The Gardens of Mars

By Michael Burns

The situation at the Mars Colony is driving people crazy. Some like living there, but a few are desperate to return to Earth. As the colony continues to grow in size, its resources are stretched to the limit, each new arrival adding to the pressure and risks of living on Mars, which only makes things even crazier. So what do humans do when they're under extreme stress? They do what they've always done--they behave in ways that are distinctly human.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Burns
• Release date: Jul 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223226734

Michael Burns

I live in southern Arizona with Christine, Chewie, and Auggie. Listed in the order in which they were published, these are my books: FICTION: HOT PLANET SUMMER OF THE BEAST THE FIRST MIRACLE THE HORN (Book One The Nemesis Series) NORTHWOODS AND OTHER SHORT STORIES POLICE STATE SANCTUM SANCTORUM THE SPACEMEN STARSHIP HUNTERS (Book One) STARSHIP HUNTERS (Book Two) STARSHIP HUNTERS (Book Three) THE PENINSULA (Book Two The Nemesis Series) BUILDING 7 THE AMAZON (Book Three The Nemesis Series) THE GARDENS OF MARS THE ISLAND (Book Four The Nemesis Series) RETURN OF THE BEAST LIPSTICK NON-FICTION: LUSH DROUGHT RESISTANT LANDSCAPE THE TRUTH ABOUT AUTOIMMUNE DISEASE THE SARS-CoV-2 VACCINE: To Take it Or Not As you can see, my interests are eclectic. I don't write in just one genre. When I imagine a story has potential, I write the story in that particular genre, whether it be science fiction, mystery, spiritual, action thriller, horror, or romance. I'd like to thank my friends for their help in proofreading and editing: Andrea, Christine, Jean, and Norma, and I also want to thank Cheryl and Thomas for some fantastic artwork. And many thanks to everyone who took the time to write a review.

Book preview

ONE

The greenhouse was extraordinarily languorous and at the same time vibrantly alive, leafy green and luscious red everywhere, the tomato plants in neat ordered rows that gave the scene a sense of profound symmetry. The gentle whir of gas exchangers hummed somewhere in the background, proffering the impression of motion, though nothing was really moving except the air, the invisible gases circulating throughout the structure creating a practically nonexistent, imperceptible breeze. It was a place of serenity and stillness, the tomatoes growing in an abundance of warmth and a thriving ecosystem.

Susan Barrett adjusted her respirator, trying to make it comfortable, which was now impossible with tiny beads of sweat on her cheeks, chin, and the back of her neck wherever the straps touched. She didn’t necessarily need the respirator, but ten hours in a one-percent carbon dioxide atmosphere would inevitably lead to drowsiness, and she had a report to file tonight, an every night occurrence. And there was always the possibility that carbon dioxide levels could elevate if the gas exchangers malfunctioned. The colony protocols called for a respirator within arm’s reach at all times if an alarm sounded.

Once, twenty-two years ago, carbon dioxide levels in one of the greenhouses had skyrocketed to more than ten percent, killing three people in a matter of minutes. They first fell into unconsciousness, then slowly succumbed to the gas, dying after about thirty minutes due to confined space hypoxic syndrome. Carbon dioxide poisoning. The carbon dioxide detectors had failed due to condensation on their sensors. Since then, advanced alarm systems, impervious to condensation, had been installed in every greenhouse.

Susan planned on writing the reports after her shower, and when the reports were done, she would eat dinner while watching the nightly news from Earth, perhaps the one thing that kept her connected to her home planet. But lately the news had become progressively negative, causing her to wonder if any of them would ever return to Earth, or if they would even want to return. For the past week, the news from Earth was so bad it had begun to wear on her, affecting her in a deep, visceral way. She couldn’t get it out of her mind.

She, like all the other colonists, was fully aware of the risks identified by environmental psychological research whenever humans traveled from Earth. The data was available and frequently discussed among the colonists, a cathartic strategy designed to allay individual fears when living in space. The research said that humans had evolved to function best in Earth-like environments and there was a significant disparity between living on Earth and living in stressful habitats with hostile environments, like on Mars. And, for Susan, living on Mars was stressful. She looked forward to returning one day to her home planet. But what if something bad happened to the Earth?

