The Return

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Though I suppose it wouldn’t really stop you from trying.

I felt strange walking out here amongst the nothingness of an endless red landscape. The eternal Martian surface, much like the waves of a great sea long since frozen still. The dunes made no sudden movements at my approach nor my passing. I could see the bleached rock beneath the surface poking through like the bones of long passed beasts. Sand so fine it gathered and clung to every exposed crevice. Followed you home, trailed you into the shower and then rode you the next day. The lower gravity often played with your ability to actually stride while walking, so instead people would gently skip across the open plains. I had been walking in a semi-circle around the rover placing white flags into the undisturbed dirt, marking areas for the drones to take core samples. The suit was awkward and cumbersome just adding that little bit of extra work to an easy task, almost made me wish I could take it off.

My feet dragged amongst the debris. Mars had a very thin atmosphere so you could barely hear any sound that didn’t come from within your own suit. I was working eagerly in the clear shadow of the mountain when I felt the slightest gust tug at my suit. For whatever reason it made me turn just slightly as if someone had been calling my name. Just enough movement to get me to really look at the cliff face. Somewhere in the jagged layers of orange rock stacked like books I could see a cavity in the pristine surface, a hole.

A cave.

“Mission Control this is Commander Burhes giving you visual of what looks like a cavity into the Owen’s rock face. Looks fairly deep. Will flag up for potential sampling points.”

“Mission control this is Commander Burhes I am at the mouth of the cave, it’s really something. Much bigger than any other previous example I’ve seen so far, maybe a fault in the plates when they originally formed the mountain. Will walk a few paces inside see if I can observe a terminus.”

“Control, Control do you read me…There’s something in… with the cave…Its…Control?...I See!”

…

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The sand blew past my windshield, whipped around changing direction and then sheared some of the flaking paint right off the hood. I had been driving roughly 40 minutes to get this far into the Elric Desert, somewhere in Southern Texas. Just a flat oven pan with some scattered vegetation that basically looked baked on. Sand squalled in front of my car’s poorly washed windows. Price still written on the glass in marker along with the older prices that had been periodically crossed out over the years as the car continued to not sell.

For once I had been given fairly simple instructions. Using the account number provided take out all liquid funds available in one bulk sum, travel to the small town of Dorris and then purchase a used car, preferably the cheapest one they got. Drive it into the desert at the assigned heading until you find a closed down gas station Called Cluck’s Gas Grill. Go inside and wait in the basement and of course bring no electronics.

You will then be given further instructions.

See, simple.

I pressed the gas pedal down to the floor while the engine coughed and wheezed. The coolant was old or the wrong kind and this heat just added charm to the fact that this vehicle didn’t have working AC. That’s why I was driving so fast, trying to keep at least a little airflow circulating. I was beginning to fear that maybe I wouldn’t find the station until I finally saw a small group of ramshackle buildings pop up out on the horizon.

They were desiccated and looked to be all different ages. The largest building appeared to be a wooden farm barn that now lay with the main beam shattered and all of its innards spilt out. The smallest building was a opaque glass kiosk for operating the gas pumps. Most likely where an actual attendant would have slacked off. Lastly was the diner, which had a peeling billboard of a cartoon chicken eating a burger on the front. The paint was so bleached it really could have been any other bird.

The windows had long been smashed out, tables and chairs threadbare as I walked through the ajar doorway. Searched the perimeter and assessed exits.

The place was abandoned.

In my search I couldn’t see an obvious door to any basement, but I knew that many people hide their secrets just underneath the surface. I began to push aside tables and sure enough underneath the third one was a small rusted metal hatch. This was a classic cold war era tactic for hiding personal fallout shelters.

I popped the lid, which revealed a narrow ladder much like a sewer manhole and then I descended about 3 meters to face a large steel door the same make as the hatch. I had to work to maneuver the lock, but eventually it gave and I was immediately assaulted by the scent of very stale air. I let the smell wash over me and then I stepped into a minuscule concrete square with a simple plastic table and two chairs.

I had been in so many rooms just like this one.

When your government resorts to these extreme measures it means one of two things. They aren’t as powerful as you hoped or they really feared some portion of the news from getting out.

I sat in my chair, folded my hands together and waited in the very dim light of a single dull bulb. Due to protocol I sat with my back to the door, which could be unnerving. I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long and sure enough as if by magic I heard the sound of the metal door once again open and close. Walking into my peripheral view was an incredibly tall man in an all-black suit. He wore a plastic facemask and appeared to have a large matte silver briefcase handcuffed to his right arm. The man walked silently past me before sitting in the seat opposite my own.

