Brushing Sand

Fiction - by Ryan F. Love

Answer number one: it was beautiful, and then it was dust, and then it was both.

I remember seeing the rover for the first time. I almost didn’t want to touch it, like it was holy, a bone from a saint. Then I stepped back and saw my bootprint next to it, and I knew, fully, where we were.

The four of us had studied Mars exhaustively for years and viewed every image, still or moving, dozens or hundreds of times. We had felt the sand that first sample-return drone recovered: a box of precious nothingness, 10 centimeters square, every grain analyzed and formulated by celebrated scientists. They learned so little from it. But what we felt, we chosen four who immersed tentative fingers within it, let it rest in the grooves of our fingerprints—that sand had been life itself. Our lives, our future.

Here, on the surface, it stretched before us without end. Every cardinal direction an expanse of red and rock and promise.

You asked, in question four, if I regret it, and I do not have an answer. I have spent my life as Olivia Reynolds who went to Mars. Give any of us foreknowledge and there are things we would prevent, but that isn’t quite the same thing, is it? There is Martian sand in my arteries, Dr. Westhall, and I do not know what else could have been. Mars has a way of killing speculation.

We had no spare moments in those early days. It was my business to tend the plants in the two Life Support Units. Only those in Unit A had survived—the well-publicized glitch in Unit B had of course been corrected, but not soon enough to save the plants. Some others called that failure a disaster, and even the Mars Two founder called it “a hurdle.” Privately, I considered it my ticket: the urgency of the plant life guaranteed that a naturalist would be among the First Four—

It's strange to say that phrase. I wrote it in these notes, but it’s been so long since I said it aloud…

—As I was saying, Dr. Westhall, they needed a naturalist because the well-publicized glitch in Unit B had been corrected, but not soon enough to save the plants. We knew there would be no more seeds or sprouts from Earth for two years, so I needed to salvage everything I could. As soon as Ben—our electrical engineer—certified that Unit B could sustain vegetation, I transplanted the second and fourth healthiest bean plants from Unit A to it. The transfer of even one plant consumed the better part of a day. I’m sure the multi-step protocols and safety checks sound absurd to any gardeners you know, but then, their lives don’t depend on their zinnias. When those two plants survived, I transplanted more. When you’ve got so few eggs, multiple baskets.

I hope that answers part of your second question: I was chosen because I am a naturalist and could care for the plants. For a long time, I wondered whether someone else would have been a more precise fit. A botanist, an environmental scientist, a geologist. But colonization requires varied skill sets, and I had at least some background in all those areas. According to the mission roadmap, the First— excuse me. The First Four had to perform all necessary tasks and maintain our health for two years, unaided. Ben Hamlin is an electrical engineer, but with a secondary degree in astronomy. (He’s avoided interviews for a long time now, but you should hear him talk about the stars, Dr. Westhall.) Dev Arya was chosen as a physician, but had also written code for life support systems in hospitals. Melissa Knight—Missy—was a psychiatrist who worked with NASA, but had a background in statistical analysis. In her spare time, she summitted mountains. Missy was the only one I knew before joining Mars Two. We had spent some time together in college, friends of friends.

We were all 28 or younger when we left Earth, two males and two females, because they were planning ahead for phase two. But as you know, subsequent events rendered that planning irrelevant.

While I was occupied with the plants, Ben surveyed the electronics. Missy pored over the environmental and maintenance data the system had been collecting. Dev checked our baseline health metrics from the journey against our daily test results, and he confirmed the suitability of the life support systems in the Living Quarters. 

We all built. The mission architects had determined that colonists should supervise the robots and erect new structures ourselves, seeking guidance from Mars Two staff as needed. I had assumed the architects tasked us with building to prevent the hiccups of fully remote construction; after all, Life Support Unit B had failed because engineers on Earth hadn’t analyzed the ground adequately. I came to recognize they had a second reason for charging us with the building.

We needed something to do.

After seven months, we completed construction of Living Quarters 2, Storage Unit 3, and Life Support Unit C, and we enjoyed our first relaxation since we’d landed. We explored. Missy showed me climbing techniques. I conducted experiments with Ben and Dev. Ben and I occasionally freelanced from the Mars Two manual; Dev wouldn’t. We were children on the playground of our dreams.

