Chapter 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.

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.