The Contained Alien

Let’s just suppose that humans make the journey to Mars. There is lots of controversy about this venture, all of them well intended and worth reflection, but, for the sake of this story, the trip happens. And, let’s just suppose that Martians are about a thousandth the size of ant legs. After all, Martians don’t know they’re supposed to be large as Earthlings. Or larger. But, in fact they could be smaller. It takes a lot a Martians to screw in a light bulb. A lot! Would they know what a light bulb is?

And let’s also remember that because of the astronauts' needs required them to empty the onboard waste system because they still have to go the bathroom (wonder why it's not called a latrine or head?) and, because they were well trained and the planners knew how to handle this problem, the periodic emptying of trash and waste in space went well (how else would you describe it: "as planned"). But the crew had arrived at Mars, on time, where treating the universe as just a vast open collection refuge had to stop. (Of course, it began well outside the limits of Earth's gravity. Talk about public relations nightmare? All that space and your trash ends up bombarding Earth's atmosphere!)

Also, an early decision fixed the crew as all male. Better for privacy, said one side. Not fair for everyone else, said the other side. Why one side actually won, given they both changed positions several times over the years the plans were being made, is not in itself important. It was, it would be, an all-male crew.

The plan was for three of the crew to remain in orbit and three of the crew to land. The large crew of six was picked to ensure not-to-worn out bodies and brains when they arrived at Mars.

But, as with all space voyages, weight (food and water, six 180 pound persons, something to read, toilet paper, clothes, soap, and all the rest of the stuff you would pack into an RV for a six month journey, fuel to lift more fuel) requires fuel and when food (weight) was changed to waste (just lesser weight) something had to go--if you’ll pardon the pun. But the plan wasn’t so crude or crass as to just dump waste on Martian soil. There had been speculation that once upon a time space travelers had done just that, leaving germs to populate molds and bacterial growth on Earth, but the favor was not going to be repaid. If humans were to attempt population in the universe they would go at it with a plan and a purpose. Garbage disposal was both.

Six months to Mars. Six men. Six tons of water and food. Three tons of waste. Much of the waste was burned to generate heat. In fact, by the time the astronauts edged into Mars orbit, the trash load (waste, packageing, "stuff") was measured in less than one thousand pounds. But, half a ton to carry all the way back to earth, a six-months journey--or not bring back hundreds of pounds of Mars soil samples-- was not an option. To avoid leaving behind a biological mess, planners had determined the need to collect all the trash in one heavy duty container. But the container would have double duty on the trip out. It would have to have utility, be strong enough to with stand the Mars weather for just about forever on the surface of Mars, yet be light enough to make the trip.

The plan set out that astronauts would visit the surface of Mars and their return ship would be just a small capsule with enough lifting capacity to bring back plenty of Mars soil samples and three crewmen. The capsule would be jettisoned back to the surface with a load of trash in it. That was the plan.

The first problem was bulk. There had been not much idea of how bulky trash would be and how it would be confined to a space designed for spacemen and not for spacemans' trash. The astronauts --trained scientists, pilots, engineers-- spent the better part of a morning ripping and stomping all kinds of packaging, broken parts (someone noticed there were more “broken parts” than anticipated), odds and ends, bags of garbage and human wastes, into some compact heap in the capsule. There was little concern for what got banged up inside the lander as soft trash was wedged into corners and no-longer-need tools just tossed in. Time spend getting ready was time not spent on returning, and they fully expected the capsule to crash heavily onto the Martian surface. The lander would record the impact and relay information about the geologic structure of Mars. No one bothered to weigh anything.

The plan went well. Went well enough, as waste, garbage, "stuff", was crammed, bent, tortured, beaten into the capsule filling it nearly to the hatchway. That was more than anticipated. How they had so much junk to leave behind was not ever questioned. And then the capsule was jettisoned, as planned. And crashed, as planned. And, then forgotten.

For years.

And years.

The crew made it back to the moon and then to earth. Then another crew was readied but canceled and soon the first crew grew old and became history. And nothing changed much on the surface of Mars. Except this dark object the size of a mountain, from the point of view of the Martians, filled a former void in the landscape.

The sun rose and set countless times. Martians lived and died and buried and re-arose and loved and hated and warred and peace-d beyond too many times to count. Floods came and went. Drought came followed by too much water. Martians rampantly procreated enough to cover more of the planet but they didn’t grow in size. No one on Earth noticed. No one on Earth cared anymore about Mars. They had been there. It cost a lot. Time to change challenges like changing cell phone covers. They'd gone elsewhere.

Because all this was a mere blink of time for the universe.

All the while, roving the universe were countless rocks. Call them meteors. Call them comets. Call them fast. Slow. Large. Small. Tiny. Ugly. Mostly call them patient. And it wasn’t that these rocks struck Mars. They struck everywhere. From afar, Earthlings were intrigued on an intellectual level about geology and fading hopes of returning to Mars. That several rocks impacted in the area of either the lander or the crashed capsule only fueled the intellectual exercise. When the sensitive, earth-bound instruments detected a large boulder (the consensus was in the 50-foot diameter size) struck Mars “close” to the crashed capsule, it didn’t even make the evening news.