He didn’t make eye contact, in fact his pupils were an almost milky blue giving him the appearance of being blind. Without saying a word the tall man simply pushed the briefcase forward sliding it across the table so that his cuffed hand and the handle were right in front of me. In practiced clockwork motion I produced a key from the chain around my neck. It contained only one unique hexagonal key and I placed it into the lock, quickly turning to the left then right and then right again.

“CLICK”

The cuff released itself from the handle without leaving the other end from his wrist. The masked man quickly retrieved the case now facing it towards himself as he opened it on the desk briefly obscuring his dextrous hands. He silently worked on the input to the case typing away.

While I waited I couldn’t help but wonder where they had gotten this man from. Though I assumed he shared a similar background to myself. Convicts with so many life sentences that they’re going to run out the cock have the least to lose. Being good at your job and steadfast didn’t matter anymore, now they wanted people who had nothing else, nothing but the job. Someone with skills who would trade one prison cell for another.

The man stopped typing and spun the contents of the briefcase around to reveal that the entire interior was a custom laptop. Smooth stainless keys and screen all blank with no indication of the model or functions. The screen was on, but it was almost imperceptible. I could just make out the flashing dash in the left-hand corner as if the computer was still booting up, but I knew it was already on and that they were already watching.

“Hello #77, it’s good to see you again.” Came a metallic and disjointed voice from within the computer.

“Good morning.”

I had the sneaking suspicion I had never met “this voice” before.

“#77 you’ve been looking closely into the investigation of the Mars anomaly. Give me a brief synopsis of the details and then we will discuss your next steps.”

I almost chuckled at the idea that we would discuss anything rather then an order.

“On September the 3rd 2043 Crimson 2 the second manned mission to Mars after 4 months of travelling touched down on the Martial surface in a region called Plite’s Delta.”

I wasn’t allowed notes during briefings I had to struggle to recall every detail from memory.

“Following a routine landing and standard set-up of habitat components the mission moved into the exploratory phase. On September 5th 2043, Commander Wilma Burhes leader of the mission conducted scouting of the local area. She was gone less then 50 minutes when at 08:16am Earth Eastern standard time, she reported an observation of having seen a cave in the side of Owen’s Terrace 3rd shelf.”

I took a breath.

“She reported that she would investigate on foot. Then at 08:20am Commander Burhes drives into work at Astral Chariots Inc at their headquarters in Dallas.”

I was skipping some of the less important details. These conversations can become confrontational if the listener gets too bored with the topic.

“She simply pulled into her normal spot then went inside to work at her desk. A rough distance of 60 million Kilometers away from where she had just been. A sound of alarm came out from the company, but then we swept in and took control of the workers and media. Commander Burhes was confiscated along with anyone who we believed to be a liability.”

“Hmm, and what of Wilma’s mental and physical state?” Asked the voice who almost had the pacing of a smoker as it spoke, taking a long drag mid-sentence.

It was a leading question.

“Commander Burhes has been evaluated by numerous specialists who have determined she is of sound mental health. Her only noted uncertainty was the current date, she believed it was April 14th 2043, roughly 2 weeks before the Crimson II would leave Earth.”

“And her physical health?”

“She seems to be in exceptional health, except for a large bruise on her left arm. At first we referenced logs from the Crimson II to determine if she had gotten the injury from the trip to Mars, which yielded no account of her being injured. Later however when we questioned her husband he did mention that his wife had received a large bruise on her arm from an accident involving their daughter and a car door around the time of the 14th. Documents showed she had the bruise throughout the rest of April.”

The voice didn’t say any notable words, just let out a long wheezy sigh.

“What do you make of these events #77?” The voice tested me.

“Three notable anomalies. Comparable light speed travel, full memory alteration and the possible reversal of biological processes. I would almost hazard a guess that someone is showing off.”

This was a risky line of thought. To even jokingly suggest intelligent action of an anomaly could be the grounds for termination, or worse.

“#77 you’ve been on several assignments for us. What do you think the significance of this anomaly compared to others?”

I was on the defensive now.

“I believe what makes this unique is that, whatever happened returned Wilma to Earth back to a place or relative safety. To me this suggests decision making, otherwise why not just have Wilma go missing?”

This had to be true in some capacity, the Earth wasn’t even in the same celestial location as when Wilma would have been here so something must have compensated, understood where she was meant to be.

