OUTPOST-Chapter Twelve: Mars-base ROLL CALL

CHAPTER TWELVE
Outpost
By Julian Phillips
Tom Luong Films
Dec.29, 2009

Commander Bojji-Than led Karen away from her breakfast, again now into the maze of cavernous recesses, rooms, hallways, offices, tech-rooms, and work-areas, that were unanimously regarded as his 'kingdom', as leader of the US Mars-base on-site program, in 2076. He was a benevolent type, not given to tyranny of delusions of power and pleasures, far more interested in the science, research, progress and knowledge. Karen followed him like an obedient duckling, and he the drake, she somewhat of an Alice in this new wonderland on Mars.
"This is the Command Center, where I keep regular offices," Bojji said. "This way."
Bojji-Than had inherited his job at the Mars-base much as any of the space-program staff and leadership had been commissioned to their various posts---the pilots, launch-specialists, navigators, communications, technical, planners and policy, science-and-computers, rocketry, and those at work at the Molinari mid-point space-dock, such as Guy Reisling's lover, Lila Meetek. Years of training, education, and rising through the ranks, and each had proven themselves, and earned their jobs, which were highly prized. For Bojji, it had been through years of work with the program, mostly in launches, inter-planet navigation, and physics-science. Another egg-head, another adventurer, and a man beloved of his 'employees' for level-headed decision-making, human-compassion, and good-judgment, backed by solid knowledge and experience.
ROLL-CALL: these are the men and women who live and work at the US-Mars-Base at the time of the discovery of the approach of Asteroid U2752b, now circa 2076.
Commander Bojji-Than: male, about age 62-years, Asian. Responsible to oversee all operations at the base (on Mars). Installed as base Commander in 2070, at work on-the-job now six years. Thin, dark-skinned, and muscular for his age, the Commander enjoys playing classical violin as a hobby, and his collection of fine wine (a rarity on Mars).
Juno Amorrossi: male, age 45 years. Juno is the muscular, masculine and athletic base Security Officer, French-Belgian in heritage. He is affable and friendly, trained in marital arts and especially judo, at the Master's level. Work for Juno at the base on Mars is rather boring, due to the nature of the crew-and-staff who work there. He is only rarely needed for personnell disputes, sometimes misbehavior or intoxicated residents who over-do things, and minor disciplinary actions. Most often he would act as an event crowd-control manager, or public host, and then of course in a safety-and-security capacity, concerning matters such as proper air-lock function, or passage of people through air-locks safely. It must be said, Juno was a big hit with the ladies at the Mars-base (ciao!)
Vinces Grant: male, age 49 years, in the role of Mars-base Science-and-Research Lead. Work at the Mars-base had always been intended as a platform for discoveries about Mars, including anything and everything there was to know or learn. Thus, a vast arena, even an entire new world. With a staff of about 20 science-specialists, which also changed as needs arose, Vinces organized each long-term or short-term exploration---mapping, geology, life-and-water search, planetary physics, atmospheric and radiology-solar, soil values for potential agriculture or other uses, planet history and archeology, and so on. These were on-going, and all collected data was analyzed and recorded, or sent back to other researchers on Earth. Vinces Grant was a husky-looking Latin man, variously multi-ethnic in his DNA-origins and ancestry. Hobbies includes star-gazing and astronomy, and he also seemed to have an endless personal memory for sappy one-liners and jokes.
Chassidy Katola: female, age 28 years. Chassidy's job might have seemed at first less important than others, but Mars-base residents knew her as their primary source of Health-and-Wellness guidance in this strange world. Though young, she was a successful and advanced Wellness Therapist, and her work included nutrition, exercise, medical-holistic, emotional, and other health areas. Chassidy was a Black woman, very beautiful and sexy, and with quite dark skin. She also had an MD in a broad spectrum of 'wellness' knowledge. The base staff included many other MD's, various types of doctors, and dentists, others. Maybe it was because her discipline included all areas of health, that Chassidy was a touch-stone of help and guidance for all 230 base residents, in any area of physical-emotional distress, pain, fatigue, or illness---that she was so popular---or maybe simply because she was a fun and beautiful person, effervescent and joyful to be with. Any illness, or viral infection, even a simple flu-bug, could spell disaster for them all. Fear, ideas and rumours, and overall staff-and-crew fitness, s critically important. Chassidy encouraged regular and vigorous sexual release for all the Mars-base residents.
Matt Curisonn Van Templar: male, age 42-years. Matt, or 'the Templar Knight', as he was sometimes called, was the Lead-Person on Rocketry and Launches, for the Mars-base. This included any re-entry, or shuttle landings, ships in orbit, transports to and from Earth, and 'lifts' from the Mars-surface to ships waiting in the orbit-space above. Matt was a 'white man', not very physical, though fit enough, and trended towards 'nerd' in appearance and disposition. His job was critical; without the skill and knowledge needed to launch or land ships and people or goods on Mars, and from Mars, they would all soon perish. Or, if they didn't die---life would be very difficult until launches and rocketry were restored. Like anyone, Matt 'the Templar' took pride in his work, and there had never been a disaster or crash, under his command, that being some 15 years (including work back on Earth in the same arena). Crashes did happen. Ships would fail to re-enter atmosphere and gravity, or even explode, with all hands lost, for whatever reason---mechanical, human error, environmental. Matt was like a watchful hawk over each and every launch, keen for any hint of error or failure. and for this much he had earned the respect of all. He was also a homosexual, with a male-lover commonly known to many of his friends, who was a Safety Worker at the Mars-base.
Charley Barron: age 53-years, male, Mars-base Environmental Safety and Atmosphere-Integrity Officer. Charley's job was to mainatin the Mars-base facility internal environment such as to remain humanly habitable and sustainable for life-support, here on this hostile planet. His staff was one of the largest from among the 230 base inhabitants. The breathable air, the C02-scrubbing and oxygen recycling, temperature-control, drinkable water and waste-processing, crops and hot-houses, imports of supplies, raw-materials, chemicals, and also internal energy-systems, and much more, were all under his authority. And he knew what he was doing, never forgetting that all their lives depended on the environmental-system integrity and functionality. An air-leak to the outside, a recycling failure, a water-supply loss or contamination, an energy-power system failure for air-circulation, or even a tiny meteorite from space, that somehow penetrated the external shell of the base-structure---all of these dangers and more, would wipe them out in days, if not hours. The entire base was on back-up as far as most of these systems, but each required constant attention, monitoring and adjustments. The US-Mars base was remarkable precisely because it was 'self-sustaining', and could basically exist all on its own, pretty much as long as the residents could keep it all going, even without Earth transports. So Charley was in charge of making that a reality, Twenty-four/Seven, flawlessly and without any surprises. He was a short-statured man, rustic-looking, and given to parties and drink in off-hours. Everyone who knew him encouraged his happiness and parties or girl-friends, given that he held their lives in his hands.
Of course the Mars-base include many, many others. The Safety-Workers, the Reserve-Pilots, the Surface-Workers and Excursion Commanders, the Suit-Suppliers and Suit-Maintenance, Food-Workers, Communications, Satellite-Traffic, and on and on---all fascinating, healthy, colorful people, male and female, with much to offer. The oldest man at the base was nearly 70-years young, was was involved in water-research. The youngest person who was a Mars-regular was only 23 years-old, a Safety Worker. In the past, Earth children had sometimes visited the base, in groups of about ten at a time, as young as only about ten years-old.
Karen Tutturro followed behind Bojji-Than, into the Command Center where he was expecting another boring day. Boring is usually good, in space-travel. The oval-shaped room was much like an Air-Traffic Control Tower at a large Earth jet-airport. Numerous monitoring computers were manned by various staffers, working long-shifts---they kept track of everything from the external base-perimeter, to Mar's twin orbiting moons. If a dust storm was kicking up in the Southern hemisphere, 3,000-kilometers away, they needed to know. Communications from Earth were constant, but only a few types of messages had any real importance---the communications equipment and actual operating systems that Karen would be working on were elsewhere. Earth-communications were still functioning, and had been all along, but not at the level they needed for transmission of research data in large enough batches to make the effort successful. She had come a long, long way to get the job done, and it was important enough work that she was temporarily a minor celebrity at the base (as all new arrivals were).
"Everyone, please," Bojji addressed the room full of people, about 20 in all at various stations, in a loud voice. He stood at the head of the room on a small observation platform, and of course got their attention. "Please welcome our latest visitor from back home. This is Karen Tuturro, a Sci-Tech in Communications from Vandenberg. Hopefully Karen is going to repair our communications system."
Karen blinked and smiled. "Hi---everyone."
The room called back, some laughing, with 'hello's', 'howdy's' and welcomes. It was a rowdy bunch, mostly veterans who recognized a Mars-Virgin when they saw one. One man honked a small flatulent-horn he had at his desk. Others tapped their coffee-cups. "What's wrong?" Karen asked Bojji. "They don't seem to like me."
"Of course they do," he replied. "With most of these, if you had brought a 12-pack of beer from Earth,and barbecued ribs, it would seal your fate with them forever. Have no fear. They'll be your friends in no time. Especially if you can fix our antenna problem."
They moved off the platform at the head of the room, strolling slowly around some of the posts and tech-stations. "I don't think it's an antenna issue," Karen confided to Bojji-Than. "I was looking over some of the data-schematics and system-analysis. What I need to do is shut the entire Earth-link down for about two or three days. Then I'll be able to isolate various components and their functions, and find the gremlin. Once I find the gremlin, I make a repair on just the part that isn't working well, then hook it all back together and start it up again. Then you start-up a new data-stream to Earth of the type you were working with. With any luck, you'll have no problem."
"Sounds like a plan," Bojji replied.
"I'll also need an assistant or two, or co-workers, under my direction, from your Telecomm staff."
"Certainly," Bojji replied. They paused. After a moment, Vinces Grant, the Research Lead for the base, approached them both and introduced himself. Grant worked in a jump-suit that would have been more appropriate on a fishing boat off the coast of Catalina, back in California. Not tall, but rather wide, he had a slinky-masculine appeal that was irresistible and charming. He took Karen's hand. "Vinces Grant," he said. "Pleased to meet you."
"Vinces does control for all the base research teams, exploration programs, science-and-data. In fact, it's his programs and the data they have for the teams on Earth, that comprise the content for the Telecomm-systems to transmit, that failed---prior to your trip here to Mars," the Commander said to Karen. Bojji-Than had known Vinces for many years, and could anticipate one of his one-liner jokes, before Vinces even opened his mouth.
"Why are there no uncooked hot-dogs on Mars?" he tossed out, in Karen's direction.
"Huh?" she said. "Oh---uh---I don't know. Why?"
"Because Mars is the god of war, not the dog of raw."
Karen took a moment to try to understand the humor..
"Not one of your better jokes, Vinces," Bojji said.
"Come on, you get it---'raw' is 'war' spelled backwards, that's all. See? Laugh, dammit!"
Karen complied and chortled a bit, if only for his attitude and emotions. He was a pleasant man in any case. "No, really---I get it," she said. "No hot-dogs."
"The base cafeteria does not usually feature meat-products, due to storage and preservation issues with importation from Earth, and also the inability of the base here to produce any meat products of our own, like chicken or fish," said Bojji.
"That's the other reason," Vinces added.
"I don't really like hot-dogs anyway," Karen said. "You know, the nitrates they use. Unless they're organic."
They seemed to pause in the small-talk. "Well, nice to meet you," Vince's said. "Let's just hope those dick-heads in Russia and the Islamic-Hindu Space-Program Alliance don't figure they'll be gobbling us up here at the base like a handy little inter-planetary snack, in the near future, in anticipation of any meteors out there. Know what I mean??"
They both nodded. Everyone pretty much already knew about the approaching asteroid, and fears about the Russian-Islamic Space-Program. Even on Mars, it was a cold topic.
"Nice to meet you, too," Karen said.

