Alone On Mars

An excerpt from my latest novella, The Impossible Rain

If you enjoy this excerpt of The Impossible Rain, e-book copies are available here.

~~~

He could feel the dream start to slip away from him, a half-forgotten memory. “You should come see this.” They were back on Terra. Hot, bright, crowded Terra. Stephen had never told him where he found the typewriter, but Alistair had fallen in love with it, and now it was the only thing he would write on.

“I’m busy,” he replied, fingers flying across the keys.

“You’re always busy.” The reply had a hint of resigned amusement to it.

“I’m writing.”

It was the noise. The clacking of keys, the metallic bings, the thunk of the carriage return, the noise of the smoke alarms. For whatever reason- wait, smoke alarms? There were no smoke alarms here. They were on Terra. On the Amalfi Coast, it was- he brushed the raindrops from his eyes and tried to keep typing. Ridiculous. The sun is shining, it’s not raining. The words were coming fast and furious now, and if he could just keep going, he would get one thousand to five thousand words today.

The words were pouring out of him. He was so close to finishing a chapter, he was almost there, if only it would stop raining! He brushed the rain out of his eyes; it splattered across the paper and the typewriter, but he kept going.

“I’m almost done with this chapter. I’d be done by now if it weren’t for this blasted rain! And can you shut off the damn alarms?”

Footsteps.

Arms snaked around his neck, and he felt the bristle brush of Stephen’s neatly trimmed beard against his cheek.

“Alistair. You need to wake up now.”

A peck on the cheek.

“But…”

Another peck on the cheek. “You’re on Mars, darling. How is it raining on Mars?”

~

Consciousness came back in a rush, and Alistair gulped in the air, sucking and gasping like a fish out of its tank, cheek pressed onto the grass of the- he coughed. What was that? Couldn’t… he pushed himself upright, still coughing. Noise assaulted his ears. The smoke alarms were screeching. The fire suppression system had activated, so the sprinklers were going off, and water was everywhere. No, it didn’t smell right. Funny…funny smell. Tastes… chemical. Need- it was impossible to breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t-

Greenhouse. You’re in the greenhouse. He began to crawl, hoping that he was crawling the right way. If he could get to the edge of the house, there would be a breather on the wall. He needed a breather. Need to breathe. Need to-

His head rammed into the hard surface of the edge of the greenhouse so hard he cried aloud in pain, but scrabbled along the wall and pulled himself up. The smoke was thicker now, and some part of his brain seemed to be reminding him to stay low, under the smoke, under the chemical fire suppressants. Under-

No. Need a breather. The smoke was burning his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t- his fingers closed on the breather hanging on the rack and nearly dropped it; his fingers weren’t working. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t– he slid down the wall and tried weakly to keep the breather over his mouth as everything faded to black.

Consciousness returned in flashes like pictures being taken in a photo booth. Click. Lights. Red and blue, above the greenhouse. Click. Shadows outside. People. Click. Face. In a mask, bending over him. Waving frantically. Click. He was being picked up. Carried. Where were they going? Click. More lights. In a… ship. Ambulance? Face. Bending over him again. Click. They were flying away, on Mars.

~

Then, suddenly, he was awake again.

“Ah, back with us, I see.”

The voice was familiar. He knew that voice. Who was that? There was something under his nose- no, it was in his nose and-

“Don’t mess with it,” the voice said. “Here-” he heard the sound of something being set aside, and then footsteps, and the familiar face of Old Mrs. Simpkins leaned over him. She pushed his hands away from his face and pressed a button somewhere above him, and suddenly the bed was moving upward. “Let’s sit you up a bit, dear.”

He was in a hospital. There was a wide window to one side of the room. The turquoise-green glowing panel of a bioscanner arched above the length of his bed. Behind him, he knew, would be the panel with readouts of all his vitals.

“What-” he croaked. “What happened?”

“You set your kitchen on fire, dear, and nearly burned down your house,” Old Mrs. Simpkins replied. She gave one of his pillows a pat and then walked back over to her seat and picked up her knitting again. “It was lucky for you I was out checking fences in the enclosures, otherwise I might not have seen the smoke.”

“The house?”

“Once the fire brigade put out the fire, the nanobots started the clean-up process, and the repair crew deployed nicely from your garage. By the time you’re out of here, it should be patched up a treat. You know how well those repair crews work. Won’t even be a soot stain when they’re done.”

Alistair sagged in relief.

“Did you bring me here?”

