Mars is a Dangerous Place

"You're saying Harris has brain cancer?"

She nodded. "Yes, aggressive brain cancer. Untreatable--at least with the facilities we have here. That was four months ago, and even then Foster gave him less than a year to live."

"That means Harris was looking at a death sentence. He never would have finished the trip home. How are we only finding out about this now?"

"Andy asked for some time to break the news himself. And then... well, you know. And Graeme--there's something else. I can't speak to Andy's condition specifically, but frontal-lobe tumors have been known to affect personality and judgement."

I whistled. "So--we're stuck here with a madman, who knows he's going to die before any rescue mission can arrive?"

Sharon didn't like the logical conclusions of her own findings. "I didn't say that. Probably there aren't any behavioral effects--it's not a common symptom. Maybe he'll even go into remission. And if we could get the comms back up quickly, we could ask them to send chemo meds in the next capsule..." Her words trailed off, as if even she could hear how half-baked that all sounded.

Then the airlock whirred and Andy stepped inside. He flashed a pearly-white grin. "Now how is this fair? Me doing all the work, while you two are taking it easy in here. I only wonder what mischief you've been getting up to."

* * * * *

When we sat down to lunch, Andy was in a conversational mood. "That was ballsy of you guys, getting married and all. The first interplanetary astro-couple. Hell of a story."

It had been quite a journey. Even during training, the official line had been 'no fraternizing' between the Mars explorers. Maybe that kind of thing had been ok in the days of space shuttles; but the stakes in this new game were too high, the conditions too cramped, and the timeframes too long to let sex get in the way.

Of course, everyone knew it was a lie. Years spent preparing, alongside smart, fit, accomplished peers in the prime of life? Before long, it wasn't so much about who you'd hooked up with, as who you hadn't. Hell, in that closed and heavily-tested circle, you didn't even have to worry about condoms. Still, none of us really wanted to form attachments. Every person there was laser-focused on the goal--on that unblinking red dot up in the sky. The situation held too much uncertainty, too much competitiveness, too much fear of failure, to leave any room for real relationship.

Yet amidst all the empty heat and light, Sharon and I had found each other. For us, the love of science and the dream of Mars was part of the glue that bonded us. It wasn't only that, of course. Shared interests and outlooks, physical chemistry, sheer pleasure in spending time together--it simply became undeniable that we were meant to be. And in the end, that sharp certainty outweighed our oversized ambitions and anxieties. We got married and announced it to the world, then waited for the fallout.

We were fully prepared to get booted from the program. I know many people in oversight would have preferred it that way. From a media perspective, though, the romantic tale of a starstruck astro-couple was PR gold too rich to pass up. We stayed where we were, and paid for our sins by giving up most of our spare time to do TV shows and podcasts. Meanwhile, leadership put around a quiet word that the next pair that tried this stunt would get canned instantly.

It would have been a strain if one of us had been picked for Mars and the other left behind. I believe we could have overcome it, but I was deeply relieved when I learned we wouldn't have to. Most of our peers probably assumed that we'd gotten a free pass because of our brand-value. But I remain convinced that we both earned our spots--we certainly never took them for granted, and worked our asses off.

Now, back in the Hab, Sharon responded to Andy with a disarming look. "It wasn't about being 'ballsy' you know. It was a simple matter of logic. Between losing Mars, and losing Graeme, I knew I'd miss Graeme more."

"Awww, you two are sweet." His voice was playful, but I thought I detected an undertone of sarcasm. "I'm sorry you ended up with me as the third-wheel on your Martian honeymoon, but I'll try to stay out of your way. In fact, I had an idea. The wiring closet on this module is mostly comms gear, and the entire array is shot anyway. So, I'm thinking we should clear it out, and rig up a private nest for you lovebirds. It wouldn't be much, but better than nothing."

Sharon smiled warmly. "That's very thoughtful."

* * * * *

That evening, I half-expected Andy was going to lock us in our makeshift berth, then listen to us starve to death. But when I whispered my suspicions in Sharon's ear, she only laughed.

It restored my spirits to be alone with her again. Back on Danae, the bunks had hard-side screens that could be rolled down for privacy. We'd mostly tried to act by-the-book during the flight over, which meant occupying our own spaces. Yet, every so often, we'd discreetly retire to spend the night together. Glover did an admirable job of pretending not to notice.

