As Boring as Martian Maize

The thinking behind it had been simple. Take two people who don’t get on, and force them to be dependent on each other for company and possibly for care.

     Not such a crazy idea. It has worked many a time, and no doubt will work many times more, but it didn’t appear to be working for Connor and Cameron. Rumours had spread that they had been close once, and there had been a massive fall-out (over a woman or over money or over both, depending on which version you listened to) but the one thing that might have united them was denying that there was a word of truth in it. They hadn't even known each other when they were children, and would almost certainly have heartily disliked each other if they had. The authorities at the Interstellar Operations Technical Academy, generally known as IOTA, despaired of them at times. Both were gifted students, though in a year whose intake included the likes of Gemma the Genius and Bert the Boffin (their gifts were genuine, and not just because of the handy alliteration) they were, at most, likely to be among the best of the rest, and both got on pleasantly enough, or so it seemed, with their fellow students. But the minute they came into each other’s ambit, it was as if a damp, grey, sodden curtain came down.

     After passing their exams easily enough, and passing the medicals and the aptitude tests, it was time, if students wished, to go on their first mission. The vast majority DID wish. Of course, they had all been on holiday before, but this was a different matter.

     There were those who said that Dr Anton Markovich, the director of IOTA, was one of the most intelligent and insightful humans who ever lived, and those who said he was quite, quite mad. Possibly both opinions were correct. He made a point of consulting people before taking any decision, and then proceeding to take the one he had intended to all along, having convinced the others that they had persuaded him to. 

     But just occasionally, some dared to raise dissenting voices, and Dr Marianne Hopgood, who was by way of being a power in the land herself, raised an eyebrow (and her eyebrows were extremely eloquent, though her mien was generally impassive) when he “suggested” sending Connor and Cameron to the Meteor Observation Spatial Substation , nicknamed the Rolling Stone for obvious reasons, and it did, indeed, resemble one a little with its rugged circular construction for a session. “Anton, are you really sure about this?” she asked. He invited everyone to call him Anton, but in practice, not many did, at least, not often. “No disrespect, but your responsibilities mean you don’t do much actual teaching and ….”

     “I know exactly what goes on here, Marianne,” he said, “And you have no mean to tell me that those two young men don’t get on.”

     “That’s the understatement of the year,” someone muttered.

     “And it is a two-person capsule,” Marianne pointed out.

     “I am well aware of that. I both helped design it and have travelled on it. But I still maintain it could be the making of them, and the end of this silly feud. Of course it will be entirely their own choice.”

     Which was true. But the promise of rapid promotion and remuneration well beyond the norm for a first mission helped. And somehow, you just didn’t defy Dr Markovich. 

     With the hyperdrive rocket, even though it was now past its prime and a super-hyper-drive rocket was in preparation, they were at their destination within a couple of days, and the rocket on its way back to earth to be refurbished, calling at Mars on the way to pick up some farmers on their way home and some supplies.

     They passed the relatively short trip to Meteor Moor, as it was nicknamed, more or less in total silence. The capsule was remotely controlled, but as an extra precaution they took turns minding the instrument panel. A soft metallic buzzer reminded them of the changeover time, and they did so without exchanging a word. At one point Cameron made an exaggerated gesture of sweeping a hand over the seat after Connor had been sitting there, and Connor muttered, “Bo-Ring!” in a stage whisper. It was a precursor of things to come. Both men were inclined to be talkative, and complete silence, especially in the vacuum of space, can only endure for a certain period of time. 

     This was probably the point, so Dr Markovich had probably hoped, when they would start to spark each other off, and then to confide in each other, and discover that they had more in common than they ever realised, and begin to bond.

     Perhaps he was not entirely wrong on the matter of them discovering they had more in common than they realised.

     “You are so profoundly boring,” Connor informed Cameron, casting a disdainful eye over his music of choice. “You have the same taste in music as a Plutonian Pensioner!” The care home for retired astronauts was one of those institutions that was benign and necessary, but nobody wanted to end up there.

     “That’s ripe coming from you. Your grandfather is a Plutonian Pensioner. But come to that he’s probably a lot more interesting than you are. Mind you, a bottle of engine cleaning fluid is more interesting than you are, and more useful, too.”

     Meteor Moor was a beautiful place, but a lonely one. When the interstellar wind was too strong they could not venture outside the capsule, even in their latest design space suits. They could have gazed out at the canopy of stars sending their lights from millions of years ago, and could have watched the meteor showers that came almost every evening in the red-tinged twilight and were generally regarded as one of the loveliest spectacles in the galaxy. And they did. Occasionally. “So you have nothing better to do than look out of the window,” Connor sneered. “You’re more boring than a disused heat shield.”

     “And exactly what do YOU have to do about make stupid remarks? You’re more boring than Martian Maize.”

