katherine, you could probably cut off that caterwauling now. i'm up from my nap. a moment later, the alarm ceases.
anything?
by all rights, son, we should be dead. that was a decent piece of flying.
there's no magnetic core on mars. wouldn't do any good. gallagher considers all this for a moment.
we've got every other mission variable in here, we ought to be able to figure aerobrake friction and the speed and orbit of the ares when we exited. we should be able to close in on the downrange variables. tighten up the ellipse. it's about the math. gallagher can't believe it.
space janitor first class gallagher, nicely done.
let's get the hell outta here. chantilas struggles to his feet. as the five of them tromp away in the giant landscape.
garden's good.
i don't like europe much either, son. didn't quite figure it the same way, but damnation, you don't turn down a phone call like that, do ya? you?
guys.  burchenal reaches out, checks their wrist monitors.
we're doing fine. in point of fact, he's using less o2 than you are. we can stop a minute. unless you two want to shout at each other and use up your air.
he's right. we sent up fifty-two varietals. blue-green, black, orange. anhydriobiosics, chemotrauphs, even a thibacillus that could grow autotrophically on elemental sulfur. not only are they dead, they're all just gone. i don't get it. it's like they were scoured off the rock.
if we are where we think we are - map appears on a small screen, he mutters to it, overlays of all the algae and lichen that were on mars appear.
this valley was covered with blue algae a month ago. valley back one should have been covered in an orange-red chloroflectic. he's right. it's weird. there should be something. they crest a small rise. below lies a valley that closes down quickly into an extremely narrow canyon. burchenal and santen check their hhc maps.
this, however, makes sense.
twenty-six months of food, water and air, gentlemen.
how's your air?
i'm not much better.
maybe we got what we deserved. we ignored science and truth on one planet and poisoned it beyond repair. then tried to get science to save us on another. maybe it's the inconsistency that did us in. burchenal points at a depression a few hundred yards away.
that's what they call the datum. sea level. if there was a sea. or when there was a sea, that's where it was. you can tell 'cause the sand was created by what's called the fluvial process where water breaks rocks into smaller and smaller pieces. we're the first men on mars. even if it isn't gonna last long. would you rather i shut up so you can die quietly?
johannes kepler was the first to accurately map the orbit of the planet. in 1609.
chewed through his air.
it's not often you get to fail when 12 billion people are counting on you. gallagher's got more pressing problems. checks his wrist. unnerved.
hypoxia? dizzy. skin'll tingle. vision narrows. then anoxia. shock, convulsions, acidosis.
it ain't much. but it'll do. he looks around, puzzled.
what the hell's going on here?? pettengill's alarm goes off as well. much more tentatively he removes his helmet. breathes. he's not really rejoicing like the others.
there shouldn't be enough oxygen on mars to do this.
we could head back to the lander, try to make something work there.
gotta think about this scientifically. there's another radio. two kilometers from here.
we sent it here. twenty years before you were born. in 1997. think where we are.
does it work??
she ditched the 'b' tank. she must be figuring there's an even chance we'll live through the night.
i think we'll make it through. there's so little o2, this is gonna burn real slow. gallagher picks up a piece of scrap, about to feed it into the flames, then stops, examines it by the light of the fire. it looks like someone took a rasp to it. he gets up, turns on a suit light and looks over the remaining ribs of the structure.
no prevailing pattern to the damage. i don't know what could've done it. nor does it matter right now. they sit back around the fire and relish the warmth. out in the darkness, past a rise, something catches robby's eye. a flash, a reflection. of the fire? on what? and then it's gone. he doesn't bother to mention it. writes it off.
god? you talked to chantilas too much on the trip over. i don't mean to burst your bubble, but god's the retreat of the ignorant, the weak and the hopeless.