But for the Martians, it was the end. A new disease had been released from the half-buried monolith. The thing had been discovered eons before and no one knew when, their collective intelligence could only go back so far, and since it did nothing, the Martians did nothing about it. What had been “close” on earth had been deadly on-target on Mars. The capsule was smashed into millions of pieces. Flattened. Exploded. Buried. Blasted across the landscape. The earthlings thought something had happened and there was speculation but talk lasted only as long as the news segued to the newest survey results about nothing. The contained alien, the forgotten but not destroyed wastes, the leftovers, the left behinds, the left arounds, invaded the germ-innocent Martian world.

And destroyed it all. From afar nothing was ever there and from afar nothing is still there.
###

Rock of Ages

The end was near.

Or so most everyone believed. It wasn’t a new fear, some said, the end was always near. It was a relief, others said, the planet had gone to pieces, figuratively and literally, and was past saving. For most of them it was unfair. It wasn’t their time. They weren’t ready--yet. Like they were ready some other time. Some took the news as so accurate they were moving south--of the equator. Brownie Owens had taken the news hard. Bought four cases of top notch Scotch, said to hell with the doctor’s orders about alcohol and heart disease, and began drinking on a regular basis. They had three years to wait.

Brownie Owens and his friend Tank Arnold were staying, for the time being. Owens was on his first double Scotch after three p.m. It was a rule. Only one before lunch. One after lunch but before 3:00 o’clock. As many as he could handle after 3:00. He’d told the doctor--two days before the doctor closed his doors and took off--about his, Brownie Owens, medicinal purchase and the doctor asked Brownie if he, the doctor, could come over some time and have a couple. Brownie had said, “Sure,” but he, Brownie, wanted it taken off his bill. They’d both laughed, nervously, until the realization of the end being near rather sobered their expectations of just about everything held until the announcement. A new set of “dear” was emerging.

“So, what’s the latest” said Brownie Owens.

Tank Arnold didn’t drink. He was stout, would be heavy if he lived long enough, was concerned about the impending doom but undecided.

“No change. It’s still on course, for the northern hemisphere, due in something like three years. Four miles across. ‘They’ say it’s the biggest thing to hit the planet ever.”

“Who is ‘they’?” said Owens. Then paused. “Makes a person wonder what hath God wrought?”

“Not really.”

“Huh?”

“It’s bad luck and bad timing. Maybe our time really is now. Armageddon and all that. But, God, deliberately wiping out all his creations? For some reason known only to God the mysterious? No.”

“Doesn’t sound like talk from church goer.”

“Church has been let out, you could say. Service is canceled. Sunday school is over. Go home. Pray. No one had answers. They only had platitudes,” said Tank. He sounded unsatisfied. Unconvinced? Of what? A part of him was lost and floating. Without answers. He peered out from underneath the porch roof at the sky as if to see the rock of destruction heading our way. Brownie Owens joined him, staring into the cloudy sky.

“It’s gonna rain,” said Owens. “Yard needs it.”

“You hope. Why bother mowing the yard? In a few years it’ll be gone.”

“You think?” said Owens. “Maybe after a couple of million years a new kind of grass will evolve. I won’t be here to see it but who’s to say.”

“The planet is about to get it’s lid blown off,” said Tank Arnold. “I don’t think there’ll be any new grass. Or new anything. You going to drink yourself to death?”

“Sure, why not? There’s only three years to live.”

“What happens,” said Tank Arnold, “if it misses. I mean, there’s a big margin of error with this thing. It could miss us by --what?--ten thousand miles? Is that what I heard? Is that enough?”

“Heck if I know but a miss would sure put folks who moved in a bad spot. But I guess if you got money you can always buy your way back or change the rules. We can move the country down there, instead? Gee, maybe I ought to invest in some real estate.”

“It’s cheap,” said Arnold.

“These people --the scientist types--know what they’re talking about, though. It’s been proven. It’s coming. Depending on how close it gets--if it barely misses-- it’d drag enough of our atmosphere with it or punch one heck of a hole in our magnetic cover. And if it’s ten thousand the other way, like off towards the south of here it’d pretty well smash up the southern hemisphere someplace. Or, it could land on the opposite side, in the eastern hemisphere.” Owens shot back a finger of Scotch.

“The impact would still blow up enough dust to do us in. Slowly. Jeepers! Can you imagine what that would be like?”

“No,” said Owens between swallows, “I can’t. Round and around we go, where it will land, nobody knows. That sucker could pass well clear of us or hit us dead on right on my house.”

“Which means all those people moving to south will look pretty smart or pretty silly, won’t it?”

“Won’t be anything left up here to return to, that’s for sure."

There was a pause, as if to refuel or re-arm.

"What I got to thinking about,” said Owens, “was that maybe this is how our life got started, since it is about to end. Think about it, this is how we got started. From some other planet?”