A sandstorm struck during our third week of ease. Dev and I had begun prepping the Mars Two rover for a joyride: exploring land formations fell within mission protocols, so I could persuade him to come with only mild teasing. It was to be our third trek across and up Olympus Mons in as many weeks. (That’s a shield volcano, Dr. Westhall. Sorry… I forget this isn’t your field.) The sand picked up suddenly. Viciously. We grabbed a couple items from the rover and made for our quarters. We shut off all non-essential systems after 36 hours, unsure of how many days would pass before the sun could recharge our power supply. It was like the voyage again, cramped and enclosed, but this time, we lacked anticipation. We saw no stars through the windows. We made no progress. We watched the swirling Martian dust for more than two days. It was our longest storm yet.

After a sandstorm, cleaning the solar arrays took four times as long. Every day required at least two of us to tend the panels. The mechanical rotating brushes were only 75 percent effective, and worse if we allowed dust to accumulate on their arms, so we had to clean by hand. Two hours per day, on a good day.

If you need an illustrative example for your students, Dr. Westhall, there it is. Two hours per day peering through my visor at the crevices in a solar array. Standing, kneeling, clutching a brush through my glove. We ‘rock paper scissors’ to determine who gets the fine brush and who gets the medium, for variety.

We each had our expertise, but as the months passed, it all became the same routine. We had our experiments and details to monitor and realign, monitor and realign. All the duties amounted to the same thing: a quantity of daily time spent. Run bristles over surfaces and through crevices, stand or kneel. Repeat.

And so, nine months into the mission, we were unhealthily restless. Dev’s medical exams and Missy’s psych evaluations both reflected our elevated stress. On Earth, I hiked. I kayaked. I worked hours that my fellow post-docs marveled at, but I worked them in the corner shop with a latte, or in my office, or in the lab. I would prepare for a certain conference, or tomorrow’s class, or a submission deadline; I would talk to or message dozens of people in the course of that work. When I went home to sleep for a few hours I would jog to my apartment, or Uber if it was raining or late, and the buildings and people and trees would pass by.

On Mars, we brandished our brushes at the red sand. We monitored and realigned. During sandstorms, we watched television already watched on the voyage.

We were constant company, but good company. Once, a sandstorm battered the planet for four days. When the storm broke briefly in the third afternoon, we rushed outside and put our plan into action: Ben, Missy and Dev cleared as many solar panels as possible to maximize the recharging, and I examined the plants in the Life Support Units.

Several transplanted varieties had reproduced: very soon, we could eat something that had not been freeze-dried. The mission architects had carefully calculated the minimum quantity of each food crop needed to sustain everyone when the next six colonists arrived. I tracked the progress of our garden in line graphs, crop production over time: orange for carrots, yellow for corn, purple for eggplant. Each graph displayed a smooth, exponential black curve: the equation that guaranteed the survival of ten adults and four projected children. Per protocol, I calculated growth daily, projecting in how many days the data would grant permission for a harvest. Less usefully, I sometimes measured microns between the food’s imperfect curve and Mars Two’s stark black equation. The distance was shrinking.

Ben poked his head in: “Back to the dugout, Livy Lou,” he told me. “Storm’s picking up again.” (Quarters are always “the dugout” to Ben; I am always “Livy Lou” because he tried it once and I laughed.)

I put the head of lettuce on the table around which Ben, Missy and Dev were already seated. Everyone was silent. The sand lashed our quarters.

“Are you sure, Olivia?” Missy asked.

“Yes.”

“By protocol?” Dev asked.

“No,” I answered. “Not by protocol. Not quite.”

Everyone waited for his reaction. Dev looked to the window, and we all saw the mass of dust closing our reprieve. 

The leaf crunched as Dev pulled it off. He held its green over the table.

“A breaking of bread,” he suggested. All four of us grabbed an edge, tore. We chewed. Hunkered around that table, we shared every green tatter. 