son, i'm a scientist. a geneticist, as good as they come. i write code, just like a hacker. four elements, a.g.t.p., in different orders, back the genome. and your kidneys work or you grow a sixth finger. i line up unconscious atoms and they give rise to conscious beings. it's like if i stacked up a bunch of rocks in the right order and they become a dog. i do that. i chose when, i chose where, i chose how many fingers. i just don't hold with mystical explanations for science, with organized religion, buildings with different symbols on 'em. you spot god, you lemme know. till then, i put my trust in my three ph.d's. but i think life's an amazing thing. and i believe that when you get it you should grab it with both hands and live as much of it as you can. which is why i am not happy about losing it on this damn ugly planet. burchenal shuts his eyes. we push in on gallagher looking rueful and.
damn.
you sure get some arc in this low gravity. the sun's gonna break any minute. something suddenly hits burchenal. he yanks up his pants, runs to remains of the hab. looks around desperately. pulls free a metal rib. turns to gallagher.
run. towards the sun. robby understands or doesn't bother to ask why. takes off. burchenal yanks free a shard of metal. pounds it into the sand a dozen feet from the hab. the sun is just breaking the horizon. robby is fifty yards away.
stop! left. left. a little more. right. mark it. he adjusts his own peg a tad. robby comes loping back.
how 'bout something simpler. like how many degrees it is off from the direction the sun rose. we marked it. i'm figurin' we're within half a degree.
figure you weigh about fifty pounds in this gravity. we have a chance in hell. but not much more'n that.
kings over queens.
yep. he rakes in all the chips.
and no one'll play for money. what a waste.
compared to what? chantilas gives up and leaves.
only santen. that seems fair. gallagher's putting away the chips when -
you know what i miss? a drink sometimes at the end of the day. damned hard-asses at nasa. gallagher gets a look in his eye.
yep, sure do. why?
well, yes, ma'am. but we ran it through the gas chromatograph mass spectrometer and the impurity levels are very low.
it's a little rough.
of course. that would be the polite thing to do. he does. she tosses it back. woooof.
'bout three liters. she considers. then -
i spent half of my life trying to make a better potato. and the second half trying to stop it. the things were so damn good they killed everything in their path. corn, wheat, barley.  we fucked up our own back yard, hit the malthusian wall, and tried to breed our way out of it. maybe we don't deserve another chance. then he shakes it off. laughs.
don't worry, if we need any help on the surface, i'm allowed to grow us some six-fingered lab assistants. he cracks up again. he's wasted. knows it.
i gotta go to bed. he heads off drunkenly. gallagher gets an idea.
rollin', rollin', rollin', keep them doggies rollin'.'
how long can a man go without food or water?
i have no idea. it's old, though. it's classic music.
mars ain't a place to raise your kids in fact it's cold as hell and there's no one there to raise them if you dig.'
you don't know any of the classics, do you? he was a rocket man.
never mind.
it's about cows.
this can't be. this can't be. burchenal actually seems kind of upset about it. gallagher looks at him. say what? burch is upset.
it can't be here. you don't understand. the odds of there being any other life in the universe are infinitesimally small. the odds that it could survive on something other than its home planet are equally astronomical. the odds that it could travel to another solar system, let alone one where life already existed are. impossible.
yeah. burchenal seems almost unhappy about this. it rocks his world. in a bad way. gallagher turns to pettengill happily and untroubled.
you hated santen.
we seem to have come across the, uh, cause of the annihilation of the algae. there's cryptoendolithic life here. eating it. intercut as needed with mission control and mars surface.
pettengill's a bit overcome. or he'd be telling you about it himself. but the discovery goes to him. though he wants to name them after santen.
oh yeah. they're here. what did you think this was, hypoxia? they did.
really. we should get going.  gallagher walks over. we hear a familiar whine. don't recognize what it is at first. until gallagher around the rock and sees.  pettengill's flicked on the whizzing cutting edge of the entrenching tool. shreds his left wrist. lifts it and rips through his carotid arteries. all but cuts off his head as he falls to the ground. suit's awash with blood. overflowing onto the ground and him. burbling in spurts. some hits the worms.
jesus. jesus god.  burchenal's joined him. there's nothing they could do. only watch in shock. it gets worse. the worms come. pulsating and undulating towards pettengill. as if some secret message the food is here has spread through the billions of them in burst of knowledge. a diaphanous, hungry wave crests onto pettengill and engulfs him. he's covered in translucence as they devour him. gallagher and burchenal stagger backwards in horror as a red aureole grows around him as he's eaten. color spreads out around him in a perfect ever-growing circle. it's a feast.
