With the first Mars base struggling to survive, the story shifts focus to those pulling the strings back on Earth – and to an isolated, desperate survivor on the Red Planet. As hidden agendas collide and new threats emerge, the line between ally and enemy blurs. Despite the best efforts of an unlikely new champion, treachery runs wild.
From the perspective of powerful figures on Earth, a darker vision for humanity’s future begins to take shape. Old Martian wounds fester and new mysteries surface, forcing our remaining heroes to question everything they think they know about the mission.
Medusa Rising explores the dangerous allure of idealism, the cost of secrets, and what happens when the villains are given the microphone.
REVIEWS
“Medusa Rising is a brilliant tale of the clash of ideals between human ingenuity and those who would control progress. The scientific exploration of Mars, the character development, unfurling love stories, mystery, and non-stop adventure make this riveting novel one that can’t be put down. I’m eager to read Brian’s third book Tetrahedron to learn if man’s spirit of adventure prevails.”
— Deborah Davenport
EXCERPT
Medusae Fossae: Mars Day 355, 7:02 a.m.
Since no one in the universe could hear him, Ollie hummed a cheerful tune. It helped him to relax. Nervousness led to sweating, and sweat might cloud his vision or pool at the bottom of his space suit helmet.
He didn’t need either distraction. Not today. Not now.
If I’m right – and if I do everything exactly right – this discovery should win me a Nobel Prize.
Some distractions couldn’t be avoided. Daydreams of brilliant successes and well-deserved recognition sank beneath the dark waters of reality.
They don’t hand out prizes to dead people.
If the Consortium figures out what I’m doing, that’s what I’ll be. A walking, breathing, dead man.
As he carefully placed his temperature and humidity sensors along a crater wall, he considered the other great wall stretching across the horizon, the nearly-as-solid barrier constraining his every action since the day he set foot on Mars. Pondering his predicament for at least the tenth time this morning only made his growing headache worse… yet he couldn’t stop himself.
There had to be a way out. And he would find it, even if it took a hundred more sleepless nights or frantic mornings hiding his efforts from Mission Support.
So far, he had come up with only two options. Stall for time, or walk away.
His humming hit a sour note.
Walk away from the geology find of the century? Not bloody likely. I would rather die.
He could still do it. Walk away. It wasn’t too late. No one knew he had left the safety of the Perseus, his tuna can-shaped Martian habitat, to visit the epsomite mine site this morning.
Until he made the final connections between his sensors and a data logger, Ollie could conveniently forget the tiny drops of condensation he discovered yesterday on the underside of a nearby mining drill. In the full heat of the afternoon sun, relative humidity should have been as close to zero as anyone could measure. Yet, the drill dripped with water. Impossible!
But it was true. He had seen it… and his mining robots probably hadn’t. Though the machines recorded everything – and dozens of geology experts back on Earth studied every byte of data – they would miss this accidental find. They weren’t here. They weren’t looking for it behind the cameras.
And they aren’t desperate enough?
Maybe.
Certainly, the Consortium isn’t desperate for any planet-shaking discoveries on Mars.
And then there’s Penny. No matter what happens to me, I have to protect her.
If I double-cross the consortium, well… dead people can’t get married, either.
He forced his hands to keep moving, wiring the necessary connections individually and confirming they were good. This part required more attention, but soon his thoughts drifted again.
Walk away from his work? From his duty to science? From a four billion-year-old mystery?
Ridiculous. He was a geologist. One of the greatest ever. For nearly half a century, he had lived and breathed geology. If he died tomorrow, he would die as a geologist.
Well. Rather than dying as a geologist, I’d rather live as one. Happily married and retired.
Therefore, the other option sounded much better. Stall. Cover his tracks. Bury his data until he returned to Earth, where he might collect his Nobel Prize someday. Then they would hide from the Consortium for the rest of their lives.
Weak plan, Ollie.
Nobody on Earth can hide from the Consortium. I’m better off staying on Mars.
Too bad that’s not a good option, either.
Holding his breath, he flipped the power switch on the data collection box. A built-in display immediately reported the ground temperature of the east crater wall at -7 degrees Celsius, close to expected given the depth of the morning shadows. Later, the full fury of the afternoon sun would bake his beautiful white stripe of epsomite and the to-be-determined layer beneath. Temperatures would vary with depth.
And when the right layer at the proper depth hits +2 degrees C, we’ll have a little party on Mars.
