A Butterscotch Sky Ch. 01

(Revised 11/30/22)

I'm stepping farther outside our typical fair with this submission, and there may come additional stories in the same vein later, depending on reception.

Devo isn't much of a fan of Sci-Fi, so I'm flying almost completely solo on this one.

There's no tentacle, alien, or robot relationships. This is straight-up fact-based science fiction with a romance undertone.

Keep an eye on our author's biography page for updates, suggested reading orders, etc. It can be updated instantly, whereas revisions to stories can take weeks. Follow us if you want to be notified in your dashboard when we update it.

A note: We usually don't worry about how readers imagine the pronunciation of our characters' names, but there's one in here which I feel compelled to offer the correct form: Dione's name is pronounced "dee-OWN." not "die-OWN-ee" or "DEE-ahn" as the interwebs suggest.

Finally, a  "Thank You" to rawallace and Bebop3 for passing me opinions and suggestions in beta reads of a few sections. I appreciate their time!

We hope you enjoy:

A Butterscotch Sky

In the fields of physics, astronomy, and other natural sciences, a second is defined as the time it takes cesium-133 atoms to make 9,192,631,770 transitions to and from a particular state. Atomic clocks count those ticks to give humans the ability to measure time with extreme precision.

An Earth day, as clocks and calendars consider one, is exactly 86,400 of those seconds, no more, no less, but there's non-zero numbers a few places to the right of the decimal point in the astronomical seconds.

The alignment of a physical second to an astronomical one is so nearly perfect that leap seconds are only needed every year and a half or so to account for the slight variances in the length of a day.

The duration of an Earth year is 365 days.

But, no, it's not. Like a booger on an unplucked nose hair, there's an additional twenty-four-hundredths of a day hanging. That little extra crust is why we have a leap day every four years, and why we skip it when the Gregorian year is evenly divisible by one hundred but not if also divisible by four hundred. That's still not a perfectly precise correction, so a different facial tissue to the nose of astronomy will be required at some point in 10,000 years or so. Don't ask me to describe the differences between a sidereal and tropical year, because I don't know if I can.

Earth fits so beautifully in numerical alignment and simplicity of time as we understand and perceive it.

Not Mars, though.

A day on Mars is thirty-nine minutes, thirty-five and fractions of a second longer than one on Earth. A year on Mars is 686.98 Earth days long, or 668.6 of its own. We refer to a Martian day as a sol .

Those fractional artifacts make the adoption of a uniform and easily understood Martian time-keeping system a chore for calendar creators and time experts. That's why our mission chronometers have so many different modes.

For the prior two series of manned missions, our clocks were kept in sync with Earth clocks, except ours paused at 23:59:59 for those additional thirty-nine-plus minutes before turning over to 00:00:00. The pause was known as the "witching hour," even though it was barely more than half of one.

For the Pleiades missions, it was decided we'd use a twenty-four-hour cycle, but not twenty-four Earth hours. Our mission clocks are based on seconds which are 2.7515% longer than a cesium-ticked one, and astronomical midnight at base aligns with 00:00:00 on our clocks, which would be thirty-nine minutes and some seconds later each day on the Earth.

Of course, the adjustment to a solid 24-hour clock is intended to keep us humans sane. The atomic clock in the command module, as well as the backup and tiebreaker within radio range, still dutifully define a second as 9,192,631,770 ticks.

We can also tap icons to see bazillions of other time variants.

What Earth time is it at Central Mission in Arlington, Virginia? What Mission time (in sols but standard seconds) is it? What mission time in sols and Martian seconds is it?

Blah, blah, blah.

There are no names for the sols of the week. There aren't even weeks or months for that matter. Just numbered sols.

It's a pain in the ass to keep track of it all considering the circadian rhythm of most humans is rooted in a twenty-four Earth-hour cadence. On both this and my first mission, I needed time to adapt to the difference.

On Earth, the date is April 29, 2064, and sol 336, meaning 335 Martian days have elapsed since I and my crew of five landed on the red planet, but only me and one other person remain alive on the surface.