In that case, then all she had was right here on Mars, the daunting realization searing her brain with a sudden epiphany that shocked her to her core. Despite the warmth of the humid greenhouse, she felt an intense chill all along her spine, and she felt an anxiety attack coming on.

Taking deep gasps of respirator air, her lungs heaving, her pulse racing wildly, she couldn’t get enough air, and she began to faint, almost losing her balance and falling, but then she did fall, a slow roll to her right, falling on her butt, tumbling onto her back, almost blacking out from lack of oxygen.

She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and began a slow, deep breathing routine, concentrating on her fear, telling herself over and over it would be all right. After a prolonged eternity, she opened her eyes. She knew there were no injuries because she felt no pain anywhere. She flexed her fingers and toes. Nothing seemed to be broken.

Lying on her back, looking up, she gazed at the membrane above her. Like a pleasing work of art, the beauty of it calmed her, taking her mind to a different place. She stared at it for a full minute, her anxiety waning, her breathing almost returning to normal.

She needed, she realized, to look at things in a different way. She needed to believe that she was one of the fortunate ones. After all, very few were selected for colonization. Shouldn’t she feel grateful?

But that thought vanished as soon as it materialized in her mind. Like all Martian colonists, she felt privileged to be here, but deep within her psyche she longed for Earth, even with its present set of problems, and this posed a textbook dichotomy. You either live on Earth or Mars. There was nowhere else, unless you counted one of the mining colonies on the moon. But that was a dreary imprisonment, even if endured for short, six-month assignments, and traveling aboard a spacecraft didn’t count. Spacecraft were just machines to go from point A to point B. And they were damned uncomfortable and nerve-racking.

Still looking up at the membrane, her mind gradually exorcising the feeling of doom that had overcome her, she told herself she mustn’t worry. She took several more slow, deep breaths through the respirator and shifted her gaze downward to the tomato plants. They, too, had a calming effect. When she was ready, now with a bruise on her butt and her ego even more severely bruised, she rose from the ground and brushed herself off.

Standing near the outer perimeter of the greenhouse, Susan looked around. No robots were in view and her assistant, Jiang Lam, had left an hour ago. No one had seen her fall.

Angry at herself, embarrassed, she ambled slowly toward the center of the greenhouse, looking carefully at the plants as she walked between two rows of tomatoes.

She held up her tablet and ran a quick diagnostic. Everything appeared to be functioning normally. Carbon dioxide levels hovered around one percent, oxygen a whopping twenty-nine percent, the rest of the air nitrogen and some trace gases. Humidity was sixty-four percent. Temperature a balmy thirty degrees Celsius.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. Her fall had been her own fault, caused by an internal fear she couldn’t control, and that concerned her. What if, she thought, my condition gets worse? She would have to make a medical appointment with the base psychologist, and her report, whatever she wrote, would go into her personnel file.

She could just imagine the ramifications. Her colleagues might think she wasn’t up to the task. She might be sent home early, if home was still there. She might be put on meds, a black mark on her record. Worst of all, she might be considered weak, a fragile scientist who couldn’t carry her weight, that others would have to look after her.

Shit, she whispered. What is happening to me?

TWO

Susan’s greenhouse , Greenhouse 21-TS, was a geodesic dome structure exactly one hundred meters in diameter. The membrane at its highest point was twenty meters above the floor of the greenhouse, the average height of the entire structure just over fifteen meters. The membrane blended different scientific disciplines, the final result being a human-made creation on the order of any of the greatest scientific discoveries of all time. The result of complex genetic research, it was made of a fibrous material that until the last hundred years or so had never existed on Earth. It appeared to be a huge, precision-spun spider web, millions of filaments causing the sunlight to be thrown simultaneously in all directions, thereby eliminating shadows beneath.

But because of the crystal-like appearance of the filament structure, the filaments were somewhat similar to a snowflake’s configuration, the overall effect was incredibly beautiful. Providing plenty of opaque sunlight, the membrane effectively created a sanctuary within its interior boundaries. Some compared it to being inside a cathedral, an inimitably spiritual, transfixing experience.