During the last couple of weeks, however, we'd gotten so wrapped up in the impending landing, and uncertainty over what we'd encounter on the ground, that we hadn't had intercourse. And that made it all the more touching to reconnect now.

For long moments, I wanted nothing more than to hold her gaze--to shove our predicament from my mind; and drink in the undistracted, unshared sight of her in the soft glow of the running-lights. There was an animated brilliance to Sharon that had drawn me instantly when we first met. Her resolute jaw, rounded cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes were captivating. Even the slightly hawkish curve of her nose appeared more incisive than unsightly in my mind. Her hair had been longer back at the space-center--but now, trimmed to a practical neck-length bob for the mission, its smooth, blonde glossiness still beckoned my hand to stroke it, same as ever.

Just briefly, she condescended to meet my stare. Then, however, she broke into a wry grin, and started wriggling awkwardly from her flight suit. It seemed that unlike me, my wife was not in the mood to take things slow.

I seized what chance there was to appreciate the view as she stripped down. Rationally, I knew Sharon's mind was more remarkable than her body; and it was her mind I'd fallen in love with, really. But her physical form remained catnip for my senses too. She was above-average in height; and sported a build that was lithe rather than curvy--bust smallish (though by no means flat), abdomen taut, and ass heart-shaped, with just a hint of grabbability. It all added up to a well-composed, athletic physique, and never failed to beguile me.

Still, as I said, she didn't intend to let me tarry over the sight. Instead, passionately, insistently, she drew me into a kiss. For a timeless spell, our lips and tongues flowed together--caught up in that uniquely human striving to break down physical barriers with the other. At first, I allowed my hands to range over the silky curves of her back. Then, I dug my fingers into her haunches, with a firmness that was only slightly shy of callous. This was a little trick I'd learned since we'd been together--not exactly my style, but something that seemed invariably to turn her on. Soon she was fumbling with my zipper and breathing hot in my ear: "why the fuck are you still in these clothes?"

I was plenty hard by the time she had my jumpsuit off, but she wanted me even harder. Pushing me down on my back in the cramped space, she knelt and took me between her lips (trim hairstyle granting an unobstructed view of the show). Enthusiastically, she massaged my glans, rim, and a couple of inches of shaft with her tongue and mouth. There was an element of devotion in the act; but a healthy dose of hot urgency as well. Her saliva flowed freely--and as she went on sucking the tip, one of her hands began slicking up and down my length with a proprietary grip, while the other cradled and tickled my balls.

Abstinence had sharpened my lust, and soon I was as engorged as I've ever been in my life. I nearly shot my wad then and there, in fact. Fortunately, Sharon tasted the pre-cum and pulled off in time, scolding my shaky self-control with a cheshire-cat smile. Then, laying my rod flat on abdomen and straddling it, she pressed its meaty bulk lengthwise into her gash. With eyelids closed, she rocked her pelvis, grinding her pussy relentlessly against my organ. Between the undulations of her body and the huge lungfuls of air she was sucking in, her tits rose and fell and swayed in truly mesmerizing fashion.

At last she was ready to take me inside (none too soon as far as I was concerned). Lifting slightly, she eased me into her damp, gaping canal. We kissed again as she leaned down over me, gravity lending her breasts a succulent dangle and wobble. Hungrily I pounded my groin against her backside, thrusting up and into her, feet bracing for leverage to try and penetrate her more deeply. After a bit, she broke off and leaned her torso backward (indifferent to the reluctance of my oh-so-stiff organ to be bent that direction). Eyes squeezed shut, lips slightly parted, she worked me hard--stuffing her vagina as full of me as she could, and smashing her plumped-up clitoris against my pubic bone.

Sharon was near to climax now, and she began to bounce up and down on my pole, drips of her wet drizzling onto me. Her breath came faster and faster, her face took on a rosy flush, and at last she seemed to lose it--shoulders tensing, thighs convulsing, mouth gasping, and faint moans of pleasure escaping despite her efforts to contain them: "ahh... ahh... ahhhghmmm mmh mmh mmh mmh mmmmmhhhmmmm..."