After fighting a minor dizzy spell, he chipped some marks on the epsomite vein. Each blow of the rock hammer worsened his headache, but it was necessary. If the data proved a link between temperature and humidity at the surface, he would return tomorrow, drill holes at the marked locations, and stuff more sensors into them. Backfilling would allow the sensors to monitor the conditions underground, removing doubt from his findings.
As if he had any doubts.
While he marked a fourth spot, the annoyingly feminine voice of his suit’s AI broke the morning’s silence. “Incoming audio message from Mission Support.”
Uh oh. Here it comes. The moment of truth.
The vultures waited longer than I expected. Almost long enough.
I wonder who forgot to read the memo from the psych team.
Ollie laughed at this last thought. Those distant curmudgeons on the psych team usually watched his every move. Today, they should be watching everyone else. Worrying about the mental and physical stress from yesterday’s long EVA had led the chief psychologist, , to schedule him a rare sleep-in.
Maybe they discovered I’m not asleep? Doubtful. Unless I missed something… and I haven’t.
As for the top guy at Mission Support, <shepherd> usually followed the advice of the psych team. The boss would stay off his back if Ollie satisfied the mind doctors. Besides, Shep had promised Ollie most of the day off to celebrate the one-Earth-year anniversary of his launch from Earth.
That left the underlings, the armies of technical helpers, scientists, and education specialists. Everyone and their sister wanted to be involved in the first manned exploration mission to Mars, even a mission as deadly as this one. Some were emotionally incapable of leaving him alone for more than ten minutes. It was only a matter of time until one of them snuck a message past <shepherd> and the psych team – and his own message filters.
He moved his eyes in a circular pattern so the suit computer would expect a verbal command. “Suit, who sent the message?”
“The message is from <shepherd> . And it is labeled urgent.”
“What? Really?”
The suit AI’s confirmation bore an artificial huff, but he paid no attention. His mind had strayed again, going back through his plans. Why would <shepherd> contact him during his morning off?
I may have missed something.
No, I thought of everything. There’s no way <shepherd> can know where I am or what I’m doing.
He must be calling about something else.
And if it isn’t really, really important, I might escalate a complaint to the psych team.
Then I can step back and watch the silly Earthlings duke it out. Wouldn’t that be the bee’s knees?
Another dizzy spell left him sitting on the ground. Somehow, this seemed normal. Shaking his head cleared his thoughts. He reached over and picked up his hammer, which had slipped from his grasp.
“Uh, OK. Suit, route the audio through my proxy in my quarters back at the Perseus. Then play it.”
After a short pause, he heard the director’s voice. “Good morning, Ollie. We noticed you’re still asleep, so I’ve marked this message for immediate playback after you wake up.”
So far, so good. At least it doesn’t sound like a ‘Hab On Fire’ message.
And if the parents still think I’m asleep, I’m not busted yet.
But… my suit knows I’m awake. I should scrub its memory later before it squeals on me.
The message continued. “Sorry to bother you, especially after I threatened to fire anyone who bothered you this morning. But, well, <sinbad> claims you were sloppy with your checklist last night. Several items weren’t completed or verified. Must have had something else on your mind?”
“… His biggest concern is your portable O2 tanks. Did you, uh, did you refill them after your EVA? The current readout from your suit locker says you didn’t do that. So if you did, then debug the locker sensors at your earliest convenience. And if you didn’t… well, I know I’m just being paranoid. But if you had to do an emergency EVA today, you might find some oxygen useful.”
“… That’s all for now. Out.”
My oxygen tanks? Of course, I refilled them. He must think I’ve lost the plot.
It wouldn’t hurt to check, though. I was pretty knackered last night. And more than a little distracted by my discovery.
He recalled connecting the hoses to his nearly empty oxygen cylinders once he returned home. But did he hit the big blue button on the wall to refill them? That part, he couldn’t remember.
What a load of tosh. Half a dozen safety protocols on this morning’s EVA would protect me from doing something dodgy like that.
Though… he had bypassed some because Mission Support would have noticed. Others may have slipped off the EVA checklist during his rush to get outside.
He could always rely upon the final watchdog, his suit’s nanny AI.
“Suit, display my oxygen levels throughout the current EVA.”
In the Heads-Up Display at the lower right corner of his field of vision, the suit plotted his oxygen supply throughout the morning. A yellow line reddened as it dropped from ’70 minutes’ down past oblivion.
Sweet Jesus.