My name is Sean Donovan Emerson. I'm the mission commander of Pleiades Six, and I'm wondering if I'm about to die.

Sol 302, Mars Time: 22:17

"I love you, Sean," she said before her video message terminated.

My incredibly patient, encouraging, and supportive girlfriend understood I'd be off planet for more than a year and a half, and "distant" for the six months before for training and mission prep, yet she encouraged me to accept the assignment on the Pleiades Six mission as its commander. I was a technical specialist on Pleiades Three, but that was only a nine-month mission plus four months of prep.

Unlike me, she was a full-fledged employee of the US Government, but didn't like to talk about it other than to describe her responsibilities as banal and boring, tedious and tiring.

"Your lady-lady send you message?" Siemen Reinoud, one of my mission's specialists asked.

I back-ticked and paused the video to showcase Dione's beautiful sparkle-eyed smile.

"She always sexyful . Pretty tuttar . She mine next cutie," he said.

I chuckled at the Swede. "Dione is mine cutie. She all mine," I said, imitating his accented, broken English.

"She will become to me. Then we bork-bork . And tuttar means titties , Sean."

"Shut up, Siemen. You know, your name sounds exactly like the English word for the stuff real men make right here, don't you?" I said, grabbing my crotch.

He laughed hard.

"You say that every time I make even a tiny jab at you. You know I'm only joking. Besides, I'm still trying to find a language where your name is a homonym for something equally vulgar," he said in perfect American English, as if he'd been born and raised in Kansas.

The shift in dialect tickled me, and I laughed. Not only could he speak English (with choices of accents), he spoke at least four other languages fluently. A true polyglot, he often used the skill humorously. He and I had developed a close friendship from the day we first met at Central Mission.

"Sean, where did she record her message?"

"The bedroom in our apartment in West Virginia. Why?"

"You didn't tidy the room before you left?"

I chuckled. "What are you talking about?"

"Look here," he said, tapping and dragging his finger across the screen to place a band around a portion of the paused video. The software zoomed into the banded region.

"Oh. Yeah … well, maybe she left it there to remember me."

My heart felt as if it was trying to extrude itself through my fifth intercostal space.

"Yes. She must miss you very much, Commander."

"Don't, Simi. Come on. Don't call me Commander ."

"But you are, sir."

"Don't call me sir either. You … we've worked together for seven years. There's no need to address me by rank unless we're being all official, okay? I mean it."

"Understood," he said. "Being official now, you are relieved," he said in official phraseology as he took over the watch.

"I am relieved. Good night," I acknowledged, leaving him in command as I made my way to my quarters.

"Commander," both Cedric and Shizuka said with a smile and nod as they passed by me in the narrow corridor.

I noticed Cedric wipe his palm on his utility jacket, as if they'd let go of each other's hands when they heard my approach. It's not like I would care. Cedric Hamilton, from Toronto, was a handsome-enough fellow for the attractive and brilliant woman who hailed from Osaka, Japan.

Pleiades Mission Policy didn't prohibit fraternization. Every man and woman assigned to the mission was blindingly intelligent and more than capable of performing their jobs, even if they happened to occasionally share a shower or even a rack.

I hung my clothes and settled into my bunk.

"I loved you, Dione," I whispered into the perfectly balanced air of the habitat, hoping she might hear my words from a hundred million kilometers away. That night was the first time I wondered if she'd even care, because I knew for a fact what I saw wasn't something I'd left behind.

I didn't fall asleep until almost three hours had passed because anger has a way of keeping me awake.

Sol 303, Mars Time: 05:55

I sent a text-only message: Who is he?

Two hours later, the mission communications and medical specialist, Alyonka Sabratova, pulled me aside.

"I saw you send message, but I ask, why very short?"

"Excuse me?" I asked with perturbation evident in my voice.

"Message but one packet. Only text?" she said in much-less passable English than Siemen's.

"Stand down, Alyonka," I ordered.

Part of her job was to monitor communications, so it didn't surprise me that she knew I'd sent a message to Dione, but I also knew she couldn't examine its contents because personal communiqués are automatically encrypted. But it was, as she noticed, very unlike me to send my girlfriend such a short one. Alyonka wasn't stupid.

