Mars is a Dangerous Place

Sharon used my absences to continue probing Harris' state of mind. Privately, I couldn't help thinking of our situation as a slow-moving hostage crisis. Fortunately Sharon is smart and centered, so I didn't worry about her falling prey to Stockholm syndrome. But I did hope she was making progress in cultivating Andy's empathy for us. Wasn't that supposed to make it harder to kill the captives?

Not that the two of them spent all their time gabbing, by any means. Sharon had lost most of the science equipment she'd relied on for her work, but she was full of drive and ingenuity. Cobbling together her own small laboratory station (and when necessary, dragooning Andy to patch up some essential gadget), she was soon getting down to the work of Martian biology and botany. Between her efforts and mine, it seemed quite possible we could make something out of this mission after all.

Within a couple of weeks, our routine was beginning to feel sustainable--to feel like we'd been living this way forever, in fact. A groundhog-day sort of existence. So it came as a rude shock when the earth abruptly shifted beneath our feet.

* * * * *

The change kicked in one morning, right after we'd emerged from our berth. As usual, three heated meal packs were laid out on the table. And as usual, Andy was sitting there waiting for us. But, very much not as usual--he wasn't wearing any clothes.

The state of his undress startled me, and I spluttered something along the lines of "what the hell?"

He rose at the sound of my voice, turning to face us. And really for the first time, I was forced to acknowledge that Harris was a physically imposing specimen. Oh, at some level I must have known he had several inches on me. But now, I felt the difference in my gut. I registered the thickness of his forearms, the breadth of his shoulders, the taut definition of his chest. By all rights, nakedness should have diminished him--yet instead, it was I who felt smaller.

And, there was one other thing: the guy had a lot of cock dangling between his legs.

Now, I've never whipped out a ruler to measure, but I suppose I'm the regulation '5.5 inches,' give or take. You know, nothing to boast about, but perfectly serviceable. This morning, though, I was confronted by a penis that was quite different. Startlingly red, and very beefy, and undeniably longer and wider than my personal best. And the thing of it was: Harris wasn't even hard! Like, maybe he was partially aroused or something, but definitely not erect. I shouldn't have cared, of course--but realizing that the man had more going on down there than I'd ever managed in my life, even when he was soft? I'll admit, it threw me off my game a little.

Andy affected a casual manner. "Morning folks. Seeing as we've got to know each other now, I figured we oughta stop walking around on eggshells. Before y'all arrived, this is how I survived the heat in the Hab, and I've decided to take it up again. You should join me. Hell of a lot more comfortable."

His familiarity ticked me off. "Yeah, that's a hard no. We'll keep our clothes on, thank you very much."

I don't know if he seriously expected us to leap at this innovation of his--but my prickly response definitely annoyed him. "Look man, we're gonna be crammed in here together for a long, long time. Copping an attitude isn't going to make your life any easier. So how 'bout you take that stick out of your ass. Also, maybe let your wife decide for herself. Or do you make all the decisions for her?"

"Jeez, Andy, get a grip. I shouldn't have to say this, but neither one of us wants to see you parading your junk around. My suggestion would be to quit embarrassing yourself. But even if you don't have any professional standards--we do."

This only stoked his irritation further. He took a step toward me, curling his fingers and puffing out that muscular chest. "I see what's going on. You think you're better than me; think you're too high and mighty to rub elbows with the riffraff. Foster and Cho got the same way after a while. Ok, so maybe I am a glorified mechanic who doesn't have a fancy-ass P.H.D.--but fuck if I'm going to take shit from an egghead like you!"

We glared at each other across a hostile silence, neither willing to back down. And without intending to, I found myself wondering where Sharon's eyes were directed--at the man's face, or at points further south...?

"Boys, boys," her voice came out high-pitched, fake cheerful. "Can't we just dial back the testosterone and play nice?"

But an ugly look at the corner of Andy's eye said that he didn't have much interest in playing nice. More awkward seconds ticked away. Then at last, the standoff was resolved decisively, in Harris' favor... by the sickening sound of a zipper. "Maybe he's on to something, Graeme. The fabric in these things really doesn't breathe."