“Was this after three o’clock yesterday you started in on this idea,” said Tank Arnold. “We didn’t start from some other planet and you know it.”

“Now is not the time for theological primpiness. And, no, I don’t know it. What I know is the latest theories have it that some huge asteroid or meteor walloped one of the outer planets so hard it sheared off the crust and sent only a gazillion tons of debris into space, towards the sun, mostly. That’s all I know.”

“If they're right, that is. So...” said Arnold. He was not one to be easily convinced.

“...so, all that rock, and the germs and bacteria sealed in them, was ejected out into space. 'They' think.”

“That’s an awful long shot. To drive all that rock out into space and somebody just happens to run into some of our ...somebody else’s...stuff?”

“Why not be a long shot? Besides if enough rock just floats around eventually somebody’ll hit it. You just run into this chunk of planet floatin’ around in space. Happens all the time, actually.”

“That’s too much chance. You know that.”

“So. What’s the time frame? A couple of hundred million-billion years? What’s the rush? Out off the millions of tons of debris a few lone chunks from somewhere else make it to here. A few of those survive the atmosphere and the impact. A few of those had some kind of organism sealed inside the rock. Either by being crushed by other rocks or--talk about chance--getting hit by another meteorite--or just melting away by erosion frees the first germ to mix with the water and form the first cell of life.”

“No,” said Tank Arnold. He shook his head. “Too much left to chance?”

“How do you know it’s too much?”

”Because, each one would be one in a million, maybe. That’s too many million for me to buy into,” said Tank Arnold.

“If millions of years isn’t too long, then millions of chances isn’t too many,” replied Owens. “Think of it this way, one thing the universe has lots of, is lots and lots of time. What’s the rush? This construction time-thing that we want to understand is just our conceit.”

“Well, all the people selling out must not agree--with you. They’re getting their money and clearing out.”

“To where? There’s no place to hide. There’s no place on this planet to run to that is immune if this asteroid hits. And it is so big, so huge, that it just has to graze us to wipe us all out in a little longer than, perhaps--the way we’d want to go--a direct hit”--he punched his fist into his hand--”pretty much dooms us all in about of two seconds. We’re like Adam and Eve with no place to hide. We’re doomed I tell you, doomed!”

“This is not funny, you drunk,” said Tank. “Life on this planet might just end in three years time. That’s serious stuff. Think of what you could do if you lived for another 40 years...”

“...conceit...”

“...and where we could be in helping people...”

“...we haven’t started yet, so why worry...”

“You just don’t care!” said Tank.

“I do care! I care a lot!” Owens gulped down the rest of the Scotch. He prepared to pour himself another one. “I’m also very afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Dying.”

“But in the end, we’re all dead,” Arnold’s voice had a pleading rise to it. “I don’t understand what you’re telling me. You seem resigned to your fate but cynical about everyone else’s sudden interest in their mortality. Why?”

“I don’t know. You’re right, it’s too...short. It’s too definite. Just to die of old age is almost a reward. To die in an accident--at least you don’t have time to ponder it. But to kind of know that on such and such a day you are about to be toast--literally--is, well, spooky. It’s like some kind of countdown to a blastoff.”

“Yeah, except we’re about to get blasted on.”

“Did we do something to deserve this,” asked Brownie Owens.

“Of course not,” said Tank. “I won’t say we should have done some of the things in this world we did but somehow I don’t see this as the wrath of God.”

“Maybe we’ll send robots to these other planets and maybe those robots will announce that we’re a civilization and help plant seeds of thought and intelligence,” said Brownie Owens. “Gotta have some there life first?”

“I ‘spose,” said Owens. He paused. “And if the robots landed on some planet before any of our germs got there? Then what? Maybe we should send robots instead of humans to the planets except when the human dies at least his germs can cultivate life.”

“Are you trying convince me that’s how got started,” said Tank Arnold. “Huh? That we are really just leftover germs? I guess they’d just have to wait. What’s time to a robot? Besides, we don’t really know the right chemistry for life. We have ours, and, well, that’s it! Those same science guys that predict the end of the world keep talking about finding life because of finding water but who says what the chemistry was cough up that first germ? Couldn’t have been poop in the water or some dead bug or garbage or contamination. Little things swimming the water? Where’d they come from and how many false starts did that go through? Are we going to send some of our life-stuff to one of the interior planets? Is our only hope the small blue planet can someday support life?"

They both paused, mentally exhausting their thoughts and knowing the futileness of their exchange. Only Scotch could settle these souls.

“So,” said Tank Arnold, “are going you to sell and leave?”

“Don’t have a place to go.”

“You don’t have to have a destination. Just, well, go!”

“But I can not just leave--my house, my neighbors. This is my home. Asteroid or no asteroid. Besides, like I said, what if the margin of error lands the asteroid right where I’ve moved to?”

“Too bad, I guess. Tough luck? Fate?”

“Don’t get me started on fate. I might just as well stay here and take my chances. I probably should have bought more Scotch.”
###