"Oh. I hit nerve spot."

"Have you repositioned the solar collector arrays?" I asked frustratedly.

"Nerve spot big?"

I so wanted to correct her grammar, but decided it'd confirm her suspicions if I did.

"YA sprashivayu . Do it now, Alyonka," I said.

"Da , Commander, I go," she said as she walked away to the energy management module.

Everyone went about their day as we would any other ordinary one. Well, ordinary considering we were the sixteenth manned mission to Mars. The first two, the Ursa missions, launched almost twenty and eighteen years ago were crewed by three people each with a stay of only a few months. The modules for the base had been deployed to the surface by unmanned missions, but their final assembly, integration, and activation was the key task of Ursa.

Ursa was followed by Persephone, which consisted of eight five-person launches.

Ursa Two's crew was lost, as was Persephone Five's. Both losses transpired during their return transits. I hoped, similar to my peers who crewed them, I'd never know my life was about to end if something went horribly wrong. Central Mission had to make the choice behind closed doors to abort those two transits when they determined, beyond any doubt, their recoveries were impossible. The details and decisions leading to the aborts were, of course, kept mum.

The process, though, was not considered a secret.

Eight separately keyed locks, requiring eight individuals to consent, along with near-simultaneous activation of the keys, would release drugs from packs implanted in the crews' bodies which would send them into an absolutely euphoric and painless death in mere seconds. In an extreme case, a small nuclear charge located at an unknown place within the Martian base would vaporize everything. Since crews are kept in stasis during transit, no drugs would be necessary if an abort was needed in space. Only the even smaller explosive charge aboard the spacecraft would be required.

Pleiades Six, the last of the six-person missions, would be a landmark. It was to be the terminal mission. The multinational collaboration was coming to an end after being deemed a resounding scientific success.

My comm beeped.

Who is who ? Dione had asked in her written reply.

Dione, stop! You left a box of condoms on your bedside table. I saw it in your video.

I knew it'd be at least seventeen minutes before I could expect her response given the whole speed of light thing. I spent the time in the exercise module doing resistance work intended to keep muscles from atrophying, considering I weigh only 35 kilograms on Mars. Two half-hour sessions per day were a requirement.

Blip.

It's nothing personal. You've been gone for almost two years. It was just a little fling. I didn't even get his name.

As if that made it better. My girlfr⁠—no. My ex was sleeping around on me and doing it without so much regard as to care about the name of the man she'd brought into our bed. Dione was the last woman with whom I'd been intimate, but I obviously wasn't her last … fling.

I understand. I lied, reining in my anger so it wouldn't be evident in the message. How many others?

I don't know. Four or five, maybe. There are three women in your crew. It's not a big deal to me if you've had some international delight, Sean.

We promised each other, Dione. I'll be back on planet in six months. Sort out my possessions. Central will come collect and store them.

An hour passed with no reply.

"I have repositioned array for final time," Alyonka said when she returned. She studied me for a moment. "You looking anger."

"Leave it alone, Alyonka!" I said with misdirected spite in my voice.

"Da , Commander," she softly said, backing away and holding up her hands in surrender.

"YA proshu proshcheniya. Pozhaluysta, prosti menya , Alyonka."

I hoped my apology and request for forgiveness, even if clumsily offered in her native language, would convey my sincerest regret of my words and tone.

"Your Russian is best than my English." She smiled. "I take your apology."

"I only know phrases I need to use often, but … thank you. Have you finished the changes to the outlines and playbook for mothballing the base and ship?"

She smirked with wider, rapidly blinking eyes.

I slowed. "Have you completed revising the procedures to close and seal the Pleiades mother ship and the base? Both will be vacant here for who knows how long."

"Ah. Yes. It will take six sols unless complications."

"Is there any reason we should not begin immediately?"

"Nyet . I think we start as soon as approved. You lead works?"

"No. You tailored the process. You should lead."

"Spasibo , Commander. Thank you."

She turned to walk out of the command module but stopped.

"Sir, you sure okay?" she asked.