I turned to see my wife's jumpsuit piled around her ankles. She was just extracting her long, smooth legs from the jumble--and for a stomach-curdling moment, I thought she was going to keep going, stripping down all the way. Thankfully, she stopped there, still covered by her spandex athletic underwear. From a factual perspective, this provided greater modesty than the bikini she'd worn when we visited Malibu. Yet... witnessing my wife flaunt her underthings before this naked brute, I found that facts provided scant comfort. The easy smile that played on Andy's lips only confirmed my unease.

I remained in uniform, naturally, and we ate our dry, slightly greenish sausage links in silence. Then I 'realized' I'd need to stay in the Hab all day to examine specimens.

We spoke little. I went through the motions of doing my job--mind racing wildly all the while. I tried to make out whether they were as agitated as I was, but couldn't tell. All I could say for sure was that they did, indeed, appear to stay a lot cooler.

The day seemed to stretch on for weeks; but eventually it was time for Sharon and I to retreat to our closet. There, I confronted her at once, muzzling my outrage as best I could. "What were you thinking, ditching your suit like that? The man's a psycho. You don't want to give him any ideas."

Her whispered answer was unapologetic. "It wasn't exactly my first choice, you know. If you hadn't pissed him off, maybe I wouldn't have had to."

"Had to? You sure you didn't want to? You were awfully fucking casual about it..." My eyes narrowed. "Hey, there wasn't something between you guys, was there? Like, back at the space-center, did you two ever...?"

She couldn't resist a smirk at my expense. "I think someone's got his knickers in a twist. No, there's no history. He made a pass at me a few times, but that's how he was with all the girls. I turned him down--not my type. Too much of a peacock, you know? Too loud and blustery and full of himself."

"Hmm... anyway, you didn't need to do it. I had things under control."

"Clearly." This was accompanied by an eyeroll. "... Oh, quit moping. It worked out fine. It's not like I was wearing crotchless panties or something. I stayed perfectly covered, I short-circuited your little dick-waving contest--which was stupid, by the way--and I built up some trust with the man. It's all good. Plus, he wasn't wrong. You've been out in your climate-controlled pressure suit a lot, but when you're stuck in this sweatbox all the time, it's fucking hot!"

"Look--can you just not do it again?"

She shot me a hard stare. "Did I not say, only five seconds back, that I'd gained some trust with Andy? And your response is that you want me to throw that away and deliberately offend him? I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Today was the new normal, sweetheart--get used to it."

From the set of her jaw, I knew Sharon felt sure she was right, and wasn't going to be persuaded otherwise. I couldn't help fuming about it, though. Suffice to say that in spite of the ambient temperature in the Hab, the atmosphere in our bunk that night was decidedly chilly.

* * * * *

For the next few days I continued in my self-appointed role as guardian, stuck indoors 24x7 and sweating profoundly in my nomex suit. Gradually the mood around me seemed to approach 'normal' again--Sharon getting on with her work, Harris tinkering or checking readouts or lolling around doing nothing, the two of them bantering harmlessly from time to time. And me in the middle of it, stewing awkwardly and wishing I could get back to my rocks.

Soon their undress became normalized too; until eventually--feeling stupid to keep torturing myself this way--I shed my clothes as well (though my boxers stayed on).

Finally, by day five of the new regime, I'd had enough. I decided to go out exploring again. It was a big mistake. The very same evening, I returned to find Sharon crouched in a corner of the module, holding a scalpel and visibly shaken. Andy reclined easily at the console, arms cast wide in a mollifying gesture as I entered.

She rose and came to stand next to me at the airlock. "What happened?" I asked, dreading the answer. "What did he do to you?"

"He... he was all over me. Brushing up against me, handsy, pressuring me. I asked him to back off, but he wouldn't. I had to threaten to cut him."

Andy rolled his eyes. "She's making it out worse than it was. I thought she was coming on to me, that's all. I'd got to thinking there was some chemistry between us, you know, the last few weeks, and I just fucked up. Misunderstood the situation. But I get it now."

I glared at him. "Stay away from her, Andy. If you come within ten feet of her again, I'll kill you. I mean it."

"Sure man, I get it. Simple misunderstanding."

That night, Sharon pressed up especially close to me. "You'd better not go out in the rover anymore." Her voice was subdued.

"I think that goes without saying."

"But that thing about killing him? I'm scared too, but that didn't sit right, somehow."

