Hi darlins,
I know, this isn't The Tank. But I've been in the midst of my MFA residency since Saturday, I'm revising as fast as my fingers can fly for Pitch Wars, and I'm writing another novel that I'm trying to finish by the end of the month. And whenever I'm home, it's kidlet time, because I miss her even if she seems perfectly happy with daddy.
My brain is exhausted. I needed a break from something today, so I'm giving you an excerpt of
Evergreen, an m/m sci-fi novella that was previously published in an anthology with LT3, like, six years ago? And basically nobody read it? So this will be new for almost all of you! I'm republishing it early next week on Amazon, so...keep your eyes open, it'll be coming down the pipe.
The premise is near-future, preparing for a one-way mission to Mars.
***
The International
Space Agency (ISA) welcomes you to your new position as a candidate for Project
Evergreen, the next stage in humanity's cooperative exploration of our closest
planetary neighbor, Mars. Congratulations on everything you have accomplished in
order to make it to our advanced training program. Now that you're an official
candidate, we recommend you assess your commitment to the goal of Project Evergreen,
which is permanent residency for all crew members at Martian Base One (MB1). If
this is incompatible with your expectations, please remove yourself from the
candidate pool before we continue to invest in your training. We want only the
most motivated candidates available. Remember, for every one of you who reaches
this stage of training, ten thousand others are vying for your place. –ISA
Project Evergreen Handbook
Cyril's
first week in the space program wasn't at all what he'd expected.
He
had anticipated plenty of tests, naturally; the governments and corporate
sponsors in charge of the program only accepted the best of the best, and that
meant you didn't stand a chance of getting in unless you knew your specialty
inside and out. Competition in the private sector was stiff, but competition
within the military was insane, which was why Cyril was glad he'd spent the
past three years not just boning up on aerospace propulsion engineering, but
going all out on his fitness as well. All those agonizing 5:00 a.m. runs felt a
lot more gratifying now that he was the only person still standing after the
two-mile sprint.
"You
call that running?" Sergeant Malloy shouted from her place on the side of
the track as she watched the last of the brand-new military recruits stagger toward
the finish line. "I've seen better times out of eight-year-olds! You are
supposed to be the best, the brightest, the most motherfucking capable that six different nations have to offer! And
this is what you give me? China, nine minutes? Really?" She stood over one
of the gasping men and glowered at him. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Commander
Xiao, ma'am."
"At
least you can get it out without vomiting, unlike Captain America over here."
She gestured to the soldier who was bent over retching in the aftermath of his
run. "Or maybe that's just because it took you nine fucking minutes to run two miles! Honest to god, I am embarrassed for your home countries,
soldiers.
"And
here comes Australia and India, joining the class at last," the sergeant
yelled sarcastically as they stumbled in. "Ten goddamn minutes, which is
two minutes too long as far as I'm concerned. No, don't lie down!" she
added as both the soldiers dropped to the ground. "You don't get to lie
down and take a break for getting the worst times in the group! Did you think I'd
go easy on you because you're a woman, Flight-Lieutenant Brown? Both of you,
take another lap."
The
sergeant cast her eyes to the sky. "This is what we're manning missions to
Mars with now? Sad. Just sad. You all better make the most of your ability to
suck wind while you can, because breathable air's gonna be in short supply once
you get to MB1. You'll have to work, you'll have to think, you'll have to
fucking live with the constant threat
of running out of oxygen, so remember that when you're cursing me for being a
hard-ass about this. You're soldiers, not civilian scientists. You don't get to
play by their rules. If there's a sacrifice to be made, you'll be the ones at
the front of the line, which means you have to be ready! You have to be better!
You have to be the best!" Sergeant
Malloy crossed her arms. "And as of right now I see only one person who I
would even marginally qualify as acceptable. Russia! Come here!"
"Yes,
ma'am." Cyril stepped forward, very aware of his fellow recruits'
attention. He squared his shoulders and looked straight at the sergeant. He
didn't care what they thought of him. They could hate him, he could handle that.
He was never going to do less than his best for anything.
"Lieutenant
Commander Konstantin, correct?" Sergeant Malloy asked.
"Yes,
ma'am."
"Well,
whatever that stick up your ass is made of, boy, don't pull it out just yet. It
might be all that's holding you up."
Stick…what?