“You want there to be an answer to this, don’t you?”

I wasn’t allowed to not answer a questions posed by my superiors, but I let this one hang.

“#77 let me ask you, of all the anomalies you’ve investigated how many have returned with any concrete evidence of an extraordinary event?”

A low blow.

“None. As far as I know there is no example of any real proof.”

“And what does that mean for all our efforts?”

“It means that something does an incredibly good clean up job. Hides all of the evidence just out of reach. With what happened to Wilma we are once again left with only questions, no answers.”

I waited now. The black screen still just flickered a little letting the seconds pass.

“Good. I want you to go to Dallas to our facility at Ebony Rock where Wilma is being held. Conduct your interview with her and determine her usefulness, dispose of any loose ends.”

“Yes sir.”

And without any further instruction the briefcase lid was closed and the handle reattached to the wrist of the long spindly arm. The masked man stood silently and walked out of the room.

I sat for a long time thinking about how to go about the assignment.

As I passed back through the threshold of the diner I looked down into the sand and saw my footprints that had approached from my car, however there was no other set apart from my own.

Another mystery in a mystery.

------------------------------

I squeezed through the thin hallway at the holding facility. All too familiar rooms, without light nor warmth. I knew Wilma was the only one with a guard standing outside. As I approached he nodded and opened the door to her cell sealing it behind me. We would be conducting the interview directly in the room she was staying in. Though room was romanticising the confined and cramped quarters. Rubberised metal walls with a flat bedroll mat to sleep on. The interview table was made out of solid steel and bolted to the ground. The chairs were flimsy plastic and the toilet was in the corner of the room with no sink.

Wilma already sat at the table obviously expecting me.

I sat into the chair opposite her without saying anything as I fumbled with the pouches on my satchel. Her dark complexion appeared almost leather in the very dim light. Her hair had been sheared very short atop her head in neat angular lines, most likely in preparation for the trip to Mars. She had hard eyes that looked restless and sleep deprived. Wilma wore a thin jumpsuit with no sleeves and I could see the yellowing bruise on her arm with a deep purple core that seemed to spiral between her wrist and elbow.

It looked painful.

Wilma eyed me unpleasantly. It had already been a week since her detainment and she had been through a myriad of specialists who each took a turn interviewing and assessing her. Mental, physical even light hypnosis.

All basically yielded the same result, that she had no recollection of the events in question. I searched through my bag and removed a couple basic items. The first was an ugly rectangular block that to most people would have looked like an alarm clock. Polished faux wood exterior only broken by a couple buttons and the bright red timer with chunky digital numbers as a readout.

The number on the display currently read 09:00:00.

I placed the “clock” in my left-hand corner of the table so that it would be visible to her at all times. I produced a bottle of water and two small plastic cups. I poured a little into each cup and then slid one with some effort into the middle of the table.

We were well out of arm’s length of each other.

She didn’t take the drink immediately, just looked at the water as if unsure if she should risk it. I nonchalantly sipped mine to put her at ease and then she reached for the small cup. The final item was a dossier file on Wilma complete with detailed events and her personal history. I had already read the document, but I decided to thumb it quickly right in front of her without addressing her stare. Like a doctor with bad news who didn’t know how to break it to the patient.

At last I met Wilma’s eyes and without breaking our connection I reached over and touched the large red button on my timer. I watched her eyes dip to the countdown and let her curiosity build as to why it counted down at all.

“Commander Burhes it’s been quite some week, eh?” I began.

“When can I leave?” Her voice was venomous, clearly she wasn’t in a good mood. Wilma hadn’t looked away from the timer.

“I am your last interview and when its complete we can discuss what happens next.”

She nodded.

“I had said quite a week, but in reality quite a life seems more appropriate. Wilma Burhes Born May 7th 2005. Enlisted in the Vrag Air force, serving two tours in the Atlantic. Then into experimental plane research, going on to completing your PHD in physics and astral physics, before making the leap to astronaut and eventually commander. Top of your field and still has time for a husband and her two children. Some would call you a super mom.”

Wilma looked bored as if she had heard this tale many times and now tired of the story.

“What compelled you to choose space?”

“It was my childhood dream, I always wanted to keep growing and improving my skills. Eventually you get so good you can do anything, go anywhere.”

I thumbed the report again without even eyeing it.

“Your co-workers agree, first to work last to leave. Lives, eats and sleeps the job. This is one quote from a couple of your staff that were also interviewed.”