And... that did it for me. Back arched and cock wildly a-throb, I began spraying cum all over her insides. God it felt good. The physical sensations were thrilling. But even more arousing was the idea of reasserting the bonds that joined us--of staking out those bonds in such a truly corporeal way. We may have been married and faithful to each other, but of course I knew I didn't 'own' Sharon. That was the outmoded mindset of a bygone era. Still... at this moment, the act of ejaculation struck a deeply fulfilling note of masculine possessiveness in my brain. Maybe long months spent cooped up with Glover, and now Harris, had tuned my instincts to that frequency.

When we were both spent, Sharon rolled off me--big, creamy blobs of semen pattering from her tract, to pool on my abdomen or sink into our sleeping bag. Like I said, it had been a while, and I'd had a lot of myself to give. She cuddled up next to me, and we lay there for a bit, sweaty and gulping quietly for air. Then, before long, we drifted off into dreamless, restorative slumber.

* * * * *

By the time a rise in the lighting announced the end of the sleep period, we were already half-awake, lying there in a lazy drowse. Sharon rose and stretched, while I enjoyed the view.

As you may have gathered, my wife wasn't prudish or repressed about sex. Still, she liked to keep such urges in their place. I guess you could say she had a degree of reserve about her, and a tendency toward compartmentalization--traits that made her shy away from being too overt or public with her sexuality, or letting it take up too much space in her life.

I got that, and generally valued her decorum. What I found funny, though, was how her body worked at cross-purposes. For instance, there was the way her petite, dusty-red areolae were so quick to jut up-and-out at the smallest provocation. Like, way out. To Sharon, this was simply galling: it meant that even with her dainty teats, she never felt free to go braless. But I loved it, and loved to kid her about it too. More than once I'd suggested she lose her lingerie before we went out somewhere. I don't know if I was serious or not--the idea of showing her off was arousing, but I'm not sure I would have liked it in real life. Anyway, it was a moot question, since I always knew she'd refuse.

And it was much the same with her pussy, too. Her chunky, ruddy pleats had a naturally pornographic quality that she found a little embarrassing. She maintained a trim, tawny patch of pubic hair, in a bid for modesty, but it never grew in dense enough to cover much. So, I'd kid her that this only made her look sluttier than if she waxed it bald. Her typical answer to that one was a hard elbow in the ribs.

All this is by way of saying that seeing her nude that morning turned me on like a switch. Her nipples were doing their thing, her still-damp folds were poking out shamelessly at her crotch, and I hardened up quickly in response. Rising, I pressed my chest against her back and encircled her with my arms. "How 'bout we work in a quickie before turning into pumpkins?"

But I saw at once that her mind was elsewhere. "That sounds nice--but we've been hiding away too long already. We need to see how Andy is doing, and start bonding with him properly."

Well, that killed my boner. "Gotta keep an eye on him, you mean? Make sure he isn't rigging explosion number three?"

She turned and faced me with serious eyes. "Please, Graeme, stop talking like that. We don't know Andy's state of mind at all, really. The plain fact is that if he wants to kill us, he'll probably find a way. It's not hard on Mars. But right now, all we have is your suspicions. If you keep assuming the worst, you'll drive him away for sure. Then, even if he's not homicidal, we'll have alienated the person who knows the most about the equipment keeping us alive. Is that likely to raise our chances of survival any?"

I frowned. I thought she was giving the man far too much benefit of the doubt. But, what was to be done? Was I really ready to suggest we tie Andy up for months to come (or take even more drastic action), based solely on guesswork and a vague dislike for the man? It hardly seemed realistic. And barring that, it couldn't hurt to stay on his good side. "Ok, I'll rein it in. But we both need to keep an eye on him, and take seriously the possibility that he's dangerous."

"Agreed. And now, I want you to head out of the Hab for a while. I still haven't done that exam on Andy, and it'll be better if you're not here."

That was going too far. "No, I'm not leaving you alone with him."

She was impatient with me. "Were you listening to anything I just said? We're both at risk, regardless of whether you go or stay. And if he was going to kill us this morning, I think we'd already be dead. The point is this: if you leave, it will give him a chance to talk with me, one-on-one. As his doctor, as a woman, he might feel free to open up to me--to unburden himself. Then I can get a better sense of his state of mind, and begin building a connection with him. But none of that is going to happen if you're hovering 10 feet away."