"I will be. I didn't sleep well, and today began very poorly. It is a personal matter. Please send your revisions to Central Mission so they can approve them."

"Yes, sir. I do that right now."

"Spasibo , Alyonka."

A few sols later, Central sent me their approval of Alyonka's recommended changes. She appeared quite proud of her accomplishment, and she deserved to be. She was kilometers beyond competent, as was every member of my crew. Though they all had specific expertise in various areas, they could all pass muster as a substitute in any other. Alyonka's focus was medicine and communications, but she was also a mechanical engineer and could rattle off the specifications and operational characteristics of almost any system in the base or ship without breaking a sweat.

The first of the return modules auto-landed on node two eight sols later. Irenka Ljuba, the Czech specialist, connected the node's fueling system to the module's midsection and began the process of tanking it up with the extremely volatile fuel synthesized on the surface. Extreme is a mild word given what it was, but it's the only adjective I can think of to describe it.

The unmanned missions to Mars three decades before depended on fuels which could only escape the planets' gravitational hold, then used orbital trickery to gain velocity to make the voyage with enough fuel to brake and descend into the atmosphere, deposit their payloads, then fly hundreds of kilometers away to impact the surface never to be seen again.

The new(ish) fuel is so energy-dense, the spacecraft can carry more than enough to accelerate then decelerate to and from velocities of three times greater magnitude, which significantly shortened the transits, even when Mars was in planetary syzygy and conjunction with Earth.

Excess fuel is automatically vented to space before reentry because an explosion at the planetary surface would be a kilometers-wide catastrophe if the craft crashed.

Imagine the Martian base sitting in the center of an imaginary equilateral triangle near the eastern third of Aeolis Planum , with each side measuring twenty kilometers. The three vertices, the "nodes" of the triangle, represent the landing zones for each of the return modules.

Ellen Mersk, an eccentric but extremely brilliant businesswoman, had led several corporations that developed the technologies which made self-landing vehicles possible on Earth. Her various businesses expanded the technology by an order of magnitude which allowed the Ursa, Persephone, and Pleiades projects to happen.

The second return vehicle arrived two sols after the first and landed at node three, and the third arrived at node one just as we began mothballing Pleiades Six. We were expecting to begin return launch procedures in two sols. A fourth module, sent as a redundancy, would arrive the next sol but remain in orbit.

Central assigned the pairings for the three departures.

Cedric Hamilton and Seimen Reinaud would depart together, Irenka Ljuba and Shizuka Ayani on the next, then Alyonka Sabratova and me on the last. For every group, Specialist Sabratova would attend to the required prelaunch medical procedures.

Sol 334, Mars Time: 03:14

The dark Martian sky suddenly wasn't as the first return module launched from its node situated 11.55 kilometers from the base. The remaining four of us watched from the habitat, but the rarefied atmosphere at the surface, equivalent to thirty-five kilometers above sea level on Earth, meant we heard nothing at all aside from our own applause.

"It is a nominal launch," Shizuka Ayani observed as she watched telemetry and trajectory on a display.

"Hai ," I agreed aloud.

Godspeed, my friends, I thought to myself.

The sky was an eerie shade of butterscotch yellow. Alyonka and I watched the pinprick of moving light and iridescent heat against the waning sun as the craft with Irenka and Shizuka aboard propelled them homeward.

"We by ourselfs now," Alyonka said.

"Da . We will execute most of the habitat's shutdown tomorrow, and complete it before we go to our module the next sol."

"Da , Commander," she acknowledged. "We should have food, yes?"

"Too bad our potatoes did not turn into vodka," I joked.

"Some did," she responded with a wry grin.

"What? Did you say something?" I smirked.

"I smoogle Beluga Gold wodka in a female think box," she said very quietly.

I laughed. As annoying as she could often be, sometimes Alyonka's choices of words amused me entirely. I whispered my own question, "A female what box?"

"Female think. Woman think. A woman wash think."

"A woman's 'thing ,' Alyonka, not 'think .'" I smiled happily. "If we have wodka , will you be reliable tomorrow?"