“Do you keep them in cages too?”

I shrugged.

“I’ve been in worse.” I said coldly.

“I wouldn’t normally give away a crucial detail, but I know others have already informed you, so I’ll make this simple. I need you to tell me why you are not on Mars right now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Actually, fuck you, I don’t care. I have been grossly mistreated and literally kept in the dark this whole time. I haven’t even seen any proof that it isn’t the date I believe it is. All I know is that when I arrived to work on Tuesday it caused a lot of panic and before the end of the day I was taken by you crazy people.”

I nodded along to her explanation.

“I just want to go home. What could I have possibly done to make this happen?” Her voice was shriller now. I could see her eyes become misty as Wilma shook her head fighting off the need to cry, she was far too proud to cry in front of me.

“I think there is a reason you are here Wilma.”

“Let’s work under the assumption that it is 5 months later than you believe and that you were on Mars a week ago. Now explain to me how you could be here in this room with me right now.”

Her lips formed a stern frown that matched her eyes.

“It’s not possible.” She was shrugging deflating at the lack of logic.

I nodded then reached for my satchel, again this time producing a stack of large flimsy paper in different sizes and an art kit with a bundle of oil pastels. Truthfully I hated pastels, the texture was gross and the smudging of work turned beauty into filth. The image in your mind smears until it’s just a waxy battlefield. I slid some of the paper towards her and handed out a few of the colours. Giving each of us a brown, orange and red pastel.

Wilma’s face was a mask. She simply shook her head disapprovingly like she would have killed me if given the chance. I didn’t wasn’t any time as I began to scribble shapes onto the page combing the different patterns together into an overall motif.

Without looking up I asked. “Can we both draw while we speak?”

“I’m not in the mood.” Her voice was lower now, she really radiated violence.

“Drawing is primitive and engages different parts of the brain. It may help unlock a forgotten moment in your life. I’m hoping it may shed some light on something I think you have.”

“What do you think I could possibly have?”

“A message.”

The tension in her jaw seemed to loosen, disbelief filled her eyes.

“You have got to be kidding me. A message? From something on Mars?” Now Wilma was almost smirking.

“Look, I’m not going to play arts and crafts with you and I am not going to humour the idea of extra-terrestrials.”

My hand came to a sudden stop at the word I wasn’t allowed to say. I lifted up the piece I had been working on for Wilma to see. A simple blurry image of four people. A stick figure mother and father with two stick figure daughters between them, all holding hands smiling.

“What do you think?”

Wilma was leaning back now I could begin to see the glistening of sweat on her forehead as she surveyed the drawing.

“You see Wilma. This isn’t my last interview, this is your last interview. If I don’t feel like we’ve sufficiently uncovered anything of value when this is all done, well…”

And I very slowly twisted my hands tearing the paper from top to bottom shearing straight through the mother and daughter’s hands. I placed the happy family down on the desk and held up just the mother. Slowly peeling more paper from the sheet. First removing her legs, then slowly each arm and finally her head from her torso.

Wilma’s eyes were wide now at the very real implication of euthanizing her for science. I reached forward and gently placed the smiling paper head down in the middle of the table. Her eyes darted from me to the clock.

08:12:32.

She licked the corners of her mouth nervously.

“Wha- What do you need me to draw?”

“Oh, anything would be nice. Since you spent so long studying it, why not a picture of Mars?”

Wilma looked down to the three pastels that still sat in front of her. I had assumed that they would be all she would need to draw the red planet, but then Wilma asked.

“Can I have a different colour?”

“Why?”

“This is going to sound silly, but when I was little I always drew Mars as blue.”

“Blue?”

“Yes, bluer then the Earth. It’s an old habit?”

Without needing more explanation I reached forward and handed her the rest of the packet of pastels. They were getting softer as the room was really beginning to swelter.

I had them turn off the climate control in this wing of the building.

Wilma got to work instantly taking a green pastel and smearing it all over the page in a loose circle before swapping to a layer of blue overlapping the green base. It looked almost like a marble where the light passed through the prism to create new and ever changing colours.

“What would you say is your biggest weakness?” I asked while she worked.

“Do you want my interview answer? My biggest weakness is that I’m too much of a perfectionist.”

“hmmmm.” I was still working on my next masterpiece.

She held up the blue planet. “Mars.”

“That’s really good.” I said as I held up my artwork.

A blanket red wall with a sharp foreground line of orange and a chasm of brown worming its way into the wall’s face.

A cave entrance in red stone.