“Oh, goodness no,” Old Mrs. Simpkins replied. “I popped over when I saw the fire brigade was there and watched them fish you out. It was a close-run thing, you know. You looked quite a mess.” She nodded at his arms. “Your arms were especially badly burnt.”

Alistair looked down at his arms, noticing the bandages for the first time. “How bad?”

“You’ll have to ask the doctors when they come in,” Old Mrs. Simpkins replied. “You know how treatments are these days. No need for skin grafts or anything barbaric like that. They just slap a stem cell salve on it with a sprinkling of nanobots and let them do the rest.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry you had to come all this way, Mrs. Simpkins,” Alistair swallowed. It was getting easier to talk, but his throat was still very raw.

“It’s no trouble at all, dear boy,” she replied. “I had to have a liver replacement about eight months or so after Henry died and…” she tugged on the yarn ball to free more wool. “I had no one to keep me company. Even a little bit. I figured you could use some.”

Alistair felt a rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Stephen had always liked Mrs. Simpkins. They traded recipes and produce over the years and even went to farmers’ markets together. Alistair, always buried in whatever novel or draft or revision he was working on at the time, had always found her to be something of a prickly old busybody.

“Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, dear boy.” She glanced up at the door. “Ah, the doctor’s here. I think that’s my cue to go.” She picked up her knitting bag, slipped her yarn and what looked like the beginnings of a scarf into the bag, and stood up. “I’ve got some things to attend to at home. I can pop back later and bring you something if you’d like. Maybe tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Alistair replied. He coughed weakly. “With some honey, maybe?”

“Honey, it is,” Mrs. Simpkins replied with a grin. She slung her bag over her shoulder and, with a nod to the doctor, made her way out of the room.

The doctor waited until she was completely out of the room before speaking. “Mr. Coney, I’m Doctor Brannigan. How are we doing today?”

“I’m fine…” Alistair said. “Throat’s a little sore and-” his stomach gurgled. “I think I might be a little bit hungry.”

“I can have some food sent up after we’re done here,” Brannigan said. “Medically, you’re doing quite well, and I anticipate we can probably have you out of here in a few days, but there is one rather delicate matter I need to discuss with you.”

Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his bed. “Sure, Doctor. Whatever you need.”

“There’s a chance the Garda will be along at some point to ask you some questions as well, so I wanted to hopefully have a conversation before they get here.”

“The Garda? What for?”

“You appear to have attempted to set your house on fire, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “They’re not a particularly busy bunch around these parts as it is, and a potential arson is something of a novelty for Mars.”

“Arson?” Alistair was incredulous. “You think I tried to burn down my own house?”

“I don’t know what to think about that, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “What I do know is that when you were brought in, your blood alcohol level was something on the order of,” he looked down at the pad in his hand and swiped over. “Looks like it was about a .251.”

“Is that… a lot?”

“Yes, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “It’s a lot. You were extremely intoxicated.”

“I like a glass of wine with my dinner, Doctor,” Alistair said, defensively. “Is that so wrong?”

“A glass wouldn’t be wrong at all,” Brannigan replied. “But this wasn’t just a nice glass of wine with your dinner, and I think you know that.”

Alistair had no reply to that. He could feel himself wanting to deny the doctor’s insinuation. He could feel himself wanting to be angry, to shout, to accuse the doctor of anything and everything to get him to go away and leave him alone. He wanted to go home. Back to the empty house where he could be alone and-

“Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “Can you tell me how much you had to drink that night?”

Very slowly, Alistair shook his head.

“I see from your history that your husband died about six months ago,” Brannigan said. “You have a daughter back on Terra. Your agent and your professional contacts are all back on Terra-”

“That’s not true,” Alistair said. “The publishing house has a small office over on Pavonis Mons.”

“Most of your professional contacts, then,” Brannigan said. “Look, Mr. Coney, you’re an intelligent man. I’m not going to beat around the bush with you any longer. Your record shows no indication of any grief counseling-”

“I’m trying to write a book, Doctor. I don’t have time for any of that.”

“You’ve been isolating yourself,” Brannigan continued as if he had not interrupted. “I think you’ve been self-medicating your grief and using the excuse of writing a new book to excuse yourself from seeking even the slightest amount of support after the profound and deep loss you’ve suffered.”

“I’ve got a contract with my publisher, Doctor. I need to write. If I don’t write, I don’t get paid,” Alistair said, peevishly. Part of him knew that the doctor was just trying to help, but part of him didn’t care. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I didn’t say you were. I think you suffered a tremendous loss. You’re a professional who has a deadline that’s weighing on your mind, and you wouldn’t be the first person to try and self-medicate their way out of a problem,” Brannigan replied.

