great. we put up with your shit for three hundred million miles, so you could crash-land us on mars. just fucking great.
we'll be dead in eight hours anyhow when the air runs out. 'cause megapilot missed the landing site. there is no more fucking mission. that puts it all into perspective.
chief science officer chantilas. this is trippy. chantilas grins. he's been up so many times he's forgotten what it's like the first time.
i was never supposed to come. i came 'cause my boss couldn't. he failed the medical. heart arrhythmia. so here i am. they tapped me on the shoulder, told me i was going to mars. i was supposed to be second in charge of the terraforming office till i died. chantilas's the last. they turn to him. his reason's a little different.
so. required exercise. haven't had this since grade school.
you didn't have to do that.
i just hate all those fucking guys. i feel like i've spent my entire life being the guy who was hassled in phys ed. i lost the first girl i ever cared about to some thug who could throw a football farther than i could. it's like women are hardwired to think that guys who are proficient at sports are going to be better providers. it's not like we hunt and kill our own food anymore. he sells cars for a living now. cars. i end up working on a project that may save the existence of mankind and he sells cars. this is impressively obsessive.
i'll try. twenty years of hating the bullying motherfuckers is a hard habit to break.
little tired. i'm okay.
go fuck yourself.
ahhh. musclehead, go fuck yourself?? they're both getting louder and louder.
sorry.
it' weird. there's nothing here.
no, i mean there's not even a trace of the algae. he kneels down, examines a rock. nada.
even if it all died, there'd be something - a dried algal mat, traces on the lee sides, something. nothing. nada.
we're saved.  they run down the hillside. for the first time we get a feeling for the .38 gravity. bouncing sixteen foot steps. like little kids as they come bounding down.
jesus.  burchenal continues to look around for a moment. it doesn't matter what happened. it's over. shakes his head at gallagher.
we're all gonna die, aren't we?
fuck you. fuck you. i'm gonna die. but i'm gonna spend the next five minutes of my life completely satisfied knowing i killed you.
yes, i will. he turns and walks away.
santen's dead. they turn. but not surprised. they just figure he -
he threw himself off the cliff.
yeah. a warning tone goes off on gallagher's sensor. he starts to gasp. opens his mouth wide. sucking in and out air that's worth less and less to his body. he begins to claw at the air. it's not pretty to watch. spins about seeking some release. none forthcoming. claws some more. falls to his knees. the others can barely watch. they know they're next. gallagher's growing more claustrophobic and crazed. falls the rest of the way to the ground. still clawing at the air. it's horrible to see. and in one last desperate, angry, trapped-feeling move, reaches up and unhooks the front of his helmet and throws it back. croaks out a faint epitaph as he collapses.
i thought we'd be dead. the enormity of what he's done strikes him.
i thought we'd be dead. they all breathe the thin martian air for a moment.
we never even got close to a breathable atmosphere. then the levels started to drop and the sensors all died. i don't understand what's going on here. gallagher is rummaging through the wreckage of the hab. it's been devastated.
wattya lookin' for? gallagher unearths a tangle of wire and chewed-up circuits.
it's six hours back.
we're right over the edge from the ares vallis. the sojourner site. the hhcs are yanked out.
there was a high-density ridge ringing the valley. the algae never took there. gallagher checks his watch.
then why are we bothering?
whoa.
what'd we do?
a hundred kilometers. sixty-odd miles. say two and a half marathons. in twelve hours. do we really have a chance in hell?
wattya know. pettengill gets down on one knee to examine it. half inch to an inch high, vibrantly colored. healthy.
maybe it's the longitude. maybe it's the equatorial belt.
what the fuck?
it's a nematode. or something like one. it's probably this skinny so it defrosts each morning when the sun hits them. or they'r enot water-based at all.
no.
we did. we were wrong. maybe there wasn't when we checked. i don't know. it's not from earth. and it's not from here.
right. right. motherfuck. motherfuck. and then he says something really odd -
name them after santen.
yeah. he storms away. they're both confused by this. pettengill finds a rock, sits down behind it. he's obscured except for his head and shoulders.
i need a minute or two.
go ahead. you do it. just give me a few minutes.
no, that there's life on mars. we're not saying where it came from. but not earth. fuck. they all disregard that last bit.