yep.
yep. figured wrong. for now.
no.
you're going home? bring us some chicken. they crack up anew.
we're not gonna make it?
we sleep till brooklyn! he totters off towards the horizon.
no sleep till brooklyn!
ten k short. the sun is a finger above the horizon. redder than red, breathtakingly beautiful.
it's pretty.
what would we do if we were on mount everest? thinks a long time.
if we didn't have a tent. robby's so tired he's confused.
yeah. yeah, i know.
let's dig a snow cave.
let's dig a snow cave or we're gonna fucking die. he starts to wail on it. gallagher staggers over and joins him. the two of them start to flail away like a cross between prehistoric man and giant beavers, desperate as -
it's melting
the ice on your forehead is melting. the rock's really insulating us. we might not freeze to death.
hell, we'll probably know soon. shut up. rest.
we're on the nightside, can't reach houston. bowman's dayside for another forty-five.
no, i don't know why the worms are here. no, i don't know why we're still alive.
you're talking about faith, son. faith is another way of saying i know something you don't know but i can't tell you 'cause it's a secret. but i don't know why i know it. i live in the real world. i've lived there my whole life. i'm comfortable there.
if you think i'm gonna have some kind of weak-ass epiphany for you right here in this cave, you're wrong. now, why don't you get that light outta my eyes and let me try to rest. gallagher's satisfied. lowers the light to a dull glow, leans back against the rock and.  ext. ares - day. night the ship slips into darkness.
son of a bitch. son of a bitch. we've been asleep for three hours! gallagher desperately hauls out the radio.
forget it. she's dayside again. if she's even still here. we gotta get to cosmos. burchenal looks around. oh god. it gets worse.
can't see the landmarks. gallagher starts to madly scan the night sky.
stop.
get to the closest point you can safely. i'm gonna go down to that end. he starts to run to the far end.
i'm gonna distract them.
yeah. perhaps gallagher ought to give this more thought. but he doesn't. maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it just never would have occurred to him. burchenal disapears into the darkness and the distance. gallagher waits. then -
you ready?
good. lemme know when it starts to clear. gallagher doesn't get it. but a moment later, a shiver runs through the worms. and they start to undulate away. towards burchenal. pulsing faster and faster until it's clear in a moment or two, like a giant amoebae withdrawing, he will have clear access to the pass.
at the far end, is five hundred yards into the worms. they know. they've told each other. and they're coming in pulsating waves. towards him. at the epicenter. he gags. and hears -
good. he can't even lift his feet. they're beginning to cover him now. he can see the color of his suit spreading around him as they devour it.
you were right, son. there's gotta be a reason. this can't just be an accident. i don't know what the worms're doing here or how they got here. but science don't explain it. and it pisses me off to no end. gallagher turns. he can see now what burchenal has done. a tiny glowing figure can be seen 1000 yards away. gallagher's speechless at first.
i'm gonna have to turn off my radio in a sec. so you don't have to hear me screaming like a girl.
finding out there's things i don't understand. that science don't know squat about. maybe even the damn earth's worth saving. someone's gotta give it a try. gotta find out about these worms. go, get off this fucking planet. during which we've cut to gallagher, 'cause you don't want to see this.
there's two women in missoula, one in bozeman. tell them each they were my last words. and make sure my horse gets sold to someone who knows how to ride. oh, my lord.  radio goes silent. across the distance we can see a figure, now entirely coated in luminous worms, writhing wildly. gallagher leaves his light on, starts to run. as robby flees, we pull back, further and further until he's just a tiny figure in the landscape - until we are at what was burchenal. the frenzy is all but over. the phosphorescence is gone in the center of the circle. the edges are the color of his suit. then blood red for forty yards. bits of bone white. and then right in the dead center, as we watch; gray, spreading, spreading as what was once burchenal's brain is food for worms.