Conversely, the membrane was as functional as it was beautiful. Built into it were organic, transparent photovoltaic cells that converted the sun’s rays into electricity, enough to power the entire greenhouse, and in the event of a micro-meteor strike, the membrane was self-sealing, as if it were somehow a living thing capable of healing itself. Most importantly, it prevented harmful radiation from penetrating it, and it was virtually maintenance-free, Martian dust unable to stick to its outer surface.

The parabolic curvature of the geodesic dome was designed to withstand the ferocious dust storms that occasionally charged over the planet’s surface, forcing the Martian winds to flow with aerodynamic efficiency up and over the greenhouse, regardless from which direction the winds originated. The parabolic curvature also provided strength to prevent structural collapse due to the substantial differential in air pressures between the interior and exterior of the greenhouse.

Outside, the Martian atmosphere had an air pressure of less than one percent of Earth’s air pressure. A human being, exposed on the surface of Mars without a pressurized space suit, would die in seconds, but first their eyes would bug out, their ear drums would burst, any fluids and solids would escape instantly from bodily orifices. There was, essentially, no air pressure outside the greenhouse.

But its interior was pressurized to fourteen pounds of pressure per square inch, roughly approximating the air pressure found at sea level on Earth, each greenhouse having its own high capacity multi-stage scroll air compressor, forcing air to constantly push against the membrane, air that was trying to escape to an area of lesser air pressure just on the other side of the membrane. The parabolic curvature of the dome helped contain the air, something a rectangular structure would not do.

Cameras attached to the titanium alloy crossmembers supporting the membrane, wirelessly linked to the main supercomputer, provided instant precision analytical imagery, the computer analyzing several million datapoints per plant, able to instantly identify any of a myriad of problems ranging from lack of water to a diseased and unproductive plant growing anywhere within the greenhouse.

The floor of the greenhouse was four meters below the surface of Mars. Robots using giant excavators with blades superheated to 800 degrees Celsius had dug a circular crater with perfectly formed shear walls, the greenhouse constructed outside and above the crater, making it appear to an outside observer that the entire greenhouse was on the surface, the interior walls having the appearance of ultra smooth concrete, but with a distinct, dull orange-red appearance. These walls of solid Martian regolith provided a thermal mass that helped keep the greenhouse warm during the cold Martian nights.

Humans had designed the greenhouse specifically for Mars, and humans, computers, and robots working in concert were necessary to maintain the growing process, though the tedious tasks of pollinating and harvesting was the sole duty of the robots.

One could argue as to which part of the operation was the most critical to sustaining life, whether the membrane, the gas exchangers, the main supercomputer, the humans and robots, or the overall design, but one thing was certain, it couldn’t be the Martian soil.

With a high percentage of calcium perchlorates, it was impossible to grow anything directly in Martian soil. Perchlorates were highly poisonous to all living things, including plants. On Earth, they were used to make solid rocket fuel, also used in the manufacture of highway safety flares, fireworks, and matches.

Unfortunately, this highly toxic chemical compound was in abundance everywhere on Mars. And the widespread presence of iron oxides and hydrogen peroxide, two other prevalent components of the Martian regolith, only exacerbated the problem. Plants simply would not grow in the ground, even inside a well-equipped, high-tech greenhouse.

Yes, these chemical compounds could be dealt with by washing them away, rinsing them with copious amounts of water, but on Mars water was a precious commodity. It had been decided long ago that washing away perchlorates and the other compounds with water was a bad idea, a senseless waste when there were better, less costly alternatives.

And so, nothing was grown in the ground, except in two experimental greenhouses where it was rumored they were growing plants in the ground, using experimental high-tech bioreactors to cleanse the soil, but it was all hush-hush and no one really knew for sure.

In all the other greenhouses, the growing was done with hydroponics using water that could easily be recycled. Growing plants hydroponically was a tried and tested method and considered highly reliable, easily monitored, and very adaptable to changing conditions.

Still, there were significant challenges to making it all work. Any of a hundred potential issues could arise, some minor, only causing extra work, some serious, setting in motion a series of cascading effects that could possibly devastate the crop, and this crop was particularly essential to a healthy lifestyle for the colony. Susan’s was the only greenhouse on Mars where tomatoes were being grown.