“So, what, are you going to send me to rehab?” Alistair asked, snidely. “I don’t have time to get locked away to dry out for a month. I have-”

“I know,” Brannigan said. “A book to write. I get that. And I’m surprised a writer who is known for well-researched books could think we’d still use something as antiquated as rehab to treat alcohol addiction.”

Alistair flushed, and a slight smile flashed across Brannigan’s face as he realized he had scored a palpable hit on Alistair’s bruised ego. “I don’t have a drinking problem,” he said stubbornly. “I’m fine.”

“Can you tell me how your kitchen caught fire?” Brannigan asked. When Alistair said nothing, he continued. “Because the Garda will be interested in that. They will be asking all kinds of annoying, time-consuming questions that might lead them to inconvenient conclusions.”

“Such as?”

“You burned down your kitchen deliberately.”

“Why would I do that?” Alistair scoffed. “That’s preposterous.”

“I agree,” Brannigan said. “But can you prove it? You know how the local Garda are. There will be interviews upon interviews, and they’ll want to try and get forensic restoration of any video and flame patterns. Whether they find anything or not is immaterial, and we both know it. They will be an annoyance that will last weeks at best and months at worst, and you have a book to write.”

Alistair sighed. “I know when someone’s trying to offer me a deal, Doctor. What are you proposing?”

“A retreat.”

“That sounds a lot like rehab to me,” Alistair said.

“Look, Mr. Coney,” Brannigan said. “We don’t need things like rehab anymore. There are… forms of it out there these days, and some of the old ones prefer that model because it’s what they grew up with, but we can treat addiction. We can give you medication right now that will stop you drinking for as long as you like and, if I honestly thought you had a drinking problem, I’d prescribe them right now.”

“So why don’t you?” Alistair flared up. “You think I burned down my kitchen and nearly my house because I was drunk?” (You were, a tiny part of him whispered. And you know it, too.)

“Because the alcohol was just the medication you had at hand,” Brannigan said. “Your real problem was the isolation. This should help with that if you let it.”

Alistair sighed. “Where is it?”

“Not far. Melas Chasma,” Brannigan replied. He swiped a couple of times on the pad in his hand before handing it over to Alistair. “There, see for yourself.”

Alistair, reluctance pouring off of him, swiped through the pictures. It did look idyllic, he had to admit.

“It’s got all the amenities you could ask for,” Brannigan said. “Practically a spa.”

“How much of my time is my own?” Alistair asked, with obvious reluctance.

“I’m going to recommend two hours of therapy a day, one individual session, and one group session. There are no narcotics, alcohol, stimulants, or things of that nature. The nutrition and exercise facilities are top-notch. The views can’t be beat, and you can write as much as you need to.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Alistair admitted reluctantly. “And this would satisfy the Garda?”

“If you agreed to seek treatment and grief counseling, I could persuade them to leave things alone,” Brannigan said.

“You’re pretty persuasive?” Alistair asked.

“We both know if the Garda dig around, it’ll be more out of boredom than anything else,” Brannigan said. “So, yeah, I can be pretty persuasive, Mr. Coney. I seem to have persuaded you, after all.”

“I haven’t said yes yet, Doctor,” Alistair pointed out.

“But you’re going to,” Brannigan noted. “I think you could use some assistance right now, and I think the most important thing for you is to be around people for a while. At least until you get your feet back under you.”

“All right,” Alistair sighed. “I’ll need to get some things from the house.”

“We’ll have whatever you need brought to you here,” Brannigan said. “Then you can go directly to the retreat in Melas Chasma.” He glanced down at the padd in his hand. “Assuming there’s no scarring issues in your lungs, we can probably get you out of here in a couple of days.”

“Leaving nothing to chance, are you, Doctor?”

“Nope,” Brannigan said. “I’ll have one of the nurses bring you a commpadd so you can notify whomever you like about your absence.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Alistair said. With a nod, Brannigan left the room, leaving Alistair alone with his thoughts. He fixed his gaze on the window, which looked across the narrow branch canyon that had been domed and sealed some decades before. Marineris Town was beautiful, lush, and green, with micro farms and orchards rubbing shoulders with townhomes and apartment complexes, some of them seeming to ooze out of the canyon walls themselves.