Wilma’s face showed that she didn’t understand what the drawing depicted.

“You said in a recording to Mission Control that you saw a cave in Owen’s Shelf and that you were investigating its interior. I want you to draw the inside of this cave next.” I pointed to the brown blob.

Now with shaking hands Wilma took a new sheet and began to search the pastel pile for a good colour.

“I believe you may have a message of some sort.”

Wilma didn’t even look up now.

I had spoken with the Xeno-linguistics department a couple of times about real first contact. They had explained that for two totally different species to communicate in any meaningful way was basically impossible. Even amongst human beings we relied on base languages to break down cultures that were not even that different from each other. Now try that with a group that didn’t have any similar physiology, thoughts or needs. How would you communicate your message, your intent?

Maybe just a feeling.

“Why did you choose space?”

“I told you, it was a childhood dream.”

“Why did you want to leave, I mean you do have a family.”

The pastel instantly stopped moving on the page. “Look asshole, I love my family and don’t you speak-”

She was very agitated by that question and I interrupted her.

“It just feels strange that you spent so much time away from them and then decided to leave the whole planet for almost a year.”

I watched her shoulders tense as I spoke. Wilma finally had enough. She stood abruptly and threw the art supplies along with the paper, sliding them violently off the table into the wall before slamming her palms on the desk.

“I would do anything for my girls!”

I didn’t react to her outburst, instead I simply held up the paper of the father with two girls, now without her. She slowly smoldered and sunk back into her chair. Before reaching down to pick up her papers from the ground placing them back on the table.

“What would you say is special about you Wilma?”

“Honestly, not much. Besides the whole Mars thing I feel my life hasn’t been extraordinary.”

I was sweating profusely and removed my suit jacket while she spoke.

“Yes, that’s true, but it makes me wonder, if you’re not what’s important then why April, why not further back or never return?”

I felt a singing spark pass through my mind.

“Unless the person isn’t what’s important, maybe the importance is in the day. Did anything unusual happen before the morning you arrived at work?”

“Uh, I mean it was a week ago I’m not really sure.” She was slow and purposeful as she spoke, but for a second she moved her arms as though she had meant to cross them and then didn’t.

She had stopped herself.

I was staring intently at her arm now.

A car door closed on her arm and gave her a really bad bruise.

As I looked at the damaged flesh it did remind me a little of something else. The purpling that occurs on someone’s neck from strangulation. The skin vessels bursting from pressure as thumbs crush a windpipe.

“I love my girls, that’s what you said. What can you tell me about your husband?”

She feigned surprise at my interest.

“Richard is a great father and my rock. Most days he picks up the lion’s share of the familial duties, but I.” Wilma spoke slower now, she was being much more careful.

“Sounds to me like every day. With a woman who is so devoted to her job she’s first in and last out. A perfectionist whose top of her field. Almost makes me wonder how you had any time for your family at all?”

Wilma was now clutching her right hand over top of the bruise as if it suddenly hurt more now.

“Except you weren’t always first in were you? You arrived late to the office on the day you were brought back to Earth 8:20am you were over an hour later than what was normal for you.”

“I- I just happened to be busy, something came up.”

“Your husband thinks you’re not spending enough time at home with the kids. Its eroding your marriage and in two weeks you’re leaving the entire fricking planet for a year.”

Her eyes were distant now, glazed over and low to the ground.

“You get home late again and for once he’s still up and starts the conversation about the family feeling abandoned by “super” mom. Then you say you’re not interested in talking about it. He’s mad, it’s been building a while now. He gets physical and grabs you by the wrist wrenching you to face him so you two can speak. Your arm is injured in his vice like grip as he screams at you.”

Wilma was frozen in place as a couple tears slowly piled around her eye lids and then silently down her cheek.

“He injures you and the next morning you move slower than normal because the nights events weigh so heavily on you. You decide to stay and see the kids when they get up. Treating them special in some thin attempt to make up for lost time and when you do get to work you cover for your husband’s abuse. You tell everyone about some accident and how your arm got caught in a car door because you’re too proud to admit that you failed at something, and you desperately needed to be perfect!”

I was standing now. I hadn’t even realized I had been screaming at her as this whole time.

An aching thought crossed my mind.

“What if you’re not the Burhes that I should be speaking to?”

I reached over and stopped the clock. 06:31:45.

I stuffed my loose work back into my satchel and left the room.

Wilma was rocking herself a little in the chair now. Actively crying as the door sealed behind me.