8
Dr. Renée Niemann attended her private course in xenobotany, turning on her headbook and adjusting with her thumbclip the font, page width, and scroll speed that presented in her floaters.
XENOBOTANY
The chlorophyll conversion into energy from sunlight, as brought from Earth, has the fortuitous co-process of converting carbon dioxide into oxygen. Although the vast majority of oxygen production is from algae, cyanobacteria, and phytoplankton in the oceans of the northern hemisphere, still, such a terraforming-friendly mechanism as photosynthesis is further complemented by the same system in the green Chantū, Ares arboreta. Additionally, however, the Chantū exhibits other remarkable qualities. For one, it is mobile—ambulatory, albeit slowly. Nevertheless, it partakes in active pollination. But more to do with the terraforming-friendly abilities of the Earth trans-plants, besides likewise converting carbon dioxide to oxygen, it also converts the several iron oxides into oxygen—a natural Acrifier.
The Chantū, like its fauna counterpart, the ferropod, lay dormant in cryptobiosis until the Armstrong Limit of atmospheric pressure was reached and the oxygenation threshold of successful terraforming was achieved in the Martian atmosphere. Massive Chantū swarming assisted the Acrifiers in saving many years of terraforming, probably easily offsetting the time lost by the exiting ferropods from the colony infrastructure.
Ferramine, a protein of iron and amino acids, exists as a “tentacled” buckyball held together by disulfide bonds. The “tentacles” of the ferramine buckyball are all dissimilar, but some of them have been observed to partially fill dopamine and other receptors in the human central nervous system when ingested. [CLASSIFIED HUMAN RESEARCH]
It is a neurotransmitter in its own right, functioning in the ferropods by interacting with receptor sites. Its effects have not been clearly elucidated there. It has also been noted that it can be active in the human central nervous system. [CLASSIFIED HUMAN RESEARCH]
Its central spherical construction has a magnetic polarity, which may play a part in its seeking desired receptor sites by some unknown alien physiology or biochemical feedback loop. This polarity can change “on the fly,” producing “mid-course corrections” along neural tracts: the quaint “go where it is needed” comes to mind, but such a teleologic romanticism would be difficult to prove. Nevertheless, in classified controlled observations, this complex protein adjusted its affinity for receptor substrate, allowing attraction, binding, or release—changing receptor targets as frequently as the subject changed thoughts. [CLASSIFIED HUMAN RESEARCH]
Ferramine is also endogenous in the Chantū. Therefore, ingestion, transdermalizing, and smoking Ares arboreta are all discouraged, contraindicated, strictly forbidden, and fraught with penal consequences. [CLASSIFIED HUMAN RESEARCH]
Ah, that’s why, Renée realized. Maybe one day I’m going to have to try that stuff.
WARNING: THE PARTIAL FILLING OF THE DOPAMINE RECEPTOR SITES IN HUMANS BY FERRAMINE HAS LED TO UNPREDICTABLE EFFECTS WHICH COULD NOT BE DISPROVED TO BE PERMANENT. [CLASSIFIED HUMAN RESEARCH]
“Hmm,” she said. Maybe I won’t try it. And then she thought about the propaganda that centered on the cannabinoids in the 20th Century, some of it true, but most of it exaggerated or perverted into government spin to support the ridiculous and ill-fated “war on drugs” of the time. I’d love to research dopamine/ferramine crossover receptors in animals, and her mind began racing tangentially into other ideas for investigation. Before she had even considered a third or fourth side idea, she was startled again by a sudden red frame around her floater, invoking MCPSC 18 4205 (c) (1) (A). She agreed to it without so much as the word shit.
“YOU, DR. NIEMANN, ARE BEING BROUGHT TO MARS, AMONG OTHER REASONS, TO STUDY THE DOPAMINE/FERRAMINE CROSSOVER RECEPTORS IN EARTH MAMMALS THAT HAVE BEEN BROUGHT TO MARS FOR YOU. DO YOU ACCEPT?”
“I’ll be damned,” she muttered, then, “I said I’d love to, and I’d love to.”
“YOU SAID NO SUCH THING.”
“I didn’t? Well,” she confessed, “I thought it. You can’t read minds, can you?” MCPSC 18 4205 (c) (1) (A) laughed in a pathetic attempt to apply its own personality accrual touch of cultural reassurance for Renée. “Please don’t do that again,” she responded.
“AGREED,” the floater said.
“Then, I agree.”
“TO THE RESEARCH?”
“Yes.”
