing that the entire colony was listening. That he was being recorded for history. “And if I don’t make it out of here, I just want every Martian in the sound of my voice to know that... that it was an honor serving with you. These past few months I’ve made wonderful friends, I’ve lived with you, loved you, and if I don’t come back from this, my only hope is that I’ve made your lives a little better. What can any man really hope for when he’s gone? Thank you. Frank out.”

He closed his eyes, waiting for the possible explosion. A minute passed. Two minutes. Then a voice. “Frank? You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Good news. The air is cycled, and optimal oxygen flow restored, now from the Tycho Dome. Congratulations, sir! You’re not only alive, but saved everyone in Huygens dome.”

He heard a cheer from everyone in the room on the other side of the comm, but all he could think was, Damn, I guess I’ve got to do this the hard way.

“Roger that. Heading to airlock now.” He worked his way from the engineering alcove in habitation module twelve to the airlock, and before initiating the irreversible process that would jam the door and vent the whole module, he sat down to check his messages one last time. He’d sent one final note to his granddaughter, Ramona. Looked like she hadn’t replied yet, so he burned another minute rereading his message to her.

He looked up at the airlock controls next to his seat. Everything was ready. If he delayed any longer the engineering team would begin to worry, and possibly suspect something.

History was waiting for him.

A chirp from his handset made him jump. He looked down, expecting to see a message from Ramona, but instead it was a call from someone in the colony.

It was the kid. Wix.

Tentatively, he accepted the call. “Hello?”

“Grumpy? Where are you?”

“I’m, ah... I’m in habitation module twelve, kid. Your old home.”

“You said you’d come back today. Are you still coming?”

“Working on it, kid.”

He thought he heard a little sniffle on the other end. “I miss you, Grumpy. You didn’t come yesterday, either. Doc said you were in the hospital to give me blood, but you left right away without a visit. And then when you didn’t come today, I thought you’d never come back. I... I...” He paused, then lowered his voice. “Grumpy, can I tell you a secret?”

“Shoot, kid.”

He whispered. “It made me cry. Please don’t tell any of the other boys that I cried. It would be catatrophic.”

“Catatrophic? Don’t you mean catastr‌—‌”

“Yes, Grumpy. Catatrophic. Promise not to tell?”

Frank bit his lip. He stood up, and fingered the controls to the airlock.

Shit.

His handset beeped again. It was Ramona.

“Grumpy? Promise?” said Wix.

Frank’s hand trembled over the controls. History was waiting. His destiny was literally at his fingertips.

He would matter.

“I ... I‌—‌” he began, before adding, “aw, sh‌—‌” He stopped himself.

“Shamwow? I still think you made that up.”

Frank chuckled. “Ok. I admit it. I made it up. I was going to say shit.”

Wixam lowered his voice to a mocking, sarcastic tone. “No shit, Grumpy.”

Frank lost it, convulsing in laughter. “Kid? Are you sure you’re six? Fine. Fine. I promise. No one will ever know you cried when I didn’t come visit you. My lips are sealed. Forever.”

“Forever? Why? Are you dying?”

Frank laughed again. “Not today, kid. Then I wouldn’t be able to visit you. How’s five o’clock sound?”

Frank sipped his coffee, and offered the other cup to the other man as he sat down at the table on Bickam Boulevard. “Will Doc Pratt let you drink it?”

“Do I care what he says?” said Ed Smith, an oxygen tube suspended below his nose.

“Good point.” He turned to his other companion. “How’s that hot chocolate?”

“Tastes like shamwow,” said Wixam Hanuman.

“Well you’re late for school anyway. Get.” Frank waved a hand, shooing the kid away. Wix gulped the rest of it down, stuck out his tongue at Frank, and trotted off down the street.

“Turn it up, will you? I want to hear if everyone made it.” Ed motioned up to the TV, which was playing the CNN feed.

Frank waved a hand and said, “volume up.”

“‌—‌and ongoing coverage of the Mars shuttle crash. With me now is the media relations officer for Interplanetary Reserve with an update.” The new anchor on the screen turned to a mousy man in a crisp suit seated next to him.

“Thank you, Jim.” The mousy man turned to the camera. “I’m afraid we have bad news to add to the good news I delivered earlier. While it is true that the shuttle made a miraculous crash landing and remained mostly intact, it is with heavy heart that I announce that there was, in fact, one fatality. Jerry H. Su, flight engineer on the shuttle’s voyage, sustained life-threatening injuries during the crash, and, unfortunately, did not make it. I’ve spoken with the American President, and he will posthumously be awarded the presidential Medal of Freedom. The French President will award him the legion of‌—‌”

“Well ain’t that something,” said Smith. “Wasn’t he...?”

“Yeah.”

“And now he’s...?”

“Yeah.”

Ed shook his head, incredulously, the oxygen tube wagging back and forth. “The first man to walk on Mars, and now the first man to die on Mars. Funny how things work. He comes all that way, lives a life like that, all to die in a fiery crash for nothing. Poor guy. I guess he’ll be in the history books, or something.”

“Or something,” Frank repeated, glumly.

It seemed Ed was intent on watching the broadcast, but Frank had no such interest. Luckily, he noticed the notebook lying on the table.

“Shit. Wix left his schoolbook. Enjoy your coffee, Ed,” he said, picking the pad up and starting off down Bickam Boulevard, heading towards the school.

He ran into someone carrying a bag of ‘just-add-water’ meals, and they spilled all over the sidewalk.

“Mrs. Doughby! I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” He stooped to pick them up. She joined him.

“Mr. Bickham! Not a problem!” She stuffed a few packages into the bag, and noticed Wix’s notebook. “Heading to school?”

“Yep. Wixam Hanuman left his schoolwork at my table.”

“Then you let me handle this mess. School’s starting in less than a minute‌—‌if you don’t get moving you’ll be late.”

Frank glanced at his watch. “Naw. I’ve got all the time in the world.” He lowered his voice. “Plus, just between you and me, his teacher owes me one for that class presentation I gave last week. Nailed it.”

“Well, in that case...” She trailed off, kneeling down to reach for a few that had strayed onto the street.

He stuffed the last package into her bag, and helped her up. “So? How’s work going?”

Q&A with Nick Webb

Where did this story come from?

Someday, someone will be the very first human to die on another planet. I don’t know if that makes me morbid or not, but it’s fascinating to think about. Will they die there on a failed exploration mission? Or will they die there because they live there, and, well, dying is just what regular people *do*. I hope to be able to see that day, when living on another planet is so normal for people, that imagining people dying there feels entirely natural, because then we’ll know we’ve finally arrived as a multi-planetary civilization.

Do you want to die on another planet?

No! I won’t even get in an airplane!

Really?

I hate flying. But if space travel ever gets safe enough, with hundreds of safe launches per day, and as long as I’m over eighty or so and lived a full life, then I’d absolutely like to go to another planet.

So are you Frank Bickham, your protagonist? He’s an old guy who’s lived a full life, and now wants to go live on another planet in retirement....

There might be a little Frank Bickham in me. Not that I’d feel compelled to have to be “the first” at something, like Frank is, but ever since I grew up watching Captain Picard vacation on Riisa, I knew I wanted to get to another world. Someday. When it’s safe. And cheap.

Where can readers find you, and learn more about your books?

My website, for one: nickwebbwrites.com

Or, I’m active on Facebook: facebook.com/authornickwebb