---Julian Phillips
Dec. 29, 2009

Chapter Eleven/OUTPOST (more about Mars)

CHAPTER ELEVEN
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong /Tom Luong Films
Dec. 20, 2009

“Three enormous volcanic mountains line up northeast to southwest, the Tharsis Montes. Each one is about twice the size and height of the volcanic island of Hawaii. Almost hidden in the shadow of Olympus Mons, an even larger volcano. Above it, wisps of water ice-clouds hover. Farther north, the pole displays a shrinking cap of carbon dioxide snow typical of early spring. East of the Tharsis Montes is a system of giant canyons that stretch some 5,000-kilometers, east to west.”
-Roy A. Gallant, Our Universe, National Geographic, 1980

Such was the Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin region, where the US-Mars base was built. The Snikta Ridge was a minor formation, and not particularly impressive, and of course the builders needed a hospitable, level, ‘flat’ or non-mountainous foundation, where the construction, approach of man-power or staff, and goods, would function. The view from within the base, or anywhere nearby, was quite beautiful, though barren and formidable, even deadly. Mars was hard to love, or hard to enjoy, or find lovely. But the staff and workers who lived at the US Mars-base, almost to a man, eventually realized that they were among the very few ever of the Earth, to live and work on another planet, and this alone endeared each person in dreams and reverie.
The red planet clearly once had a very active geological past. The volcanoes were dead, but not the deadly dust storms, which could be vast, even planetary-scale events, as the ancient reddish sand and dust was swept aloft by ‘winds’ that created huge clouds of terrible power, and could be seen from Earth by telescope.
By comparison, Deimos, the red planet’s outer of two moons, is only 15-kilometers wide, at its broadest point, which was irregular in shape and not perfectly globular. So Deimos, an orbiting moon, was only one-fortieth (1/40th) as broad as the Olympus Mons volcano on the planet surface.
Mars was the Roman ‘god’ of war, stereotypically represented by the ‘circle-and-arrow’ sign, often used to portray the male. And 'macho' it all was, for a planet where anyone would dwell or live, certainly compared to Earth, far more nurturing and feminine, with it’s near-Paradise of plants, life, water, people, food, cities, oceans, creatures, and so on. Only the strong could survive on Mars, it might have been thought. Yet, with the help of science-technology and good old know-how, many of the residents at the US-base, were women, and even a few children (who had visited temporarily in the past). The planners of the US space-program knew well, that with women joining together with men, as they voyaged into space, that morale improved overall, and depression and anxiety decreased. Yes, strong and healthy, athletic---but all-woman, feminine, nurturing, the second half of mankind’s Adam-Eve dichotomy, which was eternal for human-kind.
A ‘Martian Year’ would last for 687 Earth-days---almost two Earth-years. The planet has ‘seasons’, which are also irregular in length of days---in other words, the Northern Fall season can vary almost 60 days longer than the spring season. The planet is significantly smaller than Earth, about one-third as large, and one-tenth the mass (weight) of Earth, and less dense internally. Thus, gravity on Mars is just slightly more than one-third the pull of gravity on Earth. A 200-pound man, on Mars would weigh only about 70-pound. Like astronauts who first walked on Earth’s moon, this was a delight, or, at least, an ease and convenience when carrying heavy loads, or thick, heavy space-suits, or gear, etc. In a strange way, as their hearts yearned to play or glide and jump or leap, or fly about, or do incredible athletics, in the lesser gravity, the staff and workers on Mars at the base knew they never would be able to do so, for fear of the deadly atmospheric conditions. Naked, or in running-shorts on the surface of Mars was not an option, except in dreams.
At the closest point between the two planets, Earth and Mars, as they move in the dance of orbits, are about 56 million kilometers apart. This solar-system intimacy, or closeness (about 45-million miles or so), could take as long as two years to happen, and was purely a natural event, caused by the orbits and positions of the planets. A Martin ‘day’ is just slightly more than 24-hours, oddly enough, providing the Mars-base staff with a sense of Earth-like normalcy.
For what water there is on Mars, nearly all of it is found frozen beneath the ground. Both planetary poles had ice-caps. The polar caps are actually ‘dry ice’, or frozen carbon dioxide, with only a little actual ‘water-ice’. And, of course, much of the planet-surface is pock-marked with craters, large or smaller. The soil is somewhat like that of the soil on Earth, with silicon, iron and magnesium. The famous reddish color is apparently from iron-oxide.
The Tharsis Montes region is 1,000-times the distance from New York to Los Angeles, in its longness. The four giant volcanoes are three times higher than Earth’s Mount Everest. To the east is Valles Marinarus, with canyons deeper than America’s Grand Canyon, but longer than the US itself from coast-to-coast. Petrified lava-flows, sedimentary canals long dried and turned to dust, endless vistas of barren rocks, sand and rises, and many other formations, are everywhere. Yet not a single tree, bird, lake, grassy field, cow, horse, natural waterway, fish, beach, or indigenous life-form, anywhere on Mars at all, that had ever been found since exploration began.
Maps of Mars show formations called such as Chrysae Planitia, Sinai Planum, Arsia Mons, Hellas Planitia, Elysium Mons, Du or Martheray. There’s no liquid water anywhere on the surface of this entire world. The atmosphere is very dry, and any water-vapor that does exist, will not turn to liquid (like rain does on Earth). Even if all the water-vapor in the atmosphere of the entire planet of Mars was reduced from air-born mist to liquid, the entire volume of it would only fill a small lake. By comparison, of course, Earth is host to vast oceans over most of its surface, which though salty, condense and lifts into the moist atmosphere of the Earth, eventually turning into rain, or other water-forms, providing the basis of life. Mapping, measurements, geology and innumerable observations and records continued without end, as one of the US Mars-base’s principle objectives---to learn and record all there was to know about this ‘new world’.
The base itself was, from the exterior, rather a fortress of technology and survival-means off-world construction. From the ground-level, it seemed somewhat like a common military installation of some sort. There were numerous buildings and gates or entry-ways, large tanks and vats or towers, numerous antenna-arrays with gaudy high-tech spider-webs of dishes and spindly formations that could project radio and other signals all the way to Earth, and many other aspects. There were also glassy, or clear-view formations attached to the base, more or less like plant houses, or patio-like gardens, for restful viewing---but of course the entire inner-world of the base was protected, air-tight, from the harsh outer-world. And in this sense, although ‘home’, the base was also, and always would be, a prison, from which escape into Nature, meant only death for the human creature.
But life at Snikta Ridge was by far more comfortable than life on the transport ships that made the voyage from Earth, such as the one Guy Reisling piloted. The residents enjoyed fine meals, fresh water and air, good plumbing and bathing, regular personal quarters and housing that allowed for sexual relations, and off-hours of even a week or more at a time to relax, or ‘mini-vacations’. There was plenty of entertainment in every form, also a library, and small performance theater. After ten years, the crews at the base started a vocal choir, which then petered-out, to be replaced by a jazz-band and a small classical string-quartet, and other forms of arts, as staff found time and inspiration.
As ships entered orbit around Mars, a standard re-entry, or shuttle-to-surface descent, was initiated---not by the transport pilot, but by a specially-trained ‘space harbor-master’, to whom this process was not a mystery. To the pilots, or any person arriving on Mars, the view from orbit of the Snikta Ridge Volcanic Basin US-Mars Base, was indeed spectacular. Telescopes and magnifiers provided digital-screen views, and the naked-eye was really not much use, even through the thick transparent-aluminum port-views ‘windows’. Maybe it was because after months in deep-space transport, travelers knew that when they arrived at the base, they would again enjoy ‘normal’ gravity, walk around in open-air interiors, have private rooms all for themselves, and so on. Or maybe it was just the wonder of it all.
In any case, what they saw from above, when entering Martian orbit, was a spread of about five or ten square miles, laid out like a patch-work of squares, circles, and other shapes---the same air-tight fortress which from the planet-surface rose up beneath the dark cliffs like a strange specter of the power of modern science and the survival spirit of humanity. There were launch-pads, too, and landing-areas, and roads between the useful platforms or storage for fluids, liquid-oxygen, or H20, and then areas for surface-to-orbit rockets or ‘lifters’. Complex hardly described what was needed to survive in this way on Mars, in the year 2076. As an achievement of human consciousness, Snikta Ridge was equal to the Great Pyramids of Egypt, or any of the Earth’s great cities, or other wonders ‘back home’. Yet it all seemed as lonely as the silent and dead planet upon which it rested, a tiny spark of human life, against the face of the Universe, a fortress of the living, as strong as any ever conceived---an ‘outpost’, in the true sense, as may have been established in the early exploration of the American West, or the early European exploration of the ‘New World’ of the Americas, or Marco Polo’s first voyages to China and the East.
Sunrise on Mars was oddly unique and just as wonderful as the rising Sun on Earth. More distant from the Sun by millions of miles, Martian sunrise was more distant as well from the source of life and heat and warmth---the Sun. So it seemed ethereal, somehow hollow, or lacking a certain familiar mighty blaze, almost like tin compared to brass, or silver compared to gold. The reddish dust and dark-reddish mountain cliffs, the huge volcanoes, higher than any man would probably ever climb, set against the rising Sun, distant to the east in the early hours of each morning---there was no doubt this was ‘another world’, however much one wished to go home. Base staff could watch the sunrise event from glass-domed patios, and at various view-ports, and also on digital camera screens.
As a regular task that needed to be done daily, a base perimeter air-lock seal and atmospheric facility breach check was performed, in three crews of two men each. Comfortable in their Mars-Suits, the men rode on small electric carts suitable to the surface soil and inclines. Communicating by internal radio-links, they were equipped with gauges and detectors that would reveal any oxygen leaks, mostly at various points that were most likely to decay, break down, or release internal air-pressure due to wear-and-tear. As they stopped the carts, at some twenty points along the foot of The Castle (as they sometimes called the base), they looked like rock-hunters, with magnetic metal-detectors in their hands, which in fact were for reading chemicals associated with any leaks.
There were many daily dangers and environmental threats on Mars, but an internal air-pressure breach, or leak, was among the most feared. So the men worked carefully, every single day, to find even a very small leak. A small leak could become a large one, and a sudden loss of internal air could result in many deaths, before it could be controlled or contained, if they caught it in time.
“Nothing here,” said one of the workers, through his inter-suit radio, to his partner. “It’s clean. Not even a molecule. Let’s try the footing seals on Number Two.”
“Got it,” his partner responded. They moved back to the little electric cart, like figures in a dream, against the distant Sun rising behind the giants, tin, not even silver.
“Are you ready?” Bojji-Than, the base-commander, inquired of Karen Tutturro, who he found that morning at the cafeteria. Karen had maintained her schedule meticulously since her arrival, more cautious than perhaps she needed to be. She wanted the other crews at the base to respect her, of course, which was no simple matter. “I want you to meet some people you’ll be working with,” Bojji-Than added.
“Certainly, commander,” Karen said, getting herself up from the table where she was eating breakfast, along with 20 or 30 other shift-workers, at one of the cafeterias.
“Please just call me Bojji,” he said. “Everyone else does.”
“Okay,” she smiled back. “Bojji.”
They walked out together from the dining-area, into one of the halls. The base was alive and vibrant with life, work, and a pulsing truth that sustained them all.