Your sixth question asked me about a high point: the First Four together in a sandstorm, eating Martian lettuce. I had known Missy for six years then, and for three I had witnessed nearly all her waking hours. I cannot recall another time her eyes moistened. She told me later that evening, “You are the bond of us, Olivia.” If I’m honest, Dr. Westhall, it was the first time I felt I belonged on the mission.

We fit, Missy and Dev and Ben and me. We agreed early in the voyage to avoid romantic relationships until others arrived. Officially, Mars Two expected nothing, yet our trainers had winked favorably whenever they broached the subject. We four agreed: no relationships, no intercourse, no risk of offspring until others came and proved the colony sustainable. Some of us may have wanted relationships, or children… After all this time, it’s hard to be sure. Ben and Dev are brothers to me. Sometimes, when Missy did not think anyone was looking, I think I saw smiles that she reserved for Dev. I don’t know now.

Mars Two mission roadmap said a new supply delivery would arrive 26 months after we had. That was our only active deadline, and as I said, we were fully ready in seven. When our wait ended, we would unload the cargo and prepare all units for the next arrival: six new people, two established couples among them, in another 26 months. That deadline signified purpose. It meant a real colony. Children.

We had been on Mars nearly two years when the corporation confessed the delay. A coding error caused a miscalculation of the cargo transport’s trajectory, and flawed exhaust valves thwarted every effort to correct course. The transport would miss, rendering the promised supplies interplanetary detritus. They would send an updated timeline. 

It came just a few weeks after our second anniversary. Missy and I were brushing when Ben radioed, “Come back, now,” and we ran.

There would be no cargo or colonists. Efforts to secure funding had fallen through. The wide publicity given the transport’s malfunction and loss had sown doubt, and “too few remember what Mars Two represents,” the founder told us in the message. Bankruptcy, reorganization. They would attempt every means to bring us home, petitions filed with various governments, they would never give up. The First Four, the founder told us at the end, would always have a place in history.

I cried. Ben kicked the wall again and again. Missy just sat.

No one spoke until Dev asked, “Where are the brushes?”

Missy went to retrieve them, and I retreated to my plants. 

As far as I know, none of us spoke again until the next morning at breakfast. Missy insisted we all come. She set ground rules. We had typically taken our meals together, even when we had just been opening packages of ultra-protein cubes. Now, she made meals together mandatory. We were forbidden two mealtime topics: the Mars Two mission, and sand. She expected each of us to sign up for counseling sessions every other day. Ben had some choice words about her system and stormed to the rover. I planned to talk him down, but later I saw he had scrawled his name on the whiteboard.

You asked about dying. Question seven. It was clear we would die here. None of us vocalized that understanding, but we had no illusions about anyone coming on a rescue mission, no matter what the founder’s message had said. Governments were not going to bail out Earth’s most expensive, most infamously failed corporation. Missy asked us about suicide at some point during each session.

Once, Ben and I were brushing—how many hours of my life have I spent brushing sand?—and I hadn’t noticed the winds rising. Ben radioed, “Looks like it’s dugout time, Livy Lou,” and I didn’t want anyone near me, so I responded that I wanted to check on the plants and would catch up. Inside Life Support C, I looked at the most recent transplants and they were fine. I measured nothing and recorded nothing. They were sheltered from the sand battering the walls, so they were growing fine, and if I died they would grow fine, and if we all died they would still grow fine, maybe for years.

I decided they wouldn’t. I pulled the heat lamp switch to “Off” and went outside.

Visibility was bad and deteriorating. Our quarters appeared intermittently when the winds slowed a moment. I moved a few paces toward the unit, but then turned and stepped into the expanse. I stood and watched an eternity of red sand whip around me, everywhere, pressing every centimeter of my suit and visor while I felt nothing. I screamed. Ben’s voice said “Livy Lou” and then “Olivia!” in my earpiece while I screamed until my breath gave out, and then I screamed again. I screamed at the sand and I stepped forward into it, one footfall at a time, and as the sand battered my visor I screamed my reply.

I shook off Ben’s first touch. I surrendered when he took hold of my arm and let him lead me back, following the line Dev and Missy had anchored for him.