He let his mind wander back to the events of the previous night, trying to find some piece of evidence in his memory that could prove the doctor wrong. He remembered… nothing. Maybe writing? He had to have worked on the book and…

“Wine,” he said aloud to the window, for that was true. He remembered a bottle. Their last bottle of an exceptional Italian red had been brought back from Terra on their last trip back to see Aleesha and Katya. The bottle, where was it? Sitting on the table, in the… he squeezed his eyes shut and reached for the memory, hoping it would give him something more. But, there was nothing. Just that last bottle of Italian Red, sitting on the table in their living room, Stephen’s favorite room in the house, with the best views of Mars, staring out across the impossible immensity of Marineris Canyon.

“I don’t have a problem,” he said aloud to the window again, but he now knew his heart wasn’t in it and sighed heavily. “It might help with the book, at least,” he said. It wouldn’t hurt- he knew that much as well, and with that, Alistair put the events of the previous night away from him. The deepest part of him knew that Brannigan was probably correct and that he had probably been drunk and tried to cook something in the kitchen. He would also never admit to it, but Brannigan’s diagnosis had cut him uncomfortably close to the bone. He had been lonely. The grief had been eating him. He hadn’t talked to anyone about it, because who was there? It wasn’t right to worry Aleesha about it- she was back on Terra, too far away to do anything about it. Their friends and social circle had been Stephen’s more than his. After the funeral and the cards and the flowers and the messages of condolences had flooded in, the deluge of them all had faded to a trickle, and then nothing.

And Alistair had realized how alone he was.

“You all right, love?” He turned away from the window as the nurse bustled in.

“I’m fine.”

“All right then,” she handed him a commpad. “Doctor Brannigan said you would be wanting this to make some calls, send some messages, that sort of thing.”

“Thank you,” Alistair replied.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Alistair replied.

“Well, the doctor put some orders in for you, so we’ll be back in a bit with some medication, and maybe, if you’re up to it, we could talk about dinner.”

“Sounds… good,” Alistair said.

“See you in a bit,” and with that, the nurse bustled out, and Alistair was left holding the commpadd in his hand.

“Might as well get this over with,” he muttered as he tapped open the commpadd and started searching for Janney’s contact information. Soon enough, he found it, sent the message request, and settled back into his bed to wait. With the new system of comsats coming online across the solar system, there was still a communications lag between planets even today; it was nowhere near as bad as the twenty minutes, or so it used to be, but still, it was a minute or two before the screen flickered to life and there was Janney, his agent, smiling up at him.

“Alistair Coney! How is my favorite Martian author?” she frowned. “More importantly, where is my favorite Martian author? That doesn’t look like your house.”

“It’s not,” Alistair replied. “Listen, I don’t want you to freak out, but I’m… I’m in the hospital.”

One of Janney’s eyebrows arched skyward, but she said nothing, waiting for him to continue, so he did.

“I… uh… I had a little too much to drink last night and… sort of set the house on fire.”

“You did what?” Janney asked, incredulously. “Is the book all right?”

Alistair rolled his eyes at that. “Yes, Janney, the book is fine.”

“See, this is why I don’t like it that you use that ridiculous typewriter of yours. If something happened to all that paper-”

“I back everything up, Janney, you know that,” Alistair put in. “I’m fine, too.”

“What are they treating you for? Do I need to come up there? Do I need to make some calls? Do I-”

“Janney, relax!” Alistair held up a hand to interrupt her. “I picked up some minor burns, and they’re treating me for smoke inhalation, obviously, but they also want me to go to a retreat for thirty days.”

“A retreat?”

“Yeah,” Alistair said, trying not to sound evasive. “It’s over in Melas Chasma. Lots of people, nice spa-like atmosphere, and plenty of time to write.”

“Thirty days, huh.” It wasn’t a question. “Alistair, should I be worried about you?”

“I’m fine, Janney. I’ll be back at it in a few days, and maybe a change of scenery will help the writing a bit.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she said nothing for a long moment until she finally nodded. “All right. You get better, you hear? And keep me updated, will you?”

“I will, Janney.” Then, he ended the call and sagged back into his bed. He stared up at the bio scanner above him. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Not as bad as the next call is going to be, though, he finished the thought in his head. He took a deep breath, punched in his daughter Aleesha’s comm ID, and sent the message.

Alistair was thinking that, maybe, he would get lucky and she wouldn’t answer. He was just reaching to close the comm line search when the screen flickered on, and there she was, beaming with delight.

“Dad!”

Alistair grinned despite himself. “Hey, kiddo!” He marveled at her, as he had every day since the first day he and Stephen had been handed a bundle at the creche on Pavonis, and marveled together at the daughter they had created. Aleesha was grown now, back on Terra working on environmental restoration, as all the young people seemed to be doing these days. She had a wife and a beautiful house on the Mongolian steppes. She rode horses now! He and Stephen had worried about the potential detriments of Terra’s heavier gravity, but she had done what all the medical doctors had recommended and didn’t even need a support suit these days.