Cyril had split his time evenly between the US and Russia as a child, but he
hadn't heard that particular expression before. It had to be old. He heard the
man referred to as “Captain America” snicker, and forced himself not to react. "Ma'am,"
Cyril said evenly.
"Exactly."
Sergeant Malloy cast her gaze at the two stragglers who were just now finishing
their extra lap. "I think it's time for a nice, long hike. Get your packs
out of the shuttle and meet me at the foot of Flagstaff Mountain in five."
She waited for a second for it to sink in, then yelled, "Now, soldiers!"
The
ones on the ground hauled themselves, groaning, to their feet, except for the
American, who looked over at Cyril and held up a hand. "Help a mate out?"
American, with a British accent? It shouldn't have been surprising, everyone
here had multiple nationalities—it was one of the major requirements for every
member of the fourth mission to Mars—but for some reason that accent made Cyril
start. He stared blankly at the man.
"I
know I'm pretty, but there's no need to stare, now," he said cheekily. "You'll
get plenty of chances to ogle me later, luv. Gimme a hand before our little
reprieve is up."
Cyril
walked over, took his hand, and helped him to his feet. The man moved easily,
despite his ostensible exhaustion and the fact that he had at least twenty
pounds more muscle than Cyril. "I'm Scott Andrews. Captain Scott Andrews
of the USAF, if we're being specific about it, but you can call me Scottie."
"Lieutenant
Commander Cyril Konstantin, Russian Air Force," Cyril said. "Um, call
me Cyril."
"Well,
I would, but you don't really look like a Cyril to me," Scottie said
brightly. "Bit too prissy, despite what our dear sergeant says about that
stick in your ass. How d'you feel about Cy?"
"Cy?"
"No,
I'm not meant to respond to it, you
are," Scottie said with a wink.
"If
you children are done holding hands and playing nice," Sergeant Malloy
thundered at them, "may I remind you of the schedule you people are on? Get your asses up the mountain!"
"Will
do, Sergeant!" Scottie called out, then gently disengaged his hand from
Cyril's grip. Cyril flushed. He'd completely forgotten he'd been holding on. "Now,
Cy," Scottie said. "You're a lovely sprinter, but I'll wager I can
make it to the top of Flagstaff before you can." He turned around and took
off toward the mountain.
After
a moment, Cyril swore and ran after him.
***
We expect mission
candidates to maintain high levels of physical, emotional and psychological
fitness. You will be tested weekly on whether or not you adhere to the wellness
guidelines listed in Section 2.A. Refusal to follow any of the guidelines, but
most specifically those concerning mandatory meetings with your assigned
psychologist, is grounds for removal from the program. –ISA Project Evergreen
Handbook
In
that first week on base, Cyril spent more time with a psychologist than he had
since his mother's death ten years ago, and it wasn't going to let up anytime
soon. His shrink was a forthright civilian doctor named Sabine Granger who told
him, flat out, that she wasn't there to coddle him.
"After
the events of Tadpole, we're not willing to risk leaving anything to chance
with our recruits," she said at their first meeting. "It's my job to
ensure you have the coping mechanisms you'll need to live a healthy, productive
life on a world where you won't even be able to step outside without suiting up.
You will have little to no fresh food, you will have to conserve water, you'll
breathe recycled air and you'll see the same people over and over and over
again, every day, for the rest of your life. The prospect of that is more than
enough to make most people unstable."
"I
think I can handle it," Cyril said confidently.
"Everyone
thinks that at first," Dr. Granger replied, not unkindly. "Let's
start by talking about your military service. I'm particularly interested in
knowing why you chose to go into the military at all, given your family
connections."
Cyril
frowned without meaning to. Of course that
would have to come into things. "I have nothing to do with my father's
company."
"I
understand that you and your family are estranged, but keep in mind that
Konstantin International Corporation is one of the major funding sources of
this particular mission. It's only natural that some of your colleagues are
going to assume that it was your father's influence that got you your place
here, not your own skill. How do you think you'll handle that?"
"By ignoring them," Cyril said
tightly.
"Is
that how you handle everyone here that you have disagreements with, Cyril? By
ignoring them and hoping they go away?"
"It
works with most people," he replied. Then, in the interest of not having
his therapist drag it out of him, he added, "Except for one."