--Julian Phillips
Dec. 20, 2009

OUTPOST-Chapter Ten, onward to Mars

CHAPTER TEN
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong /Tom Luong Films
Dec. 11, 2009


“There’s no goodness in me equal to all the badness of the world. But deep space---what could go wrong?”
-US Mars-Program spaceship transport pilot Guy Reisling, 2076

Like a dream of globes, or gigantic stones, or spinning tops in the hands of a child-deity, formed from infinity, yet round and lovely, spheres--the first solar planetary object, the second, and then third through ninth, and beyond, had been dancing delightedly for so long, few could truly remember their origins. In fact, no one could. But it was long ago, for sure, and the furnaces of creation, the formation of matter and energy, and Guy Reisling’s ancestors, somewhere in his blood-stream and DNA, silent yet eternal---those burn-bins yet lingered in the rear-view mirror of himself and mankind, ever-curious, super-chimps, as one philosopher said, like ants on our glorious Earth, home forever.
And there away on Mars, after long years of hard work and learning, the US had, at one point now past, established the Mars-base, under discussion in their meetings. Why do we do these things, mankind might have mused, taken whole? What’s the use? Who cares for Mars? It’s dry and boring and empty and barren, only rocks, no good air, cold and hot both, in extremes, without a single tree. For every single person on Earth, there was no question---thanks, but no thanks, I like it here. Even the Earth’s bitterly poor had a handful, otherwise not long to live, and adventures of their own, humble. Yet the few, the proud, the US Mars program space-flight workers, and the other Earth space-explorers, really numbering only a few thousand people, but a tiny fraction of humanity---where few had gone, few would ever go, and among them who did, most learned not to ask themselves why, for their own self-respect.
Dinner on Mars, at the so-called Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin US Mars base, was a family-type affair, and tended with the perpetual concept of keeping spirits up and overcoming exhausted workers and depression or other off-world emotional troubles---same as at home on Earth, just without the view. Much like any demanding service that trained and skilled people would undertake, such as military, the food was prepared with the very best quality available, for this reason. On one evening, Earth date then at January 23, 2076, in the food-court within the safety of the base itself, the meal for about 20 or 30 people, was---once again---completely vegetarian. The main reason was that for the base to be self-sustaining, they needed to raise their own food, difficult on Mars to be sure. But it was essential---they would all die if the shipments of goods that Guy Reisling and others were responsible for, failed for some reason, for a significant period. Rice was the most successful. It grew easily in shallow water, was acclimated to heat-changes, high in carbohydrates, and also preserved well. They had many other types of crops, carefully tended in long, very large hot-houses---beans, corn, organic melons, onions, carrots, and so on. The plants also produced free ambient oxygen, exchanging C02 for 02, for photo-synthesis. But the chefs were stocked with wonderful spices and ingredients, and the meals were truly quite good, with many variations. Once or twice a year the Earth-transports brought in a supply of familiar meat-products, too.
The crews ate in shifts, around the clock. The base was occupied by about 230 people at this time. The number at the base changed, but not by much, as Earth-bound passengers departed, no more than five or six at a time, and others arrived. Thus, there at the dinner-table, on that day, the Communications Tech-Support Karen Tutturro, now, at last, found herself enjoying her first meal on the new planet---and she was filled with wonder, and joy, though cautious, at everything she was learning about this new world.
“Do we always eat here, or is there another dining area?” Karen asked her guide, whose name was Juno, a Belgian-German base security man, whose real job---since they were never under any actual threat, or hostility, other than that of Mother Nature---was mostly to maintain the ebb-and-flow of civic and family life there at the base, which was complex enough that minor disputes could be disruptive and needed to be dealt with. But that was rare.
“There is another one, three corridors down, and then a third as well,” Juno said. Each one will feed 150 people at a time. But there is no need. They work in shifts. The second food hall is smaller, and the other one about this size. How was the transport voyage? How is Earth these days? I haven’t been home in six months.”
Karen laughed. “Well, it’s still there,” she said. She continued eating. The dish was rice-rissotto, with pickles and nuts, and veggies, and a soy-based fruit-type nutrition drink, with other items as treats. “The transport was fine, but demanding. You know. I liked everything, except the bedding was too rough, or---just not very comfortable.”
“That was your first time, then?” Juno asked her.
“Yes. I’m a Mars virgin.”
“You’ll get used to it. Take nothing for granted. It’s still dangerous, even today. A few miles beyond these walls---certain death.” He just smiled. “Even for Mars virgins, it’s cold outside.”
The dinner-hall was an echo of pleasant voices. People laughed or chatted. Mars-TV, as they jokingly called the in-house communication system, played popular entertainments on a screen-surface. The most popular were nature-documentaries from Earth, but also many others, agreed on by committee.
“My job is working on the Inter-planet communications,” Karen said. “I was sent because there were troubles in the system that made failure possible, which might cause troubles or mix-ups in essential services.”
“Yes, I know,” Juno said. “It was more than a year ago. There was a needful communication series regarding a research inquiry program, and complex data. But they messed up somehow. It was a geological survey, with samples, too. But it failed badly. They panicked. And now here you are.”
“In the words of Ringo Starr, I’m glad to be here or anywhere,” Karen replied. “I’ll get to work tomorrow, today I rest from the voyage. It took the ship more than 60 days from Earth. I’ll have my hands full. It’s a complex system.”
After a while, they left the cafeteria, and entered the rest of the Mars-base complex, as Juno would guide her around for the next couple of hours, to view the ‘tour’ that new-comers enjoyed. The various halls of the facility were arched, large enough for small motorized carts, and went on for even miles, taken together, though only a total of about four miles in all. Karen seemed to take charisma with Juno, and they laughed a bit, and became friends, as everyone at the base was encouraged to be.
The Mars-base planners wanted to create and fabricate a long-term facility that would serve several main purposes: to host the science-and-research team, the pilots and crews, and equipment-computers-machines; and also for work involved in the hot-houses and with growing plants, processing chemicals and oxygen-water, recycling, process-generation; and also of course for purposes such as housing, offices, astronomy, and operations. Beyond the main walls, were modest launch-pads, and a series of ramps and short drives leading to the eight main gates; there were also observation equipment-stations, raw-materials containers, and ladders or steps that could access the upper decks, windows, pads, observations stations, and then the roof.
The entire layout looked very patch-work and military, like a puzzle of squares and shapes, and various components, small roads and containers. The actual Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin had been chosen by the base designers because of the geology structure of the rocky region. The ridge was a solid 100 miles long, North to West on the planet surface, in the upper-equatorial area, and included the unique aspect of containing an underground ice-flow, or H20-pack of frozen moisture, perhaps millions of years old. There was some frozen ‘dry-ice’ on the surface as well. This incredible find meant the base could be self-sustaining within only a few years of completed construction, which was about 2064.
Karen and Juno turned a corner deep inside the base, about two corridors over from where they had eaten their rice-rissotto. They moved into an area with a room full of computers and tech-gear, mostly for communications with Earth. An Asian man, named Boji-Than, met her by appointment. This was the Mars-Base Commander, far more a man of science than a soldier. He was taught-looking and slender, keen-eyed, fast-talking and very wise about all things related to the base.
Juno, the escort, dismissed himself. Boji-Than took Karen’s hand, and she smiled gratefully. “We have much to discuss, I’m so glad you’re here,” Boji said. “Come with me.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
Karen knew a good deal about the type of gear and tech they used to communicate back-and-forth with Earth. The system was essential for their survival. Her unique area was in microwave and basic radio, directional and power-supply, as well as antenna-array, and data-compression, and similar. Of course she had studied many years, with special education and knowledge. Likewise, Bojji-Than was completely appraised to these tasks.
They move through the equipment and he showed her various monitoring-screens and simple ways to appraise the system’s functionality. “It was no one’s fault, the way it broke down,” he said. “We were in the middle of a research project, mostly a geo-survey. None of the information was very important, which is typical here on Mars. It was a six-month project just to send the findings back to Earth, which were on-going.”
Karen gazed at one of the monitors, a computer that measured the flow of signals from one point to another, their receipt and content-stability. “You see?” Bojji-Than said. “The origins and transport-flow are fine, apparently. But when you reach this point—“
He pointed at one of the sections on the screen. This icon indicated a certain collection of computers and processors, that routed pre-compressed signal data to their final output via an antenna-array. “It’s blocked, and we don’t know why,” he said. “I’ve been working on it personally for weeks. By the time you were called up, it was a mess. I can tell you more, but that’s the outline.”
So, they talked more, mostly tech-stuff about the system she would be working on and various specifications. After half-an-hour, they settled down in an office in the same area.
“What are your feelings about the news from last year’s Spring Up-Date at Vandenberg?” Karen asked Bojji-Than. “About the meteor and the Russians?”
Bojji-Than relaxed a bit, and folded his arms. “Of course we heard all about it. As base-commander, it is very significant. We’ll have to adjust to whatever the Earth planners decide. My feeling is the situation could become a disaster, if the Russian-Ukrainian-Islamic forces in their space-program do indeed arrive. This base has no defenses for that sort of thing. No one ever dreamed we would need them. I am not a military person. So, we’ll see. Hopefully things will resolve without a problem.”
“The end of the world was never a problem before,” Karen joked.
“Only a few times,” Bojji said. “If something has a beginning, it has an end.”
“Let’s hope not,” Karen said. “It is home, after all.”
“For me, too,” Bojji-Than said. “I have not been back in almost a year.”
They continued to chat, and Karen was able to tell Bojji-Than about some more mundane aspects of life-on-Earth---new films, sporting events, new car models, things in the news, celebrities. This cemented their friendship somewhat. The work before them was demanding, and would take a lot of time. The mid-point processor that had broken down was complicated and highly-technical. Karen had brought a good deal of the back-up tools and analytical equipment she needed. After a while she was guided to her quarters and other new friends she would meet, while getting to know her new world.
“Just like Earth,” she said to herself, as she was finally alone. “Nice planet.”