“GOOD. YOU CAN SEE WHY THE STUDY OF A UNIQUELY MARTIAN NEUROTRANSMITTER, ITS TENTACLES STRUCTURALLY RELATED TO HUMAN DOPAMINE, ACETYLCHOLINE, SEROTONIN, AND OTHER HUMAN NEUROTRANSMITTERS, COULD BE SO IMPORTANT IN HELPING PIECE TOGETHER THE INTANGIBLES OF MARTIAN LIFE.”
She could.
Dopamine, a major player in important human feelings and conditions such as love, pleasure, bonding, addiction—and fun—seemed to have a counterpart in ferramine, a truly alien neurologic substance. The similarities between it and Earth mammalian neurotransmitters such as dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, prolactin—similar when taken on a ferramine tentacle-by-tentacle analysis—smacked of convergent evolution, an idea not lost on Dr. Niemann.
“THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS COME TO MIND,” the red-framed floater continued, although Renée could already guess them. “ONE: DOES FERRAMINE ACT AS A NEUROTRANSMITTER? IF SO, TWO: ARE ITS EFFECTS PURELY PHYSIOLOGIC, LIKE REGULATION OF RESPIRATION, FOR INSTANCE? OR, ARE THE EFFECTS MORE ESOTERIC, IMPACTING PSYCHOPHENOMENA, SUCH AS LOVE AND AFFECTION, BONDING, FEELINGS OF WELL-BEING, PLEASURE, ETC., LIKE DOPAMINE, PROLACTIN, OXYTOCIN, SEROTONIN, AND SO ON? AND IS THIS EVEN A LEGITIMATE QUESTION FOR AN ANIMAL SO EVOLUTIONARILY BASIC AND ALIEN AS THE FERROPOD?
“THREE: IS THERE ONE MAIN FERRAMINE RECEPTOR, OR ARE THERE SEVERAL, EACH CORRESPONDING TO A PARTICULAR TENTACLE EMANATING FROM THIS FUZZY FERRAMINE BUCKYBALL? IF SO, HOW MIGHT THIS IMPACT OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THEIR ALIEN LIFE-EXPERIENCES, WHICH EXTENDS TO THE MARTIANS, TOO?”
“Love, etc., right?”
“RIGHT.”
“And addiction?”
“YES, AND ADDICTION,” the floater agreed.
“In the ancient Martians.”
“YES.”
“You’re going to have to find some dead Martians first,” Renée said. The floater paused, as if embarrassed.
“OF COURSE,” it finally answered tersely. “THE SONOTOMES’ EVALUATION IS VERY INCOMPLETE, BUT THEY SING OF VERY LOFTY NOTIONS INDEED. PERHAPS THE XENOLINGUISTS CAN JUMP-START SOME THEORIZING FOR YOU PART.
“BUT CONTINUING, FOUR,” the floater went on, “WHAT MIGHT FERROPODS DO IF EXPOSED TO HUMAN DOPAMINE OR OTHER HUMAN NEUROTRANSMITTERS SIMILAR TO THE TENTACLE ANALOGUES ON THE FERRAMINE BUCKYBALL? FIVE: WHAT MIGHT EARTH ANIMALS DO WHEN EXPOSED TO FERRAMINE? AND SIX: CAN SUCH STUDIED EFFECTS, VIA TRANSLATIONAL SCIENCE, BE EXTRAPOLATED TO HUMAN BEHAVIOR?”
“Don’t you have some humans exposed already? And isn’t Ares arboreta illegal? Must be a reason.” Again the floater paused.
“THOSE HUMAN VICTIMS ARE NOT CONTROLLED OBSERVATIONS…OR EVEN ETHICAL.”
“And what would be ethical?” she asked.
“Chimpanzees,” the headbook announced via the floater, whose red frame suddenly dissolved and was replaced by a green one, indicating a transition to unclassified, generic instruction.
“Wait! Not so fast, buster,” Renée objected. The red frame reappeared. “Chimps?”
“YES, DR. NIEMANN. YOU ARE A LARGE ANIMAL VETERINARIAN. YOU HAVE A LOT OF ZOO EXPERIENCE WITH LARGE ANIMALS.”
“I do.”
“IF YOU WOULD LIKE, YOU CAN DECLINE AND YOU CAN BE CONFINED TO QUARTERS FOR THE 26-MONTHS CYCLE UNTIL MARS AND EARTH ARE IN OPPOSITION AGAIN FOR THE RETURN HOME.”