     Now that WAS getting seriously nasty. After hiccups at the start, the terra-forming of Mars had been largely successful, and it was now more or less taken for granted that most crops folk were used to on earth, and some that had never been dreamt of, could flourish there. But for some reason, they had never quite cracked it with maize. It was, theoretically, edible, but as more than one person had said, it was curious how something could be so utterly tasteless and yet taste so disgusting at the same time. It was something of an embarrassment. As a last resort someone had suggested using it to bulk out pet food (after having been discouraged, if not actually banned for centuries, it was now allowed, though controlled, again) but discovered that even the most voracious and undiscerning mutt turned up his cold nose at Martian Maize. Scientific papers were written pondering the fact that dogs had a much stronger sense of smell and perhaps they could smell something disgusting that humans couldn’t, but that was contentious, and Martian Maize was so offensively bland it probably didn’t smell of anything in particular. 

     “I’d eat a plateful of Martian Maize before voluntarily spending another hour with only you for company!”

     It’s fair to say it was not going well, and they realised this at IOTA. Allowing for storm delays, the research side of the mission was going well enough, but even reading between the lines it was plain that this was the exception that proved the rule. Dr Markovich had been wrong. That was disconcerting. That was like one of those anomalies in space-time that they still hadn’t quite managed to explain. 

     They lived in hope of the message where Connor would say, “I had to laugh at something Cameron told me today,” or Cameron would say, “Connor has hidden depths.” 

     It seemed, at least, that they carried out their work efficiently, if far from in harmony, and that they were likely to get home in one piece. Well, in two pieces.

     They were already packing up their experiments, and checking the gravity drive on the capsule when Connor fell sick. This was a highly unusual matter. Everyone was vaccinated against – well, practically everything – and though there were still hospitals and medical doctors, both on earth and in the colonies, the hospitals were often more or less empty and the doctors had little to do. Injuries still sometimes happened, but many folk could not even recall having known someone who was ill. “Swinging the lead,” Cameron said, “When there’s some actual work to do. You are as boring and predictable as a magnet, except you’d never attract anyone or anything.”

     “And you are as boring as rusty iron filings no self-respecting magnet would touch. But I – genuinely do feel unwell.”

     Either of them could have coped with the vast majority of space emergencies that might come their way, but though they theoretically had some basic medical training, this was another matter. And Cameron had to admit that Connor didn’t look right. His cheeks were too red, though the capsule hadn’t overheated, and he sometimes struggled to breathe, though there was nothing whatsoever wrong with its oxygen supply. “Bloody drama queen,” Cameron muttered, but was coming closer to panic than he cared to admit. He contacted mission control, and they hurriedly called in a doctor to advise them. The doctor, it has to be said, was not wildly helpful. But perhaps it was not entirely his fault. He muttered something about “Space Fever”. That was a vague, catch-all term for something that used to be quite a common problem, but they thought, by now, they had more or less eliminated. Sometimes, despite all the protective suits and systems that became more advanced by the second, someone’s body just began to rebel about being in space, and the progress of the illness could be terrifying. There was only one potential cure.

     “Get home – now –“ Dr Markovich, who had come into the control centre, said. “Put the engines on boost, and don’t make any stopovers. You’ll have to take solo control of the instrument panel.”

     “Typical,” he muttered, but realised Connor hadn’t heard him. He was unconscious. 

     “Wake up, for heaven’s sake,” he said, “Or come to think of it, you’re less likely to annoy me when you’re asleep.”

     Calling on his basic medical training, he put out two fingers to feel the pulse in Connor’s neck. It was not hot any more, and his face was not red and flushed, and there was no pulse-beat. He tried again, and then, speaking in a curiously flat voice, he contacted Mission Control. “Connor – is dead.” The brief silence seemed to expand beyond the ions and light years of the galaxy. Dr Markovich was the first to speak. “May he rest in peace. You – know what must be done, Cameron.”

     Cameron knew what must be done. It was one of those lessons they were all taught, and rarely talked about. There was a ritual and a protocol to such matters, and it had been established centuries ago, and changed little.

     Those who died on a mission, unless they had expressly made other wishes known and these were possible, if they were still closer to the mission’s destination, were to be laid to rest there. The ceremony was brief and dignified. Wrapped in a shining silver cloth, Cameron was lowered down a slide onto the surface of a meteor. Connor dimmed the lights of the capsule, and said, as the standard formula dictated, “From stardust you came, to stardust return.” and bowed his head. 

     There was nothing else to do now except get the capsule home and debrief them at IOTA and mission control. Cameron felt a curious and cavernous emptiness that was almost physical. It was not exactly grief, and not exactly guilt, and he had no illusions that Connor would have felt either, had their roles been reversed though he, too, would have done his duty. 

     The lights were on again in the capsule now, and caught in the light of the full moon of a not so distant planet that had been explored, but had yielded no life, the metal walls were almost like a mirror. Cameron looked at himself in that mirror, and muttered, “You are more boring than Martian Maize.” And then he wept, and then he brought the capsule home.