---Julian Phillips
Oct. 28, 2009
2,051-words

OUTPOST-Chapter NINE (meet the 'bad guys')

“Earth-crossers, or Apollo objects, orbit in a path around the Sun and towards the Earth, then back again, in a journey of about five years. There are about 40 of these known Apollo objects. Some, such as Hermes, have come to within twice the distance to the Earth’s moon, about 770,000-kilometers, of our planet. A direct hit on the Earth may happen only once in 250,000-years, and some experts feel such a collision might happen only once in a million years. Such an impact, however, would produce an explosion as great as 20,000-megaton hydrogen bombs. Scientists feel it was this kind of meteor strike that led to the extinction of the dinosaurs, 65-million years ago.”
---‘Our Universe’ by Roy A. Gallant, National Geographic, 1980

Two weeks before the US-Mars Defense Plan Task Force met at Fort Hunter-Liggett, in California, where it was warm all year, dry, and oak trees everywhere, along the sides of gently sloping brown hills---away beyond the cusp of awareness, also hidden, in another land, so different and far-off as to almost be viewed as ‘another planet’, or ‘another world’, which was the Southern Ukraine region, formerly a part of Mother Russia, and the vast USSR before that---here it was that the Russian-Islamic space-program, for at least a small part of their various efforts off-world, held court, made their plans, and dreamed their dreams. It was cold here, often with snow on the ground, and high, rocky mountains, and woods very different and deeper or darker than those of California. To those who knew where to find it, a Space Port known as KK-F/Region Six, had been built years past, and now rested, there among the woods, mountains and snow.
Somewhere among them, inside the facility, their own team had assembled, this for the eighth or ninth time in a period of several months, with the same set of science-facts and research, as the US-Mars Program had. Among them were four of their regular space-flight pilots, all husky, large men, pink-skinned with dark whiskers, or shaven, dressed for warmth, in casual uniforms. The Commander was Rudolph Terchenko, an older, mature man, and veteran of Russian space-flights for many years. In addition, the on-going Russian-Islamic ‘think-tank’ participants included so-called Islamic Renaissance scientists, and Resource Managers from Saudi, Iranian and the Northern Indian sub-continent.
This alliance for space-research was much different than the American program, and formed itself from a wide pattern of states, nations, science-Universities, military bases and space-ports. In an odd way, the Russian-Islamic space-program was far more resourceful and ‘tougher’ than the US program---they managed the same accomplishments and feats in space as the US-side, but working with less. Longer space-walks, greater distances beyond the moon, faster launches, and rougher landings, were the rule, and a matter of great pride among the men working in that team.
Commander Terchenko laughed and rolled back his chair from a long wooden desk. It was a chamber for his rule over the space-program arena he was in charge of, and he had himself very well-equipped with comforts many of his countrymen did not have: food and drink, plenty of vodka, warm heaters, computers and communications, servants, and a real wood fireplace. His assistant, a slender young woman with a stiff laugh and dark hair, gathered his papers and books, and laptop computer. She knew where he was headed.
“No, Milana, it’s not true, what he told you. It never was that way. They tested the bombs, yes, and then the areas were sealed for contamination. But anyone who lived in the region was evacuated,” he said.
“But he said there were deformities, and still-births, and cancer, and diseases, from the nuclear tests, Commander,” Milana replied. “I’m sorry to repeat it again, he was very insistent.”
“Do not believe lies,” he answered. “Unless they are mine.”
They left his chamber, and proceeded down a hallway. This was a simple complex of offices and administrative centers, and also research-and-science, associated with the Russian leadership portion of the Eastern space-program alliance. Terchanko talked as Milana walked with him, toting his stuff.
“I was only curious, sir,” Milana said.
“Nevermind,” Terchenko said. “This meeting ahead will decide our final choice about the US Mars-base. That is, if we plan to take it, or not. You understand. So please, keep yourself quiet about anything, and just take notes, or get my meal. It will be a long meeting.”
“Yes, sir,” Milana said.
“The Iranian military space-program leadership will be present. They have great power, and very specific equipment, and also trained men, and clearance. Also, my entire staff. We have trained our teams for months, but there is no command to launch. If we launch, it is war. A space-war. You must not discuss this sort of thing with anyone, dear Milana,” Terchenko said.
“Never,” was her terse reply. They continued down the hallway. Ahead were double-doors to a large meeting-room. Soldiers nearby in uniforms, and armed, kept watch---a needless guard, given the obscurity and hidden location of the KK/F-Region Six space-port facility. You would have had more luck passing bodily through the Wailing Wall in Old Jerusalem, then entering here, un-welcomed.
The double-doors opened, and they passed inside. The room was a busy place, with an entire complex of long work-tables, perhaps ten or twelve long areas, with seats, name-plates, computers, and covered in long sheets of dense white-blue cloth. Each man at his seat had papers and books, and beyond the back of the room was a large projector screen-image, where data, statistics, and graphs-and-charts, could be viewed by them all. Commander Terchenko and his assistant, young Milana, took their place at one of the tables. A plate of dried apples and cheese, with hot black coffee and brandy, was at his left hand.
At once as Terchenko settled, a small Eastern-looking man with dark skin and a gray beard walked nearby toward him, much like a scientist but perhaps ‘some sort of egg-head’, as Terchenko mused within himself. “Commander,” the man said. “Please, just a moment. Before we start.”
“Yes,” said Terchenko. “ You are---??”
“Doctor Martin-Sarcasian, with Central Planning. You don’t believe me? Here.” He produced a small leather-bound packet with his immediate ID inside, on a nylon cord around his neck. Terchenko viewed it briefly.
“Yes, I know you,” Terchenko said. “An egg-head.”
“Just a word, sir, before the meeting. I’m troubled by the direction we are going, on the council team. There is an aspect of reality here with the planners, it has been discussed, but I think there was no fair hearing about the matter. I want to review it again. But it is very sensitive. I don’t even know if there is time for a full review. I’d like yourself as local program Commander to---maybe---just bring it up, with the group---at the right time.”
Now Terchenko had seated himself and was having his coffee. “Well, fine. Tell me first, and I will decide.”
“You already know,” Doctor Martin-Sarcasian replied.
“The meteor? Yes, we know,” Terchenko said.
“No, no,” said Sarcasian. “I’m talking about the Edinberg Society contact we’ve had. The Scottish group. What the panelists don’t recognize is the long-term motivation for taking control of the base on Mars.”
“To survive the meteor strike,” Terchenko said. “Is it not?”
“Well, yes, on the face of things. But we can’t survive on Mars forever.”
“With our men on Mars, after the meteor hits, if it ever does, we can send survivors back to rebuild, or work recovery, and so on,” Terchenko said.
“You are not familiar with the Edinberg group. Our people have been considering off-world information---off-world, I mean, from other planets. Not Mars. Worlds far out into our galaxy. Inhabited places. That is, you would say---aliens.”
Terchenko paused. He refreshed his coffee. “Go ahead, Doctor Martin. Please be brief. I don’t believe in aliens. They don’t exist.”
“The planning team has not recognized that once we take the Mars-base, and if Earth is smitten of the meteor, with heavy damage, that the contacts through Scotland, would be re-established in the future, on Mars, with our people who survive there. In other words, the human race could survive. We’d go on. I know it’s far-fetched. But you see---I have studied this aspect. I know a lot about it. It has a high level of probability. The information is secure.” Sarcasian continued.
Terchenko laughed again. He had a big jovial laugh, spreading his hands widely on the table. “Maybe we just want to survive, anyway!” he said. “Maybe we just want to survive the damn meteor and the hell with your aliens!”
Doctor Martin-Sarcasian seemed angry. “That’s not the point,” he said. “Of course we want to survive. If the meteor hits, we want people on Mars. That’s not the point. What I’m saying is, we need to plan ahead for this aspect, so that when-and-if we arrive on Mars, or take the base from the Americans, that we will be prepared to deal with the Edinberg Society findings and radio-telescope deep-space communications---for the survival of all mankind! We need to plan ahead so that we can accommodate this---it’s important!”
“Even if it’s all horse-shit?”
“Damn you, Terchenko! I’ll bring it forward myself! Good day to you!” Sarcasian now walked away. Terchenko smiled. He had been a part of the Russian space-program a long time. Men like Sarcasian had big ideas, big dreams, and radio-telescopes to listen to for years on end. But it almost always meant nothing, so as a practical person he never trusted them at all, or their information. He made a mental note, and felt the man’s idea would probably come up again. It had already been discussed. Sarcasian seemed unsatisfied that the planning team was thinking ‘his way’ about it. He probably wanted to be assured that any future Russian-Islamic stake on Mars, would include the gear, technology, man-power, and resources, needed to re-establish whatever his so-called Edinburg Society had accomplished. As if Terchenko could plan ahead to build him a radio-telescope on Mars, at the same time they were over-powering the US-Mars forces, and taking control of the base, with as little loss of life and damage to the Mars-facility as possible. And also, Terchenko himself had no real faith in the Edinburg Society, and certainly no faith in talk of any aliens. For real space-men in 2075, it was a joke.
The rest of the meeting proceeded as planned. They wrangled over the issues and topics for hours, shouting each other down in native Russian, or sometimes other languages. The ships and men were trained for the mission. The plan-of-attack was prepared. Some members felt an attack on the Mars-base was premature---the meteor was still years away, and might never even hit the Earth at all, or be deflected. Others saw it as an opportunity, but the political-wing fully understood the ramifications for Russia and her alliance-in-space, when they had to explain to the global community what they had done.
Later it became clear that the fear-based military side was winning the argument. The game was played such as to launch or not-to-launch, and when. By giving themselves a year’s advance at the base on Mars, or longer, well ahead of any meteor---which well they knew about, and were tracking as closely as the rest of the world---the notion was that they could secure their goals, made to sound lofty and noble, or in terms of saving humanity---when it was true enough they also wanted to save their own skins, and avoid a future-life on a dead-Earth, smitten by the meteor, with untold damages, a new Ice-Age, an unlivable world, the environment uninhabitable. Even if only a few hundred---at least it would be ‘their side’.
A secret vote passed from table-to-table, hand-written on scraps of paper. It was late, they were all exhausted. They were collected and tallied. The results were brought to Terchenko, who as Commander of the local space-program was placed in the role of meeting co-ordinator---and announcer of colossal mistakes.
“Thank you,” Terchenko said to the Aide, after the tally was gathered, and the vote was done---yes-or-no to launch, and also yes-or-no on a spectrum of launch-dates, which had to be arranged in harmony with the position of both planets, within the coming year. The Commander’s smile evaporated.
“All right then,” he said. “The vote is done. The answer is to launch our forces, to the US-Mars base location, in three months, which is in May, to accommodate the position of the planets. So that is the vote. We will launch. Done is done. Thank you.”
The room descended from anxious silence into hushed chatter in every corner. With all their brain-power and egg-heads, all their information and data, and the space-ships, they had chosen to attack. For the good of all mankind, of course.
“Get me another plate with the apples and cheese,” Terchenko told his assistant Milana. “And more coffee.”
She looked down as she scurried off quickly towards a facility kitchen.

---Julian Phillips
Dec. 2, 2009
For Tom Luong Films
2210-words

OUTPOST-the Late Great Chapter Eight!!

CHAPTER EIGHT
OUTPOST
Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films
Nov. 24, 2009

A Task Force was assembled by the various authorities concerned with the future of the US base on Mars, following the ‘public’ revelation about the meteor, Asteroid U2753b, now known by at least a few of the Mars-program regulars, as ‘Big Baby Bertha’ (for some reason). Again, the Mars program wasn’t directly concerned with the approaching asteroid, now thought to be even larger than early estimates. It just wasn’t their area. Instead, because the space-program circa 2075 included an Earth-Moon program, an Earth-orbit space-station program, deep-space docking platforms like Molinari, where Lila worked, a wide variety of ground-level bases, launch-sites, space-ports, and support industries, and also many deep-space and Solar-system probes and un-manned research vessels, and even early-stage attempts to mount a mission to Jupiter and its moons---with all this going on, the Mars-base program and the anticipated affect Big Baby Bertha would have on that facility, was just one part of an expanding whole, at a time when near-Earth space-exploration was finally satisfying its former era promise.

