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CHAPTER 6:
Setbacks



Mars Exploration Consortium @TheRealMarsX

Mars Three is en route to Elysium Planitia. Humanity’s first permanent base on Mars is now underway.

ChirpChat, January 2041


Glenn had been looking forward to the day that the strength and feedback for his bionic limbs were turned up to full power, but it had been something of a letdown. Granted, he was still effectively learning to use them to stand and walk, or to reach and hold. He had hoped that full power would mean instant freedom from the exoskeleton and the assistive device he used to grab items on his left side.

Oh, he was certainly out of the exo, but it wasn’t freedom. On that point he had been terribly mistaken.

“Lift your leg. Lift . . . lift . . . lift it up. Okay then, slide it forward. No. Forward.” The physical therapist was patient, but Glenn had been trying this movement for the past thirty minutes.

“I’m trying, but every time I attempt to lift, it goes to the side. I can slide it, but I can’t seem to take a damned step.” Glenn, however, was growing extremely impatient.

“Okay, let’s try something different. Relax. Just let yourself hang.”

Glenn was suspended by a harness that went between the legs, around his waist and chest, and under the armpits. Normally, a leg amputee would stand between parallel bars and support their weight on their arms. That was not yet possible, although he and Marty had discussed whether he needed to build up arm strength before leg strength.

“Relax? Okay, I’ll try.” He closed his eyes and let himself go limp, hanging in the harness as if hanging from a parachute.

“Okay, eyes closed? Good. Now imagine swinging your leg out in an exaggerated kick. Like an exaggerated march or a soccer kick.” The therapist’s voice was now coming from across the room, and there was a tapping sound, like a keyboard or touch screen.

Glenn imagined kicking his leg and felt the telltale tingling sensation that accompanied programming of reflexes and coordination in his bionic co-processor. Control of the artificial muscles came from signals picked up from nerves that should have been connected to his biological muscles, as well as electrodes in the part of the brain that controlled leg movement. Unfortunately, walking involved much more than simply commanding muscles to contract. Various parts of the brain—including the cerebellum, brainstem and spinal cord—provided coordination and reflexes to turn lurches into smooth movement.

The reflex co-processor did the same thing, but it had to be taught. When the therapist had him relax and think about swinging his leg, Glenn’s brain provided the commands, and the processor learned the differences between the intent and actual movement.

“Okay, keep your eyes closed. Now think about lifting your leg and moving forward. Good. Swing the leg and plant your foot. Lean forward a bit. Now the other foot. Good.

“Open your eyes.” The therapist was back by his side, and Glenn could see that he’d made two steps forward. “Think you can try that with eyes open?”

“You mean eye, singular.” Glenn’s tone was a bit harsh.

“Perhaps, but just like your legs, you have to keep the brain thinking about operating normally.”

“Normal?” Glenn started to wave his hand to gesture around the room, but the moment his hand left the railing, he wobbled, and would have fallen if not for the suspension harness. “Just turn the stuff on and let me do this for myself,” he snapped.

“They are turned on, Shep.” Marty’s voice came from behind him. The therapist looked up in surprise, and must have received a nonverbal command, because he went back to his console and entered several commands. The harness began to lower him toward the floor, but Glenn felt something under his backside, then Marty pulled him into a sitting position on a chair.

“You say that, but I’ve got one eye, one ear, I lose my balance, I can’t hold a glass in my left hand without dropping it, and I can’t walk!”

Glenn turned to stare at his doctor, who in turn reached out and removed the ear patch and ripped the bandage off of the left side of his head.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, good, something works. Your facial nerves have regenerated just fine.” There was a dark note of sarcasm in Marty’s voice. “Makes sense, since you’re a touchy son of a bitch. Well, I have news for you, buddy. When I said one hundred percent, I meant it. Everything is turned on and functioning.”

“I can’t see anything! I can’t hear anything!”

“Whine, whine, whine. Tell me, flyboy, how do you tell the difference between a pilot and a jet engine? Well, they both whine, but at least the engine is going somewhere!” He put his hands on his hips and glared back. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

I can’t walk! You assured me I’d be able to do this by now.”

“Are you really trying? I saw your legs move when you had your eyes closed and weren’t thinking so much.”

“I tried! Just like I took off the patch this morning and tried to see. Nothing! You failed.” Glenn broke down in sobs. “I failed.”

“Ah, so that’s what it is. The Mars mission.” Marty placed a hand on Glenn’s shoulder and let him take the time to work through the emotions.

“I asked them. They had two launch windows, now, and in six months. I petitioned to be allowed back on the team. In six months, I would have been ready.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Glenn looked back and glared at him again. Both eyes were focused, distinguishable only by the faintest reflection in the iris of the left eye. “I can do this.”

“Physically? Yes. Psychologically? You’ve got a massive chip on your shoulder. What’s that about?”

“Yvette.” He practically spat the name. “She stole my mission. By leaving now, they have to take her instead of waiting for me.”

“I’m not sure you’re being fair to her. She didn’t want the mission. I didn’t talk to her, but the Space Force general—Boatright—did, and he said she turned it down.”