I could see her logic (though I didn't like it). Sullenly, I grunted assent and started pulling on my blue flight suit.

* * * * * * * * * *

2. Outmaneuvered

* * * * * * * * * *

There were three meal-trays on the miniscule table when we emerged, and Andy was already forking down a greyish mess of dehydrated eggs. "Morning! I took the liberty of ordering for you."

We sat at our places dutifully. "Thanks Andy," Sharon said.

"Chez Pierre it ain't, but I'm sure it's got all the nutrients MCT deems we require. So, what's on the docket for today?"

"Well," I said, "I was thinking I'd take the rover and check the seismic stations Cho put along the west rim. They may need servicing. At least brush the dust off the solar panels."

"And you have an appointment with your physician," Sharon put in.

"Ya know, Doc," Andy grinned, "I mostly feel great, but I could use your help with one thing. It's my cock--damn thing's so starved for attention, I think it's gotten rusty."

I stiffened, but Sharon put a hand on my arm. Her voice was gentle but firm. "Andy, you've been under a lot of stress. But this isn't going to work if we can't all three behave in a respectful manner to each other. You know that."

He sobered and looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry, you're right--bad joke. Guess I've been on my own for too long. Won't happen again."

She smiled. "Already forgotten."

After that display, I was less eager than ever to leave. However, Sharon shepherded me to the airlock in a way that didn't give me much say in the matter. I took as long as I reasonably could prepping the rover before heading out; and visited only the closest line of monitors before veering back to base. Loony, really--with the comms system wrecked, my wife wouldn't be able to summon me for help no matter how nearby I was. But such is the logic of emotion.

Fortunately, when I did return to the Hab, the scene was quiet. Andy was fiddling with some components at his workbench ("don't like the metrics on number-2 inverter, so I'm rigging a spare"), and Sharon was reading documents on her datascreen. I went to give her a kiss, and she responded, but then whispered in my ear: "let's keep the public affection to a minimum--no point torturing Andy with what he can't have." I wasn't sure if she viewed this as a compassionate act, a sensible precaution, or a necessary sop to the feelings of a madman; but I nodded that I understood.

We made love again that evening in our bunk, though with less urgency than the night before. Then we murmured together for a while, in almost inaudible tones. "He's doing pretty well, under the circumstances," Sharon breathed. "The tumor has grown a lot. But he says the headaches are less frequent, so that's good."

I cut to the chase. "But is he crazy? Is he a murderer?"

She mused a moment. "I'm not sure... There's a lot of emotion boiling under the surface, and he's definitely struggling to manage it. But who can blame him? Even leaving physical effects of the tumor aside, anyone would struggle beneath the load he's carrying. It appears he has things under control, at least for now. He isn't in denial--he understands his situation. He says he only wants to live out the time he has left productively, and leave us in good shape to survive. So far, I have no reason not to believe him."

* * * * *

Time kept staggering onward. The following morning, Andy and I took a trip out to the landing site. The stated goal was to salvage useful gear from the wreck. Secretly, I hoped to pick up some clues as to what had gone wrong. But it was mostly a wasted effort. As he'd said, the ship had been blown into very small pieces, and they told me nothing.

Next, I spent a few days trying to work in the Hab. It felt like being stuck in one of Dante's circles--deathly hot, stiflingly cramped, and relentlessly boring. For a while I perused system logfiles, hoping to turn up information about the original blast, but nothing useful came to light. Then, I reviewed all of Cho's progress reports. She hadn't uncovered proof of fossilized microbial life on Mars, but her discoveries had been tantalizing, and pointed to new avenues of research.

And after that, I found myself stumped over how to fill the hours. There weren't many entertainment vids in the surviving databanks; but even if there had been, we were astronauts. We were used to staying busy and useful, striving tirelessly to complete our overstuffed daily schedules. Loafing around just wasn't in our DNA.

Ok, maybe it was in Andy's DNA. But not mine. By the end of a week, I couldn't stand it anymore, I needed to get out. I began a series of field excursions to build on Cho's work. At first, I stayed close to base; but soon I was roving 50 miles or more in every direction--spending most of the day out in that gorgeous wasteland; and returning home only to eat, wash, sleep, and reconnect with my wife.