So the Task Force for this function had a very specific goal: if-and-when the Russian-Islamic space program masters decided to go ahead and ‘steal’ the Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin Mars Base, how would the US respond, and in particular, how would they defend the base, and prevent or turn back a take-over attempt? The rest was such a vast complexity of circumstances and situations, including the asteroid, that to be concerned elsewhere, or other than their own task, was a diversion of resources and man-power, that would delay success, or cause possible failure. And failure meant the loss of control of the Mars base to ‘hostile’ forces. This unthinkable idea might be compared to the loss of a major US property, like control of the Grand Canyon, or the Hoover Dam, or even a mid-sized US city, to a foreign power. This included the potential loss of US lives, and an incredible level of simple wealth, and the many years that had been devoted to creating the base on Mars. And not incidentally, the loss of the Mars base to ‘them’, also would preclude the future population of the base from Western control, and Western ideas and staff, in the event that Asteroid U2753b actually collided with the Earth. Or, in more simple, perhaps ethno-centric terms---Earth’s only viable survivors following the meteor strike, would be Eastern-Islamic-Ukrainian astronauts. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The group was known as the Mars Base Defense Planning Team. Winton Berle, and Branson Porter were on the list, and Lynn Rodgers-Smith was a behind-the-scenes source. Dr Mehudi, the science-lead, was part of the team as well. But of course, the Mars-program really had no military component. So the ‘Mars regulars’ found themselves seated with other types of ‘big-shots’.
No one ever thought a military-division would be needed, and for as long as even 100 years, the concept of a space-war, or serious military applications of the space-program, was considered a very extreme error. There were many reasons for this position, mostly the presumption that any militarization of space, would defeat the ‘real’ purpose of space-exploration, and even make such exploration impossible. Space travel was hard enough anyway. With opposing sides trying to shoot down each other’s ships, or placing huge bombs in orbit, serious new discoveries and new science, would be lost, perhaps forever. War-in-space was thought to be a total disaster, as far as future-planners were concerned. An absolute waste of time, energy, and high-priced resources.
Yet, here they were. Heavy-hitters from other US powers were brought into the Mars Base Defense Planning Team. US military, and Federal, also so-called intelligence community. Typically, the Mars-base battle-plan was now of interest to the global community as well, and at least one security representative from the World Council, was either at the planning sessions, or closely informed of details, with complete access. There were also Space-Technology and Computer-Science experts, and weapons experts, as well as people who supposedly knew what the Russian-Islamic space-program planners were up to. Both male and female leaders were included. They all had a lot of experience, and for the most part were exhausted with the endless effort and data. It seemed to some of them a hopeless task, far too complicated to really predict, and far too dangerous for space-workers who were used to such levels of care that even their heart-beats and sweat were monitored for signs of stress while they worked. Safety first, in space, meant no one was trying to kill you, other than space itself. Or whatever was out there. But not anymore.

“They can’t take Snikta, without entering orbit, and putting people on the surface of Mars,” said US-Army General Price Fortuna, a large, even portly, Caucasian man, about age 60-years old, with a deeply lined face and tendency towards bombast. The General attended sessions ‘in uniform’, an impressive contrast with the science-types, who might wear short-sleeve shirts and khaki shorts. The meetings were held at this point at California’s Hunter-Liggett military base, not at Vandenberg. “So that means we either stop them in space, or in orbit, or outside the base on the surface,” he added. “Unless we stop them here on Earth.”

Many members of the team, but not all, were present for this session, now a few weeks into their effort, after initial organization. There was a large table, or series of tables, in a stark, rather bleak-looking room. A secretary took notes. They had computers and other communications, and common items like food and drink. An air-conditioner bled cold into the room, with a sound.
“Of course, General,” was the response from ‘Kick’ Berle, the Mars-fleet Commander. “I’ve thought about how I would handle it, if it happened on Mars. Let’s say they reach Mars, with ships and men. Let’s say they reach the surface near the base. What then?”

There was a brief pause.

“And now a word from our sponsor,” joked a dark-haired woman named Melissa Envitra, one of the Computer-Specialists. “This extra-terrestrial gang-fight is brought to you by DuPont, makers of high-quality hydrogen rocket-fuel!”

Some laughed. Some didn’t.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Berle answered her. “Repeat after me: not a movie. Not a TV-show. Real life. Say it often.”

“So what’s your idea about it, Berle?” General Fortuna asked, getting them back on track.

Berle rubbed his chin. “It will take time for the Eastern program to gear up their assault, launch, travel the corridor, and reach Mars, ready to do whatever nasty thing they have planned,” Berle said. “If the people we have on Mars now can prepare defensive positions, outside the walls of the facility, in the non-air environment---if they start now, and create small kiosks or fox-holes, where men in oxygen suits and Mars surface survival suits can set up weapons, and survive on their own---we’d be able to hold our own, if they land on Mars, with soldiers to take the base. See what I mean?”

Dr. Mehudi now perked up, offering his take. “Winton, please, if I may?” He gathered his thoughts. “General—there are only eight main entry-portals to the Mars base, from the outer surface. They have different functions. Some are just for people. Others are for cargo or large items. Other gates are only for things like waste-matter, or intake from the Martian air---useful airborne-chemicals. The air is thin, or even none. But there is some, packed with carbon-dioxide. At the base, they use everything. Nothing is wasted. But anyway, eight main doorways. Some are even for excursion vehicles they use, more like hangars.”

“Right, Mehudi,” Berle replied. Everyone listened to their back-and-forth. “And each entry-port is sealed, just like an air-lock in space, or at the space-stations. Somewhat different, for the gravity, but basically an air-lock system.”

“So they’d blow off the gates,” the General said tersely. “Just blow them open. Enter in suits while everyone inside dies for lack of air.”

“If they get that far, they might. It’s very destructive, and they’d have to rebuild the air-locks to survive themselves, later. Which is not easy. If they plan to destroy the base, that’s one thing. Drop a bomb, it’s done, over. But as we know, they want to live there. So yeah, they could enter by force, such as blowing off the air-locks, then enter in suits, with weapons. Pretty much the only way it could be done.”
“But our people inside the base could put air-suits on, too, prior to the attack, and fight on equal terms, if they enter,” offered Branson Porter, the Mars-Mission security chief. “Right?”

“Well, it has to be part of any defense plan, yes,” said Berle. “That aspect.”

“Agreed,” said General Fortuna. “Secretary, please make a note. Okay, fine then. Plan ahead for an attack, and create external oxygen-sustainable fox-hole positions to fight from. Good idea. And if the Russians try to make entry, our men inside get into their suits first. Fine. I want us to look at the Mars defense from three main fronts, people. One is the ground-level, such as we’re discussing now. The other is Mars-orbit and re-entry. The other is the planetary-corridor. And then I guess also the plans for an Earth-side defense, but that is much more a matter of diplomacy.”
There was a pause again.

“More on the ground-level, on surface-level Mars,” said Berle. “I thought about this, too. What if they make their takeover attempt into a long-term deal? I mean, instead of taking Snikta in a day, or a few days, or a few hours---what if they plan to take the Mars-base in the course of several months? Or a year? What if they’re equipped to survive on the surface, maybe in temporary life-sustaining units, like oxygen-igloos? And then shuttle back up to their ships to re-supply, or for materials? They’d use surface launch rockets, or like personnel pod-boosters, like the early Apollo moon-missions. Blast off from surface-to-orbit.”

“That’s certainly possible,” said Mehudi. “That’s what our people did when we built the Mars base 15 years ago. We had to. There was nothing on Mars. So we survived in temporary units, while they worked on building the facility. And just like you said, we had ships in orbit, and the men would go back up to re-supply, or rest, and so on.”

“So you’re thinking they could draw it out, like a stand-off, making demands, or taking hostages, or making assaults, is that it?” the General asked.
“Well, yeah, it’s one scenario,” answered Berle. “As far as what might happen on Mars. It’s more efficient. A direct assault, a big, violent frontal conflict that would only last a few hours, or a day or so, would be very destructive to both sides. You have to remember how delicate the space-suits are. If they take their time, or if they can figure out a way to go slower, and survive---taking control of Snikta wouldn’t be that hard. They’d surround the base itself, set up their men and weapons. One side or the other would eventually prevail.”

“Remember the Alamo,” joked Envitra, the Tech-Specialist. “Uh, I mean---not the old car-rental company.”

Short laughter from the others.

“Are they still in business?” said Porter (a Texan). “Alamo is a nice town, if you never been there.”
“Still in business. Just hydrogen fuel-cell cars, now, that’s all,” she said, still the joker.

“Let’s take a break,” said General Fortuna. “Please, the meeting secretary will keep track of ideas and concepts to later review. Take an hour for lunch, folks. The base cafeteria has sea-food today, I think. It’s across the Flag-Plaza---that way.” He points with a pink bony finger as the group starts to break up, rising from their chairs and seats, folding their laptops, or stowing notebooks.

The same sorts of meetings would continue for months. The Mars-Base Defense Planning Team needed to present the entire space-program hierarchy with a working plan---and one that would ‘win’ the cause. And they had to do it in short order. Needed was a way to defend the Mars base, even though the people on the Mars base now, were not soldiers, and had few if any weapons. Of course, the US would send her own space-soldiers, in ships, in equal or greater number than the Russian-Islamic space-soldiers. And of course, if there were to be any planetary flight-corridor space-ship ‘dog-fights’, or ship-to-ship battles, in an attempt to stop the enemy ships while still on their way---those would be planned for as well. But few if any of the space-ships used for these purposes were intended for shooting at things, or firing missiles, bombs, or lazer-beams. They weren’t fighter-craft. They were research vessels. The Mars-orbit and re-entry ‘battle lines’ were also drawn. They also had to defend the Molinari space-dock. Like any military campaign, they planned for the worst-case.

Somewhere out in the abyss of space, moving towards planet Earth, a rock the size of Texas---perhaps in the shape of every modern, college-educated person’s worst nightmare---tumbled through the emptiness, like a granite Buddha, silent, eternal, and dead on course. Like a rolling stone. An Ozymandias of space, from Percy Shelley’s poem.

“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!!”


---Julian Phillips
Nov. 24, 2009
For Tom Luong Films
2232-words

OUTPOST--Chapter SEVEN---HERE NOW AND ELSEWHERE!