“Would that be with pay?” she asked, the sarcasm lost on the MCPSC 18 4205 (c) (1) (A) red-framed headbook floater.
“SORRY, NO.”
“Then, I accept,” she said, and the red frame reverted back to green, off the MCPSC 18 4205 (c) (1) (A) grid, back to her personal headbook frame and her personal personality accrual interface.
“Dr. Niemann, was that a shit conversation?” the green-framed floater asked, indicating a sense of humor that was not unlike something dopamine mediated. Renée and her floater were bonding, the highest expression of personality accrual an automaton could hope for on its task list.
The search for dead Martian remains went on without success. The frustration of the Electromagnetic Archeologists was more than inversely matched by the excitement of the xenolinquists who proved that they had existed, having translated the ancient recordings with the help of the sound engineers and others like Jon Latorella who had rendered the recordings to them.
The Sonotomes were voluminous, and it seemed to Renée, at least on the MarsBound and on the station on Mars Lagrange 1 after that, that the xenolinguists and sound engineers were overpopulating the colony in comparison to the other scientific disciplines.
Especially veterinarians, who in total numbered one—herself.
***
After the months on the MarsBound, Mars Lagrange 1 was palatial. Having done her recommended G-Tilt wheel program and once she proudly had presented her camp stamp on the holoclip portion of her personal datacloud documents, she was given an assignment of living quarters on the 0.38 G habitat wheel called “Quarter Halo.” (The whole-G habitat wheel for those leaving Mars and re-acclimating to Earth gravity was called the “Full Halo.” Both were full circles, the numeric titles referring to the gravity quantity of each.)
She was pleased to see Quarter Halo had its own salon, apparel store, and other amenities. Even a pub. She surmised that the Full Halo had its own pub as well.
The two spinning habitat wheels, Full Halo and Quarter Halo, were joined by a 60-foot wide, 60-foot high, 300-foot long central connecting corridor, called the Axle, which because it wasn’t spinning required user-defined gravity fields from graviton pads. The main corridor was set permanently at a compromising 0.7 G—midway between the 0.38 and 1.0 gravities of the halos. Mars Lagrange I did not require the economy of gravity the MarsBound needed, so there was only one way up or down along its four stories of corridors, alcoves, ballroom-sized areas, shops, and meeting rooms, each of these adjustable away from the central Axle’s 0.7 G to users’ whims. The library was on the Axle, as were the larger restaurants.
For those who wanted a larger party atmosphere than the small pub of each Halo, the full-service bar on the Axle, called “Axle Rod’s,” entertained persons from both Halos who were tired of the cramped quarters of their smaller saloons. The fights over whether to set the GravPads to 0.38 G or the full 1 G did not mix well with alcohol, so the official Axle Rod gravity was set, like the main Axle itself, to 0.7 G. (At one time, a mischievous reveler occasionally could sneak behind the bar and order 3 Gs for the patrons, suddenly. One could only imagine. The control was now locked.)
The Axle had moving sidewalks and floor-to-ceiling windows at each level rendering spectacular views of the red and blue terraformed world and its bright yellow-white moon. The Halos also had spectacular vistas, but their views were always rotating, so the majority of the sight-seers preferred the stable observing from the Axle windows.
After Renée had settled into her suite, she enjoyed a shower—a long one—dressed, made herself up, and decided she would go out to her Halo’s small pub, called “Bar-Soom.” As threatened, the alcohol rations on the MarsBound had run dry for the last three weeks of her trip and she was craving an ice cold beer. To her disappointment, the bartender reported that because the head-foam was too unmanageable at Bar-Soom’s 0.38 G, she would either have to go to the 1 G Full Halo Pub, “Marvin’s,” or at least to the 0.7 G Axle Rod’s if she insisted on beer.
She ordered an iced tea, mainly to be polite, then demurely excused herself and sauntered off of her Quarter Halo and hopped on the Axle’s moving sidewalk and proceeded to gawk at the view. Bar-Soom, the Quarter Halo pub, had been dead; she had been its only customer. But Axle Rod’s, it turned out, was hopping. She stepped off of the sidewalk and stood, impressed. There must have been a hundred people filling the place, judging by the traffic spilling in and out of the front doors.
“Yes,” she said, “this is my kind of place.”
“Hello, Dr. Niemann,” the man at the foyer’s dais called to her.
“How do you know—”
“Face recognition,” he explained. “If you can wait a moment, I’ll have a table for you and,” he paused to look at his database that projected under the glass of the dais,” your Ding.”