Answer number five. My low point.

The storm lasted only a few hours, and Unit C’s plants survived.

In the months that followed, we learned to cope, each in our own way. Mars Two had chosen the right psychiatrist. Living in a series of tin cans clustered on a barren planet, Missy created the space for us to grieve and search for answers. Thanks to her, I think I’ve found them.

One day, Dev woke up and found her note.

Only recently, 27 years later, have we started to share our thoughts about that day. Ben said she must have cracked. Dev said we put too much pressure on her, that we took too much and gave her nothing in return. I told them they were wrong. Missy did not crack, and we did not fail her. We held her here. 

We all agree our search would have ended the same way no matter what we tried. Her tracks had shifted in the sand while we slept, and hours before we found the note she would have exposed her lungs to Mars, just as she had decided.

Missy reasoned through everything. She understood we would never be a colony and we would never go home, and she calculated: she did not want that life. She wanted a say over fate, I think. And once she had helped us, once she knew we were going to be OK, she finished it.

We called it an accident in our transmissions. Making this recording, I very nearly perpetuated that falsehood. But you asked about dying, Dr. Westhall, and it can hardly matter after all this time.

You also asked about living. I know I skipped around, but I think that’s the only question left.

We’re all in good health, Dev assures us, and barring accidents have many years ahead of us. Still, the hourglass never stops draining. After Missy, we made a pact so that none of us will be alone. When one of us passes, the other two will choose a date within three months. We will toast one another with ground-up pills and close the book of the First Four.

Till then, we talk, we re-watch television shows. We remember, and we eat meals together like Missy said. We still get short messages from Earth family, and send them. When Mars Two folded, NASA began managing the communications orbiter that passes over our settlement for eight minutes each day. One hundred megabits at a time, we get reading material. Brian, the NASA engineer in charge, always sends a joke. (Yesterday’s: “Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.”) 

We monitor all the equipment, and I tend to our plants in Units A , B and C. Ben still can’t grow a plant to save his life, but it turns out Dev has quite the green thumb. We drive the rover to the summit of Olympus Mons. We clear the sand every day because it is our task. We watch the sand. On Earth people talk of colors like red, scarlet, vermillion, burnt sienna, crimson, carmine. On Mars there are additional shades.

I surprised myself when I agreed to answer your questions, Dr. Westhall. We responded to questions regularly for several years. Scientists communicated just until we could offer nothing new, but the curiosity of schoolchildren lasted longer. Even when public interest in our situation dwindled, we would get the odd request from a high school looking to “make science real” or inspire its pupils. Some teacher would send a list of questions to Brian, who after all gets paid to send them on; we would return an audio transmission, taking care to use the names of those asking the questions so they would feel special. But it is frustrating to be a curiosity, and worse yet to be a role model. They would ask what inspired me to go to Mars, and every time I answered, I’d imagine Missy’s body somewhere out in the sand. I held on to the ritual of responding to students longer than Ben or Dev, but when I could no longer fake inspiration I stopped.

Your questions wanted something else. 

When I was deciding whether to respond, I asked Brian to transmit the syllabus from your philosophy class; I wanted to see how a recording from an abandoned colonist would fit your curriculum. And when I saw The Myth of Sisyphus on the list, I remembered reading it during my own college days, so I asked Brian to send me the text. Mythology always drew me, and I recalled liking the philosophical take on Sisyphus, eternally and futilely rolling his rock uphill.

I thought, Dr. Westhall, that I would end this recording with an adaptation of sorts. Apologies to Camus.

When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy rises in a human’s heart; this is the sand’s victory, this is the sand itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.

One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. Happiness and the absurd are two daughters of the same planet. They are inseparable.

Sisyphus’s fate belongs to her. Her sand is her thing. At that subtle moment when woman glances backward over her life, Sisyphus returning to brush her sand, in that slight pivoting she contemplates that series of unrelated actions which becomes her fate, created by her, combined under her memory’s eye and soon sealed by death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, she is still on the go. The sand is still blowing.

I leave Sisyphus among the sand! Each atom of that sand in itself forms a world. The struggle toward clarity is enough to fill a woman’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.