CHAPTER SEVEN
OUTPOST
Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films
Nov. 6, 2009

“And when he had opened the Seventh-Seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.”
---Saint John’s Divine Revelation, 8:1
“They used to call it Heaven, the skies and stars and planets, the infinite. I call it a pain-in-the-ass.”
---Guy Reisling, Mars-base space transport pilot, 2075

Lila Meetek felt herself something of a Galaxy Baby, one to whom working in space, near-Earth (but not near enough), was more-or-less a normal career, or a normal environment, something her generation took as granted, though of course dangerous. Guy, on the other hand, had simplified the term, and thought her in every way, a ‘Galaxy Babe’. And true, she was. She was just 40 years-old, athletic and slim, real hard-body material. All the space-workers were in top-condition as an absolute conditional aspect of the rigorous work involved. It was by no means easy. Lila was among the best, although her job was somewhat sedentary, at least once she arrived at the Molinari Space-Dock, via a transport-ship much like Guy’s. Her official job-title was ‘Deep-Space Traffic Corridor Environment Monitor’, which meant that she sat at computer-tracking, and satellite-analysis data feeds, with various inputs back on Earth, and on Mars, and in-between, looking for trouble. There were more than ten people at Molinari who performed this function, without respect to gender. But it also meant that Lila was spared some of the more difficult tasks of space-travel, like space-walks, or re-entry, or suspended-animation sleep-periods, or planet-level oxygen-suit journeys and excursions. And this suited her just fine.

There was much to know about the work at the Molinari Space-Dock. Lila had been there almost five years, making her a true program veteran. It made a lot of sense for extra-planetary exploration Earth-sciences, as far as the establishment of the space-dock. Despite the public view seen in film and TV, any planetary travel was laborious, and very slow. Depending on the relative position of the two worlds, it could take as long as a year for a ship to travel from Earth to Mars. So, one of the first choices the planners made, was to create a mid-point rest-stop, even before the first ships arrived on Mars, and began to build the base, now 15 years in-the-making. The same system would be used for Jupiter-missions (or, to the moons of Jupiter), almost like a ladder of platforms, or series of extended positions for the sustainability of life, always in danger in deep-space. With Molinari in place, ships headed to Mars had the edge, for the unexpected. Pilots could dock, re-fuel, rest, board-and-offload, get information or corridor-conditions updates, and more. For emergency situations, it was a lifeboat. And this made Lila a very popular woman indeed with all the space-crews.

“God---there we are! I’m home!” Lila exclaimed. She was gazing out one of the view-ports on a people-mover transport, that was about ready for re-entry into Earth orbit, and then her shuttle down to Terra-Firma. The Big Blue Marble, Earth, was like the Divine Mother---green with promise, fresh air, beaches and oceans, cities, people walking upright with regular gravity, trees and birds and animals---kids. The view-port windows were few on the transports, and much coveted for star-gazing and dreaming. Lila was on leave from her regular work-shift at Molinari, and looking forward to seeing Guy again. But from where she now was, just entering orbit, he may as well have been an ant. Yet there was a connection between their two hearts, beating passion.

The transport ship seemed to glide above the planet like a sleek stone, or elegant knife, looking to be slow, but in reality moving quite fast, even thousands of miles-per-hour (which of course was not how the ship’s speed was calculated). These ships were about 1,000-feet long or longer, perhaps the size of an old-fashioned deep-ocean cargo-ship, circa late 20th-century, like the Exxon Valdeze, or a big oil-tanker, in space. But not so in appearance at all.

Mars-Labor Unions and also space program management, only permitted Molinari workers to spend six-months on duty at a time, for obvious reasons. Exhaustion, fatigue, and so on, took their toll, and efficiency suffered, which could cause mistakes. Six months on, six-months off was the rule, which was sometimes skirted just a bit, given the rarity of needed skilled labor. Prior to departure from Molinari, Lila had been in touch with Guy, via space-phone, a sort of video-audio-link, which could be set-up for one-on-one communications at certain kiosks.

“Geez, you look like crap, Lila,” Guy said. “What the heck are they feeding you? I mean that in a good way, of course. You’re beautiful to me, I mean.”
Guy was at the Vandenberg base, where the same type of comm-link was available. No one had them in private at all. It was then months before, with Lila at a similar station on Molinari, floating somewhere in space.

“Kiss my grits, Guy,” Lila responded. “I look great and you know it.”

“All I see is this vid-screen in front of my eyes like a piece of plastic and glass and you on the other end of it, and you got your hair all messed up and your eyes look droopy. You all right?”

Lila brushed back her longish, thin hair, currently colored red-and-green. She sneered. Guy had a way with her, and he knew it. “Yes, Guy,” she spit back at him. The radio-waves traveled through space with a certain spin at that point. “I’m fine. I even had sex with two of the environmental men last week, just to piss you off, and it was great!”

“Two of them? Grow up, Lila,” Guy responded. It was daylight at Vandenberg, but Molinari seemed always somewhat in darkness, even inside, where electric lights were always running. “You did not. That’s a code-violation and you know it”

“We call it the Three-million Mile High Club,” she said, and laughed. They both smiled and paused. There was something they shared, maybe knowing who they were, that was endearing to all their friends. Space-opera romance. Star-crossed lovers.

So, they shared the details of her voyage. Even though routine, it was still dangerous, as it always was. Her arrival time-and-date, shuttle-to-Earth landing, then her de-bugging and de-briefing, and finally her freedom. By the time the comm-link went dead, and their conversation ended, it was once again confirmed to them both, that ‘love’ could somehow survive, even in space.

Lila’s transport performed flawlessly back into orbit, months later, and the shuttle back to planet-side was also seamless. Her de-briefing and medical review, and so on, took three days. Within another two days, she was staying at Guy’s place North of Santa Barbara, back in his arms and in deep embrace within hours. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but there is truly no distance between hearts-of-fire in love, Guy thought. Even a million miles.

A day and a night of love-making, food and drink, walks, hot-showers, current film releases, restaurants, gazing into each other eyes, sharing those moments that the written word cannot intrude. The clouds above the cliffs of Santa Barbara blushed red with embarrassment. You know, sex-like-athletes. The Right Stuff. Made it all worthwhile. Some things never change.

Rumors had of course reached both Molinari, and the base on Mars, regarding the Mission Program Spring Update Conference, and the ‘news’ about the Russians, and the approaching meteor. Lila also wanted to know all about Guy’s re-commission to certified-pilot status, and what had gone wrong on his last flight back to Earth. They had a lot to talk about, there again in his backyard, where he seemed much-at-ease. Lila was making grilled burgers. The smoke winnowed into the air like souls.
“Local organic beef only,” Lila said. “Less than a week off-the-hoof. Thick patties, but larger-around, flops over the buns.”
“I like that,” Guy said. “Flops over the buns. Got it. Let’s try that later.”
She smiled. Right. What a lover-boy. “You season prior to grilling, and I only use a special steak-blend from a steak-house I just adore up the coast. I have no idea what’s in it. Pepper-and-onion, cloves, garlic-salt, chilli-powder, like that. So you season both sides. As you grill, the fire is not too hot, you go slow.”
“Go slow,” Guy mocked her. “Right. Not---uh—premature?”
“You’re funny,” Lila said. “I know about you and the gal from the base, Guy. Don’t pretend.”
“Which one?”

She huffed. “Anyway. So you grill until cooked well inside, all the way. Then on the bread, you use the sour-dough from San Francisco, the big ones, but sliced thin. I always want fresh-raw red onions, fresh iceberg lettuce, and decent sliced tomatoes. Pickles if you like, and mustard, or ketchup. Only organic. But you can make it up any way you like. I’m easy.”
“Damn fine burger, girl,” Guy said.
If a meteor was approaching Earth and the world’s second or third remaining so-called Super-Power space program was planning to forcefully take over and control the Mars-base where they both were involved as workers, you wouldn’t have known it. Their talk turned to those topics. Guy had been to the conference, but Lila knew most of the details, too. It was more a matter of opinions that would enable them to go on, or, how they would view such things, as worker-bees, the scuttle-butt, that seemed intense. The science was boring as hell. The real-life work and people---that was different.
“Maybe the meteor will be deflected, or maybe not do as much damage as they thought, if it hits,” Lila mused. “I can’t quite grasp it. It’s like going to work, and you come home later, and your whole town is gone. Or your whole state.”
“Every returning is a new beginning,” Guy said. They had finished their meal, with beer, and also ice-cream. It was for all purposes just another pleasant California day, or afternoon.
“What do you really think about it, Guy?”
“Uh---oh---end-of-the-world, I guess. You know. No more planet Earth. Or, a ruined Earth, like a dead-world, Ice-Age, thousand-year frozen dust-cloud, billions dead, ocean tidal waves washing away cities like children’s toys, people floating away like ants. Or, vast regions of impact-zone, ground-zero, like a thousand nuclear bombs. Not good.”
They paused in somber silence. Birds flew past, twittering.
“I hate when that happens,” Lila said. A meek chuckle escaped between them.
“What can we do?” Guy offered. “We’re not in command. We just play our parts. They’ll find a way to deflect it, I bet. It can be done. The meteor is still five years off. What are they calling it now? Big Bertha, or something?”
“I heard other names for it,” Lila said softly. “Bad names. People are likely to panic.”
“Not my problem,” Guy responded. “I don’t care what they call it.”
“It will be your problem if there’s no place to come home to, five years out when you’re on your run, if you still are. What do you think about the Russian Islamic space program take-over on Mars? Is it real?”
Guy’s mouth was stuffed with a big bite from his hamburger. “Mmmmppp---mmmm---just a sec,” he said, chewing and swallowing. Earth food was way-better than the stuff they ate in space, for sure.
Lila reached tenderly towards him and wiped away a bit of ketchup from his bottom lip.
“Thanks,” he said. “Well, look, I just don’t know. About that. The Russian-Islamic space-program thing. They said it was real, but you just don’t have any real way of knowing. They had documents and files and so-called evidence of a plan to attack. But so what? They always do. It could happen. Sure it could. It makes a certain kind of sense. They want their people to survive, and the Mars-base looks good. People like you and me will never know until something starts to happen, and we’re needed to respond. All we can do until then is prepare. And don’t worry, we’ll be preparing, it’s already in motion, as far as what will be needed. But I transport goods, and you monitor the planet-corridor for heat-flares and comets. You won’t have a gun in your hand, or be killing any Russians. Neither will I. And I don’t want to. Some of my friends are Russian. They’re good people.”
“What about a ground war, here on Earth? Like a regular Earth-war?” Lila now was in political science-mode. Not very sexy.
“What about it?” Guy said. “If everyone panics, it’s certainly possible. The base on Mars means survival, even if only a few hundred people. Who the heck knows? Regular war was outlawed by the Planet Authority-Federation, 30 years ago or more. Big deal. They break the rules when things look bad, they always have. If they want the Mars-base, and try to take it by force, even if the meteor is deflected, the US side will almost certainly respond at the Earth-level, or international. It can’t be helped. More war, more death, more killing. I don’t even care. It’s bull-shit.”
They paused again in their meal, relaxing a moment with the same heavy thoughts.
“I always saw the whole thing, my work, and the program, as just science-and-research,” Lila said soberly.
Guy burped. “I saw it as an opportunity to have sex with you in a weightless-environment, personally,” he joked.
“A multi-national, multi-trillions-of-dollars program based on thousands of years of advanced space science-and-evolution, so you personally could orgasm in a weightless environment. Great. You really are a philosopher, Guy. You really are.”
He laughed. “Lighten up, Galaxy Baby,” he said.

---Julian Phillips
Nov. 6, 2009
For Tom Luong Films
2, 290-words

Chapter-SIX--OUTPOST!