“I was hoping for a beer.”
“Oh, of course. Domestic or imported?” he laughed. “That’s a joke.”
“Yes,” she said, “I get it. Very funny. I’ll bet you’ve never said that to anyone before.”
“No, you’re the very first one,” he smiled.
“I feel special,” she said. “My table?” He held out his hand, offering escort that brought her to a small round table with four posh chairs. The table top was glass, and like the dais of the maître d’, had a touch screen embedded. She ordered a Dixie Beer, her hometown favorite, and checked the screen. At the top it read, “Who’s Who and Who’s Here.” She scrolled down and found her own name. She touched it and it hyperlinked to a picture of her face and a small celebrity-like bio:
Dr. Renée Niemann, née Renée Broussard.
Age: [Privacy Filtered].
Pending Mars Field Duration: 1 m’ear.
Assignment: Veterinarian Studies Division.
Likes: Ding; veterinary medicine; long showers [Recent Addition]; Liszt, Svetlana, Beatles, and 23rd Century Beat Machine Concertos; Rembrandt and 22nd Century Neoclassicism.
Dislikes: shit [conjecture]
Renée snorted, beer erupting from her nose unexpectedly. I know where that came from. Damn personality accrual! She fumbled through her purse and put on her thumbclip. Once her pulse-ox and biorhythms lined up, she said to it, “Extreme displeasure, Mr. Know-it-all.” She voice-tagged the comment to a screen capture of her bio. If such a deletion could be thought anthropomorphic, she saw shit suddenly blink away, shamefully, its tail between its scurrilous legs. She made a note to edit her profile with some safeguards and then put away her thumbclip. She raised her glass of beer to her lips and sipped while her eyes darted back and forth, fearful of any recognition. She looked back down at Who’s Who and Who’s Here.
People you might know…it read.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. There it was: Colony Official Walsh. She put her drink down and gathered her purse to leave when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up with dread.
It wasn’t him.
“Hello, Dr. Niemann. I saw you were here. Blaise Lewis. I’m at the VSD with you.” She stood excitedly, but mainly because it wasn’t CO Walsh.
“Dr. Lewis! You’re my neuro guy.”
“I am. Neuroscience. I’m not a vet, but I think I’ll be a help.”
“Absolutely!” Renée exclaimed. “Have a seat. Do you drink? I’m having a beer. Would you like to join me?”
“Be delighted to, and please call me Blaise.”
“And me, Renée, if you would.”
“Thank you, Renée.” He sat and used the screen to order a Heineken-4. “So,” he said, leaning back into the chair, “you’re my boss.”
“So it seems,” she said with a smile. It is the VSD. And I am the only vet.”
“Oh, I’m good with that, I promise.” She liked him. The fact that he apparently had traveled from Mars to Lagrange 1 just to meet her meant a lot to her.
He was tall, about 6 foot 1 inch, probably about 100 kg. Everything about him seemed bachelor, but even though she only looked ten years older than him, she was fifty years older in real years. Blondish-brown wavy hair, green eyes, and a bit of a baby-face he fought with a tightly cropped blonde beard. Some people she clicked with right away. He was one of them.
They spent two hours trading stories. Like her, he was staying on the Quarter Halo. They exchanged their views and had some laughs over her education thus far. He himself had turned off the personality accrual mode on his datacloud floater, but couldn’t resist teasing her about hers.
“So I see one of your turnoffs is shit.”
“Not fast enough,” she complained to herself.
“Oh, it’s gone, but I saw it snap away. You’re safe now.”
It was a good time. She never saw Walsh. Blaise walked her back to her quarters and then hoped they would have a chance to talk some shop before actually leaving for Mars in two days. She agreed that that would be fun. She closed the door behind her thinking if the rest of her colleagues here were as nice and fun as Blaise, she might find her way toward going for an extra tour. She had worked both with those she liked and those she despised, but to work with those she liked had been her most fulfilling career life-experiences.
She sat on her sofa and looked at the orb of Mars slowly rocking up the thick, clear overlook. She fell asleep right there and slept for seven hours straight.
Blaise had walked back to his own quarters, excited about his new boss. Not an asshole, he reported to himself, which was all he had to know. And beyond that, the bonus: he thought she’d be great.
He plopped on the sofa in his quarters and reached down and lifted a hand-rolled Ares arboreta cigarette to his mouth and lit up. “Ah, Chantū,” he murmured, and the he inhaled deeply and relived his fondest memories.