"Hon, you know as well as I do that I'm not a murderer. But we're in a hell of a mess here. Hopefully he'll take the warning. And if not, we'll incapacitate him if we can. Restrain him or whatever. You should get a syringe of something ready, just in case. All I'm saying is, we need to put our own safety first. The man's on borrowed time anyway."

"Yeah..." she agreed reluctantly. Then a new thought crossed her mind. "If something does happen to him, do you think we can keep the equipment running?"

I'd been worrying about that question for a while now. Brain tumor or no, Andy's technical skills remained far above ours. He'd performed genuine miracles in stitching together the life-support systems; and keeping them running would not be easy in his absence. "It's not a sure thing, to be honest. But I think so. I've been trying to watch him and learn, and I did have some basic engineering courses before we left. We'll figure it out."

"That's good," she said, pulling my arm around her more tightly. "I have no intention for either of us to die on Mars."

* * * * *

The next morning was tense, but uneventful. By the time Sharon started prepping the meal trays for lunch, I'd begun to let down my guard a little. But Harris' self-control must have continued to slide, because abruptly, as she passed by his spot at the engineering console, he reached out a hand and gripped her wrist.

"Come on, Sharon," he said, a note of wheedling in his voice. "You know there's something between us. Couldn't you just give me a little striptease? I'm never going to see a woman naked again in my life--couldn't you at least give me that?"

Halfway across the Hab, I rose with clenched fists. "Let her go, Andy."

Sharon tried to wrench away, but he held her fast. Angry and frustrated now, he reached out with his other hand, snagged her panties, and pulled them down below her knees in a single clean jerk. The assault left my wife in an awkward muddle--still struggling to escape him, striving reflexively to cover her snatch, and teetering precariously from the underwear bunched round her calves.

I flew to her aid. Gathering my strength, I landed a vicious punch, right on the man's temple, that jolted him sideways in his chair. Seizing the opportunity, Sharon broke free and retreated behind me. Andy wavered there a moment, a look of dazed surprise on his face... then steadied and brought his stormy emotions under control.

I expected him to stand and engage me. And I wasn't relishing the prospect of a straight-up fistfight. The engineer was a good deal taller and stronger than me. I only hoped that while I was playing the distracting role of punching-bag, Sharon would have the presence of mind to inject him with something.

But he didn't retaliate. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and regarded me coolly. "Ok, fair enough. So what now, champ?"

I pondered a second, then tossed him a roll of duct tape. "Tape your wrist to the arm of the chair." To my amazement he did, wrapping it around 8 or 10 times with no sign of trickery. "And your ankles." Clumsily, he did as he was told. Then we eyed each other, and I found myself somewhat at a loss. This all seemed far too easy.

After a moment, he broke the silence; and the low, dangerous rumble in his voice did nothing to ease my concern. "You know Graeme, you're a real bastard. You have everything, and you won't even share a few crumbs with a dying man..." He took a deep breath. "...However--I'm not a violent person. Sharon, I shouldn't have done that. I apologize."

* * * * *

Our only option now was to keep him restrained. It was far from ideal, but not impossible. Sharon and I mapped it all out--we could tend to his needs, free one of his arms during meals, sleep in shifts so he was never alone for long. The burden would be wearisome, but it would only be a matter of months before his illness ran its course.

Yes, it was a solid plan. And one that lasted about 36 hours. That's when the harsh bray of a klaxon began to reverberate through the module, summoning me from a fitful nap.

"Graeme," Sharon's voice cut through my drowsy confusion, "it's the atmospheric monitor. The oxy light has been blinking for a while now. I didn't know what to do."

I shook my head groggily. "Don't worry, there's some code you have to type in to reset the levels. I saw Andy do it a few times, and I found a manual too."

Andy flashed me a knowing grin as I sat down at the console. Bringing up the air-scrubber sub-system, I thumbed through the documentation to the correct page, and typed in the gobbledygook commands I found there.

The system responded: 'permission denied.'

"It requires admin privileges," Andy put in helpfully.

I attempted a few more variations of the commands. Then I tried to increase my security level. Then I glanced at Sharon. "Do you know the administrator password?"

"I didn't know there was an administrator password." Her bloodshot eyes were apprehensive, and I couldn't blame her.

Andy's smile widened. "Yeah well, normally, it's not something you'd ever use. But, when I was patching incompatible systems together, I ended up scrambling the security architecture. Now, you need admin privileges to change settings on some of the components. The oxygen extractor, for instance"

The alarm kept grating in our ears, and my temples throbbed. I sat there, slumped in the chair, feeling stupid and impotent. "What's the password, Andy?"