CHAPTER SIX
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong /Tom Luong Films
Oct. 23, 2009

“ A philosopher said, Once a body in motion, it tends to stay in motion. Once a body at rest, it tends to remain at rest. What the kid meant was, use it or lose it! “
--Comedian and burlesque performer George Burns (‘Living It Up, or, They Still Love Me in Altoona’, Berkeley Publishing, 1976) That weekend at Vandenberg would change the US-Mars Space program forever. No one was to blame if the cosmos had finally pooted out a huge meteor from the Eternal Abyss that was likely to strike the Planet Earth, or even with inevitable certainty, would strike the Earth, with no real recourse to avoid disaster. An act of God? This was not the way they liked to think about anything much at all in the space-program, given the science-based nature of the work, the extreme dangers of space-travel, and a tendency for the deeply religious to have certain emotional problems associated with the work involved, in particular actual space-travel.
The rule they used was often spoken as, ‘The Universe is actively hostile to intelligent life. Deal with it.” This didn’t mean the space-planners were heartless men devoid of any true feelings. In fact, as far back as the old Apollo program, when men first walked on the moon, there was a ‘space-man’s prayer’ that was entered into the communication-record on flights, or prior to the many challenging launches and recoveries, such as the nearly-doomed Apollo-13 flight, in 1969, when the whole world watched a group of men very nearly die, struggling with a wounded ship and low-oxygen, to somehow navigate a safe return to Terra-Firma, from a voyage to the moon.
“Give us the knowledge, that we may pray with understanding hearts, to set forth the coming of the day of Universal peace. Amen,” was the space-man’s prayer in those days. And it hadn’t changed much in 100 years since the Apollo program, and many felt it was a transit of souls, into Infinity, that was being answered every day, and not just for astronauts, but for all men. Or maybe the troubling specter of the heat-death of the Universe itself, called ‘entropy’, figured at many billion years into future-time. In contrast to all the high-tech science and lab-coat feelings, or space-suit stuff, this prayer once would resonate on the radio-link that reached the men headed to the moon, or while on the moon, or prior to launch. Maybe it was because every single one of the astronauts were risking their lives from the moment of lift-off---yet something mysterious in their hearts drove them onward with the greatest courage. Others merely tolerated this sort, and it was a bit of a tradition, in any case.
Guy Reisling finally heard about his denouncement and loss-of-privileges as a pilot, about two weeks following the Spring US-Mars Program Update Conference. Enjoying some time off at home, a Certified Transmission arrived via Internet-computer, still in use for private citizen communication, and in 2075, now far more secure for major life-path business transactions, legal, government, banking, political-votes, and many other, it’s promise having finally risen beyond the early abuses, porn, terrorism, fraud, crime, etc. By 2075, the Internet was a solid rock of modern lifestyles, as dependable as legal-paper and business-title, standard paper-mail or government-taxation, and even money-types. So, a Certified Transmission meant it was something important, and of course Guy knew right away what it was.
It was just within the twilight hours, there where Guy had his home, North of Santa Barbara, close enough to the Space-Port to keep him busy. His next-door neighbor, an 85 year-old Chinese woman, thin and tough and brown as a small tree, who enjoyed being outdoors with half an acre of organic asparagus, was working with a wheel-barrow to move a load of fertilizer into a compost area, just a few yards from the side of Guy’s house, by a large window. The evening dusk-light touched the area between the two homes with shadows.
“Hoooooooooo-Yah! Wooo! Got it!!”, she could then hear from within Guy’s home. “I’m back! Wooo!”
The old woman paused, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she worked, casting a hard look toward Guy’s home. “Stupid space-boy,” she said to herself, again hoisting the wheel-barrow, huffing.
Guy was elated, inside his home, that he had been re-instated. The Certified Transmission was from Okman’s office, and the Flight-Protocol Review Board. The Board now held that Guy had made errors on his last flight, but they were willing to mitigate their decision because he had been able to correct himself, and return with his crew safely to Earth, despite the difficulty. So, he was re-instated, and this was in the best-interests of the program, given Guy’s experience, training and loyalty. This meant that he was once again fit-for-duty, and he and his crew would be back into service with the next probable passage date for a transport. To have lost his standing and pilot-qualifications, would have been a disaster, and a disgrace.
Following the Conference, there was a great deal of ‘scuttlebutt’ about the findings, especially among those who would be involved in what came next. Guy and Rob, his Co-Pilot, got together later at the base to talk things over and also look at flight-logs.
“I guess we’ll be running weapons-cargo or bombs over to the Martian Snikta-base for the next couple of runs,” Guy said to his Second, Rob Cowan. Rob was an un-extraordinary type, a hard worker, well-trained, mature and responsible. If Guy failed as Captain of the Penelope, Rob would take over, and for many tasks during the voyages they made, there were shared duties of all kinds. Rob was thin and tall, sometimes a bit pale, or seeming less-than-perfectly-healthy. But he was quite strong, and always ready at his work, which was a matter of personal pride to him, like them all.
“They shouldn’t turn the Mars-base into a military facility, just because of the meteor,” Rob answered him. “It’s for research. If the Russians take control, it won’t help if they’re heavily armed. The staff at Snikta-base is not military. They’d hardly know how to launch a bomb or missile. All they do is soil tests and mapping.”
“Maybe they’ll have to learn” Guy answered. “Maybe we will, too.”
“I’m not a soldier. All we do is haul the mail. Food, water, goods. If they send our crew on the Penelope up, and we have some kind of battle, I can only assume the Russians would be far better prepared. After all, they planned it that way. But we didn’t,” Rob added.
“Well, unless that changes,” Guy replied.
Karen Tutturo, the Communications-Specialist assigned to travel to Mars, was now only two days away from her departure. The news from the Conference gave her chills. Not only did she now need to deal with space-travel, and all her fears and the hardship involved, in addition to repairs to the Mars-base communications-gear---now she also had to worry about some vague kind of Russian-Islamic intrigue, or even an attack. And even, eventually, to consider whether or not the Earth would survive a meteor hit, and her world and all she ever knew, would vanish.
Two days prior to a people-shuttle flight departing for Mars, Karen’s life was all about preparation. There were medical exams, gear and life-support suits (which she had to learn to operate properly), and also her personal items, the plans and schematics she needed to work on the Mars-base radio-link for repairs. She would report to the base Launch-Control early in the middle of the week, to be ready for the flight: a flight-suit, waste or body-fluids elimination ‘diapers’ to be fitted (for launch-and-orbit sequence only), and then to get familiar with the ship, ship’s crew, her berth, and also terms and conditions of the actual passage.
“Why don’t they just give me a pill and knock me unconscious, and pack me into a bed or something, for the whole flight?” Karen said to her best friend, a biology-student, currently studying at Bakersfield State University.
“You’re too much fun for the pilots and crew to chat up or flirt with,” her friend said. “No good if you’re unconscious.”
“Not necessarily,” Karen replied. “Not with this bunch.”
They chuckled as only girlfriends can. “You can do it, Karen,” her student-friend said. They hugged. “You’re Number One.”
“Well, you know. Save the world.”
Another meeting, behind closed doors at the Vandenberg base, included Lynn Rodgers-Smith, Dr. Mehudi, the program specialist for sciences, and Winton Berle, the overall Fleet Commander. The Vandenberg Space-Port, now some 100 years-old itself, and having a new life since the year 2006, when funds were set in motion to create a high-end West-Coast US space-port, mostly for launches, but also some recovery or vehicle re-entry, and there were many other space-related functions, such as tracking, plotting flight-paths, prepping the astronauts, etc. By 2075, it was one of the world’s major facilities, at that time only among about 40 or 50 such ‘ports’ on the Planet Earth, many of them far inferior to Vandenberg. The three ‘Mars-Bars’, as the lower-level type workers called them, gathered in secret, or at least with significant privacy, in a pleasant ante-room, at the back of a long hallway of cubicle-offices, where in the past, US Presidents and Dignitaries interested in the space program, would stop by for drinks, or to smoke their cigars, or to get away from the media, or hide-out a troubling blonde-bombshell affair or two. The room looked rather like an Old West bar-room.
Lynn, ever the Texan at heart, had a coffee-and-brandy, and was walking back-and-forth at one end of a longish-green pool table with claw-feet. Dr. Mehudi had a plate with a pastry set on the green felt. No one was playing pool, but ‘Kick’, the only one of the three of them to have actually traveled to Mars, was working with a length of rope, tying knots he learned in the Maritime Academy, something he did when nervous for relaxation. His command-equals called him Winton.
“I’m sorry to point this out, Lynn. Maybe Dr. Mehudi can understand my point. It may not be clear, if you’ve never actually been to Mars, or the Mars-base, as I have,” Winton said, seated by the pool-table, in a recliner, his back straight. “I mean, you both have a lot of knowledge, of course. But on the ground-level, on Mars, conditions are way different. If there is any attack, of a military sort, conducting a defense, would be an opportunity for things to go from bad-to-worse very quickly. There’s really no air that anyone could breath without a suit, okay? So, beyond the walls of the base-facility, to stop the Russians---even a handful of men---it wouldn’t even make much sense from a military point-of-view. The air-suits, or Mars-gear for movement on the surface, are not intended for any kind of conflict. They’re fragile, really. Even a small tear in the fabric of the suit, which is an aluminum-mesh cloth-wire type---the slightest air-oxygen breach in the suit---your soldier dies for lack of air. Not from a gunshot wound. So a bunch of guys out there fighting---ha! They even fall down by accident, or a hard shove, or the other grabs him by the arm the wrong way---it’s over. So it makes no sense. It’s like sending a guy---a guy---a guy in a fire-proof suit, to a swim meet competition, at the Olympics. It’s not going to work that way---trust me.”
“What about the Russians? Is there any way to fight them outside the facility itself, or stop them---just, hold them off? How will they reach the surface anyway? Aren’t there suits like ours?” Lynn asked.
Winton now had successfully done a square-knots three or four times, while talking. “Their ships will have to enter orbit. Then they descend to surface-level in re-entry, you know the drill. Could be pods, parachutes, gliders, something new. All the Earth-technology for suits is basically the same, but we have a lot more experience on Mars and have made some advances. But, you never really know what they might come up with. If we stop them on the way, or while in orbit---much better. Outside the entry airlocks on Mars, into the base---without a suit---you’re dead. It’s like the Mojave desert in the summertime---only double--or the dead-winter of Iceland---minus-ten---but still in the Mojave desert---but with no air---and a certain amount of ambient radiation. And no way home, except back into the base, through the airlock. Or a shuttle-launch up into orbit onto a ship.”
A pause. Dr. Mehudi nibbled his pastry. “Those are nice knots you’re making,” he said to Winton.
Winton laughed again. “I do a good hangman’s noose, too,” he said. They all grinned slyly, understanding.

---Julian Phillips
Oct. 28, 2009
2,169-words

OUTPOST--Chapter FIVE has arrived!!!