"Ah,
yes." The psychologist laced her fingers together and sat back in her
chair. "I was wondering if you would mention Captain Andrews. Do you know
he's the only person you've spoken more than five words to since you've been
here? Apart from me, that is."
Cyril
shrugged. "We've only been here a week. There are two hundred and fifty-nine
more to go before our mission is scheduled to leave. I think that gives me plenty
of time to get to know people."
"But
you and the rest of your squad will only spend half of that time with each
other," Dr. Granger pointed out. "The rest of the time you'll be
learning to integrate with the civilian science teams. One would imagine a
sense of camaraderie would be important, given that it's the twelve of you who'll
be taking on the most difficult environmental challenges on Mars. Now is the
time for you to learn to rely on each other, to trust each other. Why not make
more of an effort?"
"I
just… " After a moment, Cyril shrugged again. He didn't know what to say
to make her feel any better about him. "I understand what you're getting
at. I'm just slow to warm up to people. Captain Andrews approached me first,
and that made it easier."
"He's
a rather gregarious person."
"Everyone
likes him," Cyril agreed.
"How
do you feel about that?" Dr. Granger asked. "About sharing his
attention when you get so little from anyone else?"
"I’m
happy for him," Cyril replied. Dr. Granger sat in silence and looked at
him for a long moment, then straightened up.
"Back
to your military career, then."
Yes,
fine, that was something that Cyril had no problems talking about. As
soon as he'd been old enough, he'd left Moscow behind and moved to New York,
where he'd promptly enlisted in the air force’s joint training program with
Russia. It was one of the only ways he could think of to remove himself from
his father's influence, and even then the shadow of Konstantin International
Corporation followed his aspirations into the space program.
Cyril
counted it a blessing that he'd been selected for Evergreen. His father's
company might be bankrolling ten percent of the mission (perhaps as much as
fifteen percent, if you included KIC's proprietary plasma rocket technology)
but that was for purely mercenary reasons. A lot of money stood to be made from
a successful mission to Mars. Two of the first three had led to major
breakthroughs in space technology, and the one that had gone poorly had been
bloody and salacious enough that news companies had clamored to buy rights to
broadcast the videos sent back to Earth.
The
first mission to Mars had led to the establishment of MB1, humanity's first
Martian enclave. There had been ten astronauts, eight men and two women, from
three different countries. They had been the best and brightest that the early
twenty-first century had had to offer, but due to a shielding error, they'd all
died of radiation sickness and cancer within five years of arriving on Mars. The
technology didn't exist to send them back to Earth, not then, and so they'd
drawn their experiments to a close, done the best they could with the radiation
shielding so the next team would be better prepared, and then, one by one,
died.
The
second mission to Mars had been marred from the very beginning. It was wholly
funded by corporations who had been more interested in the notoriety of having their
own mission than the brutally hard work that went into making it successful. The
crew of the Tadpole had been small, only six people, and halfway to Mars their
pilot had quietly lost his sanity, waited for his fellow astronauts to fall
asleep, and then attacked them in their bunks with the spare fire extinguisher.
He'd killed three outright, wounded the other two, then holed himself up in the
pilot's capsule. After a seventeen-hour standoff, he'd opened the outer hatches.
The civilian-built vessel hadn't had the safety features to prevent him.
Everyone on board had been sucked into space, their bodies lost forever.
After
the Tadpole disaster, private corporations were banned from conducting their
own missions as a clamor for government oversight resurged, and the next
mission had been a joint venture between the US and China, to the exclusion of
everyone else. It had been highly successful, transporting fifty-two
scientists, all with military backgrounds, to the remains of MB1, where they
repaired the base, set up their own new experiments and generally made their
tiny claim on Mars' surface fit for living. Fifteen years later, almost all of
the crewmembers were still alive, and they were more than ready to welcome some
growth of their colony.
The
Third Wavers, as they were called, were currently building expansions to MB1 in
anticipation of the hundred and ten prospective colonists readying their own
mission to Mars right now. The fourth, and most current, one was meant to be
more evenhanded, with crewmember inclusions from all over the globe. Many of
the scientists were backed by corporate sponsors and academic institutions that
wanted a piece of their future research.
Cyril
probably could have made it in as a civilian scientist with his father's backing.
But he had never relied on his old man to help fulfill any of his dreams, and
he wasn't about to start with something as important and all-consuming as Project
Evergreen.