"I'm not an evil guy," he said. "You see that, right? Only--I'm under a death sentence here. I need something to live for. Otherwise, what's the point? I might as well let it all burn."

"Tell me the password, Andy."

"Here's an idea--why don't you set me loose, and I'll reset the oxy system for you."

Sharon and I exchanged a helpless look for a minute. Then, taking syringe in one hand and scalpel in the other, she cut the man free. Without even rising, he rolled his chair over next to me, and allowed his fingers to play over the keyboard. Almost immediately the alarm quieted.

Of course I tried to catch the password, but it was long and convoluted, and his hands moved like lightning, There was no way I could ever guess what it was.

He leaned back in the chair. "That should keep us breathing easy for a bit. But I'm not going to do it again. Not unless we adjust the terms of our living arrangement. To start with, I'd like to see more of Sharon from now on. That is to say, all of Sharon."

Her face froze, and I rebuffed him bluntly. "Yeah, that's not happening."

"Just think about it. Both of you. There's no hurry, you've got a day or so."

"We're going to have to tape you up again now, Andy."

"Nah. Too hard to scratch my balls when they itch. Like I said before--I'm not violent. If I was, you'd know it. Anyhow, it's your move now. We can find an accommodation that works for all of us. Or, we can drift off together into easy death by CO2 poisoning. It's your call."

* * * * *

"Fuck," I whispered to Sharon when we were alone, "he's got us by the short-hairs. If he just sits back and does nothing, we're unconscious or dead within 48 hours."

"Couldn't you, I don't know... track his keystrokes? Glimpse his password on the internal camera?"

"He's the tech expert, not us. How're we going to rig something up in this rattrap without him getting wind of it? And did you see how he angled himself? He already thought about where the camera is--put his body in the line of sight. We're screwed."

We pondered gloomily. It occurred to me that it might be possible to beat the password out of him. As I ran through the scene in my mind, though, I seriously doubted I was capable of it. Maybe this testified to weakness on my part; or maybe a backbone of moral decency--you'll have to decide for yourself. All I know is that I didn't believe I had it in me to become a cold-blooded torturer, even under such desperate circumstances as these. And moreover, if I were to try it, I wouldn't have the slightest idea what I was doing. Suppose I accidentally killed him? Then our bacon would be well and truly cooked.

At last, with no more bright ideas coming to light, and the silence between us growing unbearable, Sharon's back straightened and her jaw tightened. She had come to a decision. "Well, I've already been going around in my underwear. I guess now I'll have to go without it."

My mind reeled. "Uh--no. We've given in to him too much already."

"What, you'd rather we both die, just so Andy doesn't see me naked? You're aware that there were other men before you, right?"

"Look, how do we know he's even serious with his threat?"

She flashed me a quizzical look. "Be honest Graeme: did he seem unserious to you?" Hmm, it was hard for me to argue that point. I may not have been onboard with her plan, but I had to admit: the asshole seemed serious.

In the end, I couldn't stop her. I had no alternatives to offer, except waiting to see if he killed us. She wavered for a few more sickly moments of uncertainty... then pulled off her bra, stepped out of her panties, and emerged from our cupboard, with me following close on her heels.

Andy's gaze lit up instantly--eyeballs roving across her body hungrily. "Fuck, you're a beauty Sharon. Why'd you have to be so coy all this time? There's no shame in letting me look, is there?"

But yes--there was shame. Shame for her. Shame for me.

Of the two of us, I'd say she did the better job at hiding it. Sharon has a lot of self-control--so although she placed considerable value on being 'respectable,' she wasn't a shrinking violet, nor the sort to break down under pressure. Maybe it was only because I knew her well that I could catch the signs of her humiliation--the faint blush creeping down her face and shoulders, the tense quiver around her eyes, the juddering heave of her chest...

Yet, in defiance of that emotional turmoil, she soldiered on--making no effort to cover herself, and mustering up a credible show of nonchalance. "Take a good look, Andy. Get it out of your system." In fact, I had the impression she even sucked in her stomach a bit, thrust out her breasts, tightened her ass, as if presenting herself to best effect. I wasn't exactly thrilled about that, but consoled myself that 'looking good no matter what' is what our society trains women to do.