“Oh, she’s always done this—didn’t want the emergency medicine fellowship, but the moment I applied for it, there she was, and got it. She said she didn’t want Chief Resident, but got that, too. Eventually we shared it, but she had better ratings from the attendings than I did despite the fact that I consistently outscored her. We always argued over patient care and cases. She even accused me of trying to push her aside and take over. She left the Force to be a civilian space contractor, and immediately broke up with me because I didn’t follow her.”

“Back up. You said you were fighting and she accused you of undermining her.”

“Yes, but lovers fight, and make up, and fight, and make up again. At the time we thought that was all it was. But she left the military, yet somehow ended up back on the Moon as Medical Officer.”

“Well, Moonbase is a civilian posting, these days.”

“Uh huh, sure. How many civilian CMOs have they had in the past ten years?”

“One. But then, they’ve only had two other CMOs, and you were one of them.”

“Sure. Okay, fine. She took the job, though. Probably jumped at it the moment it was offered.”

“Not quite. They asked her three times before she said yes.”

“Yeah, that’s her pattern. Anyway, that’s when I realized that her career has been driven by competition with me. And spite. So don’t tell me that wanting to turn off my ventilator was her way of wanting me to live.”

“I wouldn’t say that . . .”

“Don’t tell me she had my best interests at heart, either, Marty. She didn’t want to call you in. She didn’t want to stabilize me to get me back to Earth. Back when we were residents at Petersen AFB, a young airman came into the ER late on a Saturday night. He’d been in a car crash. The impact pulverized the bone in one leg. I argued for amputation of the leg due to the multiple fractures, bone fragments and damage to blood vessels. Yvette wanted to use hyperbaric therapy, and argued that they could save the leg if they could keep the tissues oxygenated. I countered that the shattered bones could not be adequately repaired and the young man would be confined to a wheelchair. With a prosthetic, he could return to work as an aircraft mechanic. She disagreed; the man’s military career was over. She sneered at me—was I recommending that they amputate the man’s fractured ribs and cracked jaw as well?”

“You can think what you want about her motivations, but she reacted instinctively and saved your life back then. She was conflicted. Her heart told her one thing, but her medical training told her another. Even that was in conflict—end your pain, or save your life? When I first saw you, I was amazed at how well she’d stabilized you for transport. She personally convinced Space Force to get that experimental SFX shuttle up there to get you back down to the ground in minimum time and no transfers. She wasn’t your personal physician anymore, but she cared enough to give you the best possible chance.”

“She’s going to Mars. In my place. Especially because it’s my place.”

“Yes, she is, because you’re not ready. Your time will come.”

“No. It won’t. Read this.”

Glenn handed the envelope over to Marty, and the doctor pulled the official stationery out and started to read. “. . . heroic rescue . . . risk of life . . . severe injuries . . . Purple Heart . . . Wow, you’ve been awarded a Silver Star!”

“Keep reading, Doc.”

“Coast Guard Gold Lifesaving Medal? Yeah, that fits. Morykwas was Guard, and he’s alive because of you.”

“Nope. That’s not it. Besides, that’s a civilian medal. It should be a clue.”

“. . . promotion to full colonel . . . needs of the service . . . potential contribution to the mission . . .” Marty looked up in shock. “They’re retiring you? General Boatright promised me that you would just be on standby reserve until you recovered. What is this?”

“It gets better . . . or . . . something.”

Psychologically unfit for duty! What the hell? Is this Pillarisetty’s doing?”

“Actually, no. There was a medical competency hearing, and his was the lone dissenting voice. A board made up of headshrinkers and flight docs from the Space Force, Air Force, and Navy held a kangaroo court and drummed me out of the Service.”

“Why wasn’t I consulted?” Marty asked. “I’m the one who knows your whole progress, not a bunch of people who’ve never even met you.”

“They were all military docs. Nik was included only because he’s considered Veteran’s Administration hospital staff.” Glenn’s voice was filled with resignation. “Notice who else signed it. She’s back in uniform, at least as a reservist. It’s confirmation bias in action. We’re trying to make a point here, but their minds are—and in particular, her mind is—already made up.”

“I’m sorry, Shep.” Marty put the letter back in the envelope and put it on a bedside table. He walked over and put his hand on Glenn’s shoulder. “I know how much this meant to you, showing people that they shouldn’t be afraid of the risks inherent in space exploration. I admit that I thought going to Mars as anything other than a proof-of-concept demonstration was a long shot, but you’d think that after what’s been invested in you, they’d at least see it through.”

Marty sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed silent for a while in sympathy with his patient . . . and friend. A few moments later, he had a thought.

“Wait . . . does this mean they’re not going to pay for any of this?”

The anxiety on Marty’s face made Glenn snort. Laughter was still out of the question, but there was a small bit of humor in the doctor’s expression. “No, they’re still paying—at least the part my trust fund didn’t cover. General Boatright insisted on that part.”

“Oh, good, because you’re expensive, Shep.”

“Six million dollars?” It referred to a popular TV show from almost seventy years ago. It was also the amount he’d drawn from the trust fund account created from his father’s and mother’s insurance policies and supplemented over the years by his aunt and uncle, not to mention capable financial advisors.

“Oh, you are so, so far beyond that, my friend.”

They lapsed back into silence for several more minutes before Glenn spoke again. “Marty? Let’s prove them wrong.”

“Yes,” Dr. Martin Spruce replied. “Let’s do exactly that!”


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