***
With regards to
interpersonal relationships, candidates are very strongly discouraged from
engaging in intimacy with fellow candidates. The training period you are
currently undergoing is meant to prepare you for the rigors of life on another
planet, and all of your attention should be dedicated to achieving this goal. If
your personal relationships become a stumbling block on the path to
successfully completing your training, be advised that you may be asked to
leave the program. –ISA Project Evergreen Handbook
Scott
Andrews was unique among the military recruits in that he had a civilian family
member tapped for Project Evergreen as well. A few of the married scientists
were going with their equally competent spouses, but there were no other
sibling pairs. Dr. Sophie Andrews was an astrobiologist whose proposal to do an
in-depth study on the tantalizing evidence for life sent back by previous
expeditions had caught the interest of several pharmaceutical and gene-therapy
companies. She and Scottie had worked their asses off to get accepted to the
program together. They were far closer than Cyril was with any of his own
siblings, and when he heard Scottie talking about Sophie, about how brilliant
she was and how amazing her research, he couldn't help but feel a little
jealous.
Not
that he wanted to be Scottie's brother. Not with the way he was feeling.
"She's
already promised to name the first organism she finds after me," Scottie
boasted in the mess hall three months into training. "Cryofilis scottus."
"You'd
think any bacteria named after you would require a lot of hot air to survive,
not sub-zero temperatures," Cyril said dryly.
Scottie
pressed a hand to his chest. "Cy, did you just make a science joke at me? I'm
honored! Do tell, mate, what other funny little bits of Latin have you got
stored away in that big Russian brain of yours?"
"You
only get one freebie," Cyril replied.
"Mmm."
Scottie's eyes glittered as his lips curled. "Then tell me what I've got
to do to buy some more, because nothing gets me going like brains and brawn
combined."
Cyril
hid his smile. It was harder to do than he'd anticipated. "I don't think
you could afford me."
"Perhaps
not." Scottie sighed. "It's not like any of us can afford anything
other than our bloody right hands right now. Left hand if you're Shekar."
"I
like to use both for self-pleasuring," the Indian recruit said from where
he was delicately peeling a tangerine.
"I
can't be happy without my toys," Mona Brown put in. "Thank god for
long-last batteries and solar chargers, otherwise I'm sure I'd go mad on Mars."
"Once
we're done with our preliminary testing, you can have a relationship again,
remember?" Scottie said. "You won't need toys on Mars."
"Oh,
I figure I'll always need a little something to remind my lovers how to do it
right," Mona said with a grin, and even Cyril laughed along with the
others.
The
alarm sounded, and all twelve of them groaned. "That's it for lunch, then,"
Scottie said mournfully, looking at his empty plate. "Off to the gym. I
swear, I've eaten more bloody chicken here than I've had total before in my
life. Whole flocks of fowl are giving up their lives so that I can build bigger
muscles."
"It
seems a little excessive, given the ones you’ve already got," Cyril agreed
as he stood up.
"Was
that another backhanded compliment out of you?" Scottie marveled as he
stacked Cyril's plate on top of his own and placed them both in the autoclave. "Twice
in under an hour? I didn't dare hope I'd get that twice in one lifetime when we
first met." Scottie leaned in close. "Tell me what I did to warrant
it, so I can do it again."
"Oh,
it's not you, it's me," Cyril said, letting the obvious sarcasm overshadow
his sincerity. "It's how I get over my psych sessions, I fixate on the
nearest jerk and let loose."
"And
whisper sweet nothings into their ear?" Scottie asked, doubt clear in his
tone. "I don't think you're telling me the whole truth, Cy. Rest assured I'll
get it out of you sooner or later."
"You'd
have to put it into me first," Cyril deadpanned, and Scottie's laughter
echoed through the empty mess.
"Did
someone replace you with a new model when I wasn't looking?" Scottie
wondered. "Are you an android after all, and did you get an upgrade? I
must say, I like it."
They
were alone, the flirtations were tantalizing and for once, Cyril felt like he
might be able to hold his own. Then Sergeant Malloy came over the comm. "If
the two of you aren't in the gym with the rest of your squad in the next
minute, you can both look forward to wind sprints before dinner this evening."
Scottie
paled. "Not on your life," he muttered, and headed quickly for the
door. "Quick, Cy, before she changes her mind and halves our time!"
Moment
lost. Cyril sighed and ran after Scottie toward the gym.