“I’ve got big news, Dad,” Aleesha said. “I can’t-” she frowned. “Wait, are you at home?”

“Uh, no, honey, I’m not. I’m-”

“Is that a bioscanner?” Aleesha’s eyes widened in alarm. “Dad, are you in the hospital? What happened? Do I need to–”

“Kiddo!” Alistair held up a hand and then realized his mistake as she saw the bandages on his arms. “It’s nothing! I…” You got blind, stinking drunk and nearly burned the house down. “I had a little accident in the kitchen. The pot of water it… slipped and, well,” he held up both his arms. “I got burned.”

“Dad!” Aleesha sounded shocked. “Are you okay? Do I need to”

“Kiddo, I’m going to be out of here in a couple of days,” Alistair said. “I’m fine. Really. Mrs. Simpkins is coming back later with some of her tea and honey for me. It was just an accident, is all.”

“You sure?” Even across the two-hundred-million-mile gap between Mars and Terra, her gaze was piercing and direct, and for one moment, Alistair considered telling her the truth, but just as quickly decided against it. He loved his daughter more than anything in this world, but she worried way too much, and she was too far away to have to worry about her old man.

“I’m sure,” Alistair replied. “You said you had big news?” That’s right, try to change the subject as quickly as you can. You got blind, stinking drunk and nearly burned the house down.

Her smile- she didn’t get that smile from you, that’s for sure- lit up the screen. “Our permits came through, Dad, and we got the first implantation results yesterday. Katya’s pregnant. You’re going to be a grandpa!”

Alistair’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I am?”

“You are!” Aleesha’s smile grew even wider. Then, it fell, and a shadow crossed her face. “I only wish…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Ah, me too, kiddo,” Alistair choked out, feeling the emotion rising in his chest. “I wish he were here, too. He’d be so damn excited.”

“He would have called every day,” Aleesha said, wiping away a tear that was rolling down her cheek. “Every day. And he would have been sending me so much stuff.”

“Oh, you know it, kiddo,” Alistair said. “I’m pretty sure he has a box all ready to go, I’ll have to send you.”

“A box?”

“Blankets, binkies, outfits, stuffed animals, and various other things he would pick up over the years. Just in case,” Alistair rolled his eyes. “I always thought it was a bit extra of him, but you know your Pops. It never hurts-”

“To be prepared,” Aleesha finished with a choked-up laugh.

“How far along is Katya?”

“Not far. About eight weeks.”

“Everything looking good?”

“So far,” Aleesha replied.

Alistair smiled. “You know, if Pops were here, he’d want me to ask-”

Aleesha rolled her eyes. “No, Dad, we’re not finding out the biological gender of the baby. Don’t be so 21st-century about it.”

Alistair laughed. “Kiddo, you don’t need to convince me, I’m just rooting for ten fingers, ten toes, and a healthy baby and Mama.”

“Us too, Dad,” Aleesha said.

The nurse bustled back in, saw he was talking to someone, and stepped back to wait patiently. “Hey, kiddo, I think I’ve got to go. The nurse is here again.”

“Sounds good, Dad,” Aleesha replied. “Let me know when you get out of there and back home, okay?”

“I will, honey, but-” he frantically scrabbled around for some excuse to give her. “I’ll be going away for a bit to try and work on the book some.”

“Going away?”

“Yeah, not far,” Alistair reassured her. “Just a retreat over in Melas Chasma for a few weeks. Change of scenery, that kind of thing.”

“I think that sounds great, Dad,” Aleesha replied. “You’ll call me, though?”

“Yes, kiddo, I’ll check in.”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” Alistair replied. “Love you, kiddo. You give Katya and that wee baby love from Grandpa, will you?”

“I will, Dad,” Aleesha smiled. “Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, kiddo,” Alistair replied. Then the screen faded to black, and Alistair leaned back into his pillows and stared up at the bioscanner above the bed, faintly pulsing in green.

“You thought about dinner yet, Mr. Coney?” the nurse asked.

Alistair shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“Well, you think about it a bit longer, and I’ll get the dressing changes all set, and we’ll be back to check those and change them.”

“All right,” Alistair replied faintly. The nurse bustled off again, and Alistair was left alone in the room, staring into the faint, pulsing green light, wondering how a person can be both incredibly happy and devastated all at the same time.

~