Making matters more problematic, her greenhouse was one of thirty-eight and counting, new greenhouses being built at the rate of two per year. But building new ones only complicated everything, because with each additional greenhouse the colony’s population was destined to increase. Everything changed, but nothing changed. The colony grew, but the associated risks in keeping more people alive remained the same.

Susan was inexorably aware that living on Mars was a gamble, a thought never far from her consciousness. In such a perilous setting, almost anything could go wrong, a place where life constantly teetered precariously on the edge, and so survival was constantly on her mind, and everyone’s mind. The greenhouses, the nucleus of the colony, had to function properly at all times. Without a constant supply of food, survival on Mars was impossible.

Survival. Would the issue never go away? Would it never leave her psyche, the ever present struggle for survival? The bleak truth she faced flashed through her mind in a millisecond, a deep-seated knowledge that wouldn’t go away. The facts were stark and simple.

Two disparate realities coexisted, separated only by a five-centimeter thick membrane. Inside the greenhouses, life thrived. As long as the greenhouses continued to function, life would continue to thrive.

Outside the greenhouses was a harsh, unforgiving planet. The atmosphere of Mars was ninety-six percent carbon dioxide, the average climatological temperature minus sixty-three degrees Celsius. The surface of Mars was a cold, sterile, barren wasteland. If it weren’t for the greenhouses...

Oh, shit. Quit thinking about it.

A ringing bell, a soft ding ding ding, went off in the distance. Mandatory quitting time. She folded her tablet and put it into its case, then walked the thirty or so meters to the center of the greenhouse and a cluster of structures. She set the tablet on the workbench in her work shed, took off her work belt and hung it on a hook, then walked over to the nearby decontamination chamber, closed the door behind her, and stood completely still, waiting as the sensors tested for the presence of dangerous microorganisms, a process that took twenty seconds, all the while being videoed by four cameras to her front, back, and either side. A soft tone indicated the first phase of the testing was finished. Next, she removed her socks, boots, and coveralls, placing them in her locker among a row of lockers on one wall of the chamber, stripped naked, and moved again to the center of the chamber, standing still as her body was examined for microorganisms. Another soft tone. She raised her arms, so the sensors could examine her arm pits. Twenty seconds later, there were three tones. All clear.

She put her bra and panties back on, then removed her uniform from her locker and dressed, green pants and shirt, a botanist’s insignia over her left breast and on both arms. She sat down on the bench fronting the lockers and put on her socks and boots. She stood up and hung her coveralls in her locker, then exited the chamber, glad the ritual was finished. She went back to the work shed, retrieved her tablet, and walked over to the vertical pillar that also served as the main support column for the membrane’s cross members high above.

She pressed the down button, waited until the doors opened, and stepped into the elevator. The doors closed and the elevator descended twenty meters, coming to a gentle stop. The elevator doors opened and she stepped out, walked over to a passenger capsule and climbed in. Since she was the only person on board, she spoke to the capsule as soon as she sat down.

Dr. Susan Barrett requesting transport to main hub.

The capsule’s gull-wing door closed tight and the capsule moved forward into an airlock, stopped, waited for the airlock doors to close behind it and open in front of it, then sped forward into the tube, accelerating in just seconds to two hundred fifty kilometers per hour, lights whizzing by on either side in a blur of blue.

The trip took less than a minute. The capsule made a quick deceleration and came to a stop inside the next airlock. The airlock doors closed to her front, closed to her rear, and the capsule’s gull-wing styled door swung open.

She stepped out onto a platform, then took an elevator to the next level down and stepped out onto a much bigger platform, this one bustling with people. She got into another, larger capsule and sat down in the very back next to Laurie Bergman, chief botanist for the greenhouse adjacent to hers, Greenhouse 22-PS.

How was your day?

I’ve got problems with some of my plants, Laurie said in a rushed voice.

What’s going on?