OUTPOST-Chapter Five
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong/Tom Luong Films
Oct, 20, 2009

“Mars is the subject of much speculation as to whether or not it is inhabited, because it’s behavior is similar to that of the Earth. Mars is 141-million, 500-thousand miles from the Sun, and has a diameter of 4, 230 miles. The diameter of the Earth is 7,918 miles, so gravity on Mars is somewhat less.”
--The Story of the Globe, Replogle Globes, Chicago, Illinois, 1933 (‘Replogle Globes Are Better Globes’)

It was true what Cargo-Transport Commander Okman had said about disgraced pilot Guy Reisling’s relationship with the woman who worked at the Molinari Deep-Space Dock. Her name was Lila Meetek. The Molinari Space-Dock was created years in advance of the Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin Mars Outpost. Molinari was placed in permanent deep-space orbit as a mid-point rest-stop for ships making regular voyages back-and-forth to Mars. It was like a small city in space, floating in orbit, in the vast gap between the two planets, a rather lonely form, shaped like a buoy one would find bobbing in the waters of an ocean-harbor back on some sunny beach or rocky coastline on Earth. Molinari was the size of a very large sky-scraper building in New York, or even a small airport. And of course it was sustained and operated just like any space-ship or space-vessel, with life-support and breathable air and food, a large array of high-tech computer and communication stuff, and thruster-powered maneuverability. But it did not fly or travel, and remained at a constant distance from the Earth, in orbit forever, or until it died, or decayed, or was somehow destroyed, perhaps in 1,000-years or so.

Which was about how long Guy supposed he would stay in love with Lila. Who would not delight in a beautiful space-girl, the portrait of ideal health and vigor, as well as sexy intelligence, and a certain knack for grilling outstanding hamburgers? She was about age 38 years-old, and it was Lila’s job at Molinari to monitor and track activity in the abyss corridor on the Mars-Earth flight path. Lila had either blonde, henna-reddish, blue-green, or brown-gray hair, long and feathery. Thin, athletic, and privately slutty, with an outstanding set of boobs and other body-parts that Guy often dreamed of, 1,000 years of her wouldn’t have been enough for Guy.

“Molinari! Ha! Your girlfriend!” Okman had said when Guy was decommissioned from his ship’s command. “The data on the solar heat-flares was no better than your hot sex-chat and perverted pic-trading with Lila on official communications-links! No wonder you screwed up!”

So, as the US Mars Command Mission Up-Date Conference for Spring, 2075 at California’s Vandenberg Space-Port, continued into its third hour, Guy had to speculate about what would be going on at Molinari, where Lila was currently stationed, and how the news about Asteroid U2357b would affect her, and the others. The Mars-base was not the only off-world sustainable human habitat. At least one other was Molinari. But it hardly seemed to matter, with the Asteroid’s near approach to planet Earth still six years away. Unless there was now to be some sort of international conflict for control of these same off-world resources. Which was the topic of the last part of the conference-meeting, with Dr. Willy Atta-Bowman, Ph.D., as the Explainer-in-Chief, that chilly gray California day. Guy envisioned his beloved Lila taken prisoner by Russian or Chinese space-forces of a more military sort. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, he thought to himself.

The conference meeting had melted like grilled cheese on a beef-patty into a long sequence of science-proofs for the claims about the asteroid. Photos, plotted orbits and intersecting paths, distance, speed-and-acceleration, trajectory, mass-density, impact results, timeline, and anticipated response or planned attempts to divert the meteor, were all quickly reviewed. The Mars program staff and various worker-bees were used to this kind of sharing. Dry and boring, technical and mathematic, all science and facts-and-figures---and yet at the same time, critically important for the lives and well-being of millions. There were many yawns and aching backs as the experts went on-and-on.

“Let me introduce now our Mars program Security Specialist, Captain Branson Porter,” Bowman told the audience, as the topic now shifted. Porter, the tough-looking Texan in charge of Program Security, came forward like an altar-call at a Baptist revival, and took the speaker’s podium. There was a pause, as everyone waited for his report. Many people in the program felt Porter was too harsh and military for what was essentially a long-term scientific research mission. But it was inevitable that the space-program would have its hawks. Porter even had a large, ugly-looking blue-black steel high-caliber handgun strapped to his belt in plain view of everyone, there at the front of the large conference room. There was no mistaking his job-description and grim intention to defend the program and its people and components---something many felt should never be necessary at all.

“Hi everyone,” Porter started. He coughed and cleared his throat. His voice was deep and sandy, like grit. “As you know, I’m Captain Porter, Security and Military Police Commander for the Mars Program. Right now I’m going to share with you about what we feel we know concerning the Mars-base, and why the news on the asteroid could cause us problems with our international Earth neighbors.”

Now the image projector operator programmed a series of photos showing the actual Mars base, to roll past on the large screens behind Porter. Everyone could see the base, much like a small city, with many buildings, structures, gates, towers, holding tanks, ports, etc., set against the stark, dusty Martian landscape. Sort of like a family memory-album for the program, and they had all seen the same images many times before.


“Okay,” Porter said. “Well, we may be military-police, in my department, and we may be environmental-scientists, too, but we’re not stupid, and neither are whatever enemies we really have, right here on earth. What I’m telling you now is classified, so try not to head out and do interviews with your local TV news-shows. The info we have here is from good old-fashioned spies and informants. That’s right, the FBI never really died, it just rotted to a new shade of green. And obviously, it’s the type of thing where you just don’t know, and it’s also incendiary, and by that I mean, a cause for conflict, battle, war, call it whatever you want. Hostile, or war-like. Which is not for me to decide.”

“Get on with it, Branson!” someone shouted from the assembly, probably one of the pilots, known for their antics. Others in the audience laughed. Branson stiffed, a little embarrassed, not used to public speeches.

“Right. You’re grounded for that one, pilot,” Branson said. More weak laughter. “Well, the report is simple enough. Bottom line---intelligence feels that an alliance of Mid-East Islamic and Russian-Ukranian Space-Program forces are planning to take control of the Mars-base, sometime prior to the arrival of the asteroid, as a way to assure their survival and control of future programs, if any. The logic isn’t hard to understand. If the meteor wipes us out, whoever controls the Mars base would survive, even though in small numbers. The same is true for Molinari, and the ships, and various systems.”

A long pause. Many in the crowd had not heard of this. “So, you might be asking yourself how we know this, or exactly what the Russians have planned, or how they feel they can get away with it, right?” Branson continued. “The intelligence community never really changes. No one knows anything. But we have various convincing indicators. The Eastern space-programs are just as advanced as ours here in the US, and in some ways more-so. They have ships like ours, launch-and re-entry programs, highly trained crews and pilots, tracking and satellite control. But, Russia, and the Islamic space-programs, and also space-flight out of India, have had too many internal conflicts, wars, and financial shortfalls, to really compete. The US-Mars program was initiated as a global partnership, at one time, maybe 30 years ago. But that fell apart. There were agreements and treaties, however. The US went ahead, while the others fell away.”

Now Branson paused again, clearing his throat. He took a sip of hot coffee he had with him at the speaker’s podium, and idly rested his hand on the blue-steel handgun on his belt, as if not even thinking about it.

“In reality, the Russians and the others, are putting out signals. That’s how the game is played. There have been recent high-level meetings in Khazikistan, in the Ukraine region, where Russian space-ports are based, as well as their nuclear bombs and rockets. Russian space-scientists have gathered information on our Mars-base systems, flight-paths and orbits, our ships and really our entire program. None of this is actually secret, but much of the Mars-base technology is highly classified. Even more convincing----the smoking gun, if you will---was the recent acquisition of a secret document-file, stolen from Russian think-tank planners, in exchange for $50-million in gold held somewhere in the Netherlands by a private individual. Hey, it’s spy-stuff, what can I say? This file, or document, however, represents a 200-page detailed proposal and specific plan, for Russian space-forces to attack and take control of the Mars-base, and Molinari as well. It’s all there. This is only a proposal, only a paper, or electronic file. But they put a lot of work into it. It’s all there. I’ve personally reviewed it, and made notes. Russian ships and crews would make the run to Mars, take control of the base by force, take hostages or kill anyone who resists them, and then squat out whatever else happens, at the Snikta-Ridge US Mars base. And of course in typical Russian style, any explanation or apology to the world community would come later, if ever.”

Atta-Bowman tapped the microphone at his seat at the long panel-discussion table. “Captain Branson, if I may?” he said.

“Sure, Doctor Bowman.”

“How do we know this supposed attack-plan to take over the Mars-base is real, or authentic to the Russian space-command? Could it be a fake, or planted by someone else, or other enemies of theirs?”

Branson took a breath. “It’s intelligence-community stuff, Doctor. So, it’s true, we really can’t know. From reviews and expert analysis, however, the file I looked at was very well-researched and very well-planned. It included details on the Russian space-fleet and resources that would be hard to obtain outside their own staffers. The source of the document was connected directly to high-level insiders on the Russian side, so that’s also a point. The science was also very accurate, something a novice or terrorist group probably couldn’t master in a short time. The report was also attributed to known Russian or Islamic scientists and Ph.D. astro-physicists. Real people, we know their names. Additionally, other reports show Russian hardware, real equipment and gear, or actual ships, taking baby-steps towards this type of effort, like minor-level preparation. I agree, it’s a sort of Cuban Missile Crisis deal, or a WMD-type report. Maybe no need to panic, that’s for sure. So, to answer your question---how do we know their plans are real? Well, we don’t. We don’t know for sure, and we may never know for sure, until they go ahead, if they ever do.”

“What about their timeline?” Bowman said. “From the plan you looked at, when would they be thinking of doing this?”

“The possible meteor-hit is at least six years out. They want control of the Mars-base well in advance. The stolen attack-plans were not specific. But any time in the next three years, or even one year, the entire might of the Russian-Islamic Space Program alliance could potentially launch a group of ships armed with various weapons and ground-level soldiers with oxygen suits and weapons, to take control of Snikta,” Branson said.

“Would they just kill everyone? Could they actually destroy the base, maybe by accident during a battle? What would happen here on Earth? Would they try to excuse their actions at the United Nations, for instance? Or would they go to war with the West? Anything there?”

“It’s all speculation. Anything could happen. As sneaky as the East can be, they might simply stonewall, and claim they have rights to the base, as participants 20 years ago, or as educational research. They could stall, drag it out. Or hold hostages. After all, if the meteor is headed our way, all they really care about is the survival of chosen leaders and persons on Mars---when we’re all the rest of mankind dead and gone back here, or living in caves under a black cloud of ice-cold meteor dust, eating bugs for dinner.”

A long stillness hovered in the air throughout the conference-hall. Now even the courageous pilots and space-jockeys were nervous. It all seemed unreal.

“All right,” Bowman responded to Branson’s remarks, into his microphone. “What about our plans for a defense, or to protect the base on Mars, or to fight back an attack?”

“That’s another hour’s worth, Doctor Bowman,” Branson said. “For ten years, my department has only had to deal with protesters at the gates here at Vandenberg, drunk cafeteria workers, stolen toolboxes, and night-watch duties to protect expensive high-tech items stored outdoors. I’m not necessarily prepared to figure out a five year space-war. However, if you give me another 15-minute break here so I can take a piss, I’ll be glad to tell you all about it.”

Weak laughter again from the audience. “Space-men piss in their flight-suits into catheter tubes, Branson. Everyone knows that,” Bowman joked, More laughter. Now Bowman stood up and stretched. “Let’s break again for 15-minute folks. This is all too much. Rest-easy, back in 15.”

Now the room full of Mars-workers began to break up again, as the audience stood, or separated into groups, or grabbed coffee-and-snacks. Everyone seemed relieved for a moment. They had a lot to talk about.

---Julian Philips
OUTPOST/Tom Luong Films
Oct. 20, 2009
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