Laurie squeezed her eyes shut, her face contorted in an emphatic display of irritation. One of the youngest women in the colony, a mere twenty-five years old, she threw both hands up in despair, obviously upset, then made an attempt to regain some degree of poise, though the frustration in her voice remained. Some type of fungus. She lowered her voice and began talking at warp speed. I’ve tried everything, followed every protocol and I’ve even increased the fungicides, but nothing’s working. I’ve tried everything I know. I just can’t figure it out. The whole fucking thing is so fucking stupid, and if it gets out, it’s going to make me look like a fucking moron. And I just can’t let that happen, so please consider this conversation strictly confidential. Can you help me?

What do the lab tests show?

I haven’t got them back yet. They’ll be ready tomorrow.

How many of your plants have the fungus?

Four, so far.

I’ll come over tomorrow and take a look at them. When did all this start?

Yank notified me two days ago.

Yank was the nickname for the colony’s supercomputer. Its AI software was thought to be infallible, Yank able to process twelve zettabytes of data per second, providing enough processing power for several thousand greenhouses. Diagnosing sick vegetables was child’s play.

Susan watched as the capsule, now full of people, closed its gull-wing doors, left and right, then moved forward into the airlock. When the front door of the airlock opened and the rear door closed tight behind, the capsule accelerated, quickly reaching maximum speed. Once again, she watched the blur of blue lights whiz by as the capsule sped through the tube.

She took hold of Laurie’s left hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. I’m sure it’s going to be all right. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

You don’t understand. I think the fungus is spreading fast. It could get out of control.

Susan gave her hand another squeeze. It won’t get out of control. Have you told the administrator?

Laurie, at hearing the word administrator, practically keeled over, as if she was about to faint. No, she gulped weakly. I wanted to, but I decided to wait for the lab results. If I have to meet with the administrator, I want solid data. But as she spoke the words, her eyes glazed over. A meeting with the administrator was the last thing she wanted. There would be too many direct questions to answer. It would be an interrogation, and there would be nothing friendly about it.

Besides, what if she declares an emergency? Laurie’s eyes went wide at that thought.

Both of them were suddenly thinking the same thing. An emergency declaration would result in an all-hands-on-deck approach, and hours and hours of meetings, bringing about a forced scientific collaboration that would take everyone from their day-to-day work, a paradigm impossible to avoid.

I don’t think it’ll go that far. Susan spoke in a soothing voice, still holding Laurie’s hand, now moist and clammy. Don’t stress. The lab results may be positive. I’m sure we’ll find an answer.

God, I hope you’re right.

THREE

The capsule decelerated and came to a stop, the gull wings opened on either side, and everyone got out, heading to the elevators and to their individual quarters in an even deeper underground complex, buried hallways going in multiple directions like a giant ant colony beneath the surface of the planet, except a colony where humans lived.

Far below the surface, they were sheltered from the intense radiation striking Mars through its thin atmosphere, also protected from the harsh frigid nights. On two separate levels, the quarters, cramped and small, were adjacent to one another, like an apartment building on Earth.

Each colonist had their own bathroom and shower stall, a tiny kitchen, a small living room with one wall serving as a large television screen, two reclining chairs facing the screen, an end table between them, the chairs ergonomically designed to be comfortable and incorporating built-in heaters and a massage feature.

Although the married colonists had an extra bedroom for children, because she was single, Susan had no separate bedroom. The far end of her living room had a twin-sized bed, its headboard of dense resin against the wall, a closet and drawers built into the wall on the other side of the bed, the end wall of the living room. The mattress for her bed was made of a new type of memory foam, lightweight and durable. It had been imported from Earth aboard a giant Hercules spacecraft. There was no doubt that these mattresses were a luxury, but they made life on Mars infinitely more tolerable. In the light gravity of Mars, sleeping on cool, comfortable memory foam was dreamily effortless.

Entering her unit, Susan set her tablet down, grabbed a bottle of wine from her refrigerator and poured herself a glass and sat down in one of her chairs. Her butt still hurting, she set the thermostat to thirty-two degrees Celsius and pressed the massage button, vibrations tingling all through her butt and back. She set her wine on the floor, removed her boots and socks, then got up and quickly undressed.

Now naked, she sat back down, picked up her wine, and leaned back into the chair, her feet above her knees. She sat there for several minutes, the chair doing what it was designed to do, taking away her stress, providing sensual relief to her tired body.

Her