“Move along, nothing to see here,” mouthed Frank.
“Sorry, Sweetie, thought I heard something out the window. Probably one of the feral squirrels we’ve got around here. Now, as I was saying—”
Frank crawled away military-style, and once he’d passed another unit’s window he stood up.
“Frank Bickham?”
He recognized the voice. His face was turned away from her, so he allowed himself a grimace. “Mrs. Doughby?” He turned to face her. She was leaning out her window. Did she really live right next to Ed Smith? Shit. Just his luck.
“Mr. Bickham!” she said again, excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, just checking on you, my dear. To see if you were doing ok after your terrible ordeal.”
She covered her mouth with her hands, looking as if she was about to cry. “So thoughtful! What a wonderful man you are!” She paused. “Through the window?”
“I... uh...” he stammered, searching for words. “Yes. Through the window. Didn’t want to bother you.”
The awkward conversation took far longer to extricate himself from than he would have liked, and he half suspected that the house call would make it onto Scarlet Paredes’ evening news broadcast as another heroic example of Frank Bickham’s care for the common man, or ferret-faced woman in this instance. But he finally made it the last few blocks to his lunch meeting, worrying the entire time about Ed Smith’s message to his daughter, or whoever Marie was.
The man needed an aortic valve replacement. Frank was no doctor, but it sounded terminal. And by the time he was shaking hands with the corporate board and the city council, he’d made his decision.
Tonight was one for the history books.
The preparations were made. He’d rechecked the Rube-Goldberg sequence of planned systems failures in the auxiliary airlock that would result in the appearance of the colony being placed at grave risk and result in his heroic death.
He’d had a close one. Habitation module twelve—the site of the explosion and decompression last week—was still leaking a minute amount of atmosphere that the engineering team couldn’t lock down, and it led to him nearly being discovered at the auxiliary airlock during the team’s extra safety walkdowns of the rest of the colony. But he managed to slip out just in time, and when he returned later, none of his preparations had been disturbed.
And now he was sitting in his usual chair at the cafe on Bickam Boulevard, enjoying his last cup of coffee.
It tasted like victory.
He typed the final few lines of one of the last messages he’d write.
Anyway, Su, it really is great up here. But I have some unhappy news for you. I’ve been feeling ill lately. Not sure how long I’ll last. Could be years. Could be days. Just thought you’d like to know.
Signed,
He tapped send, glanced up at the TV monitor hanging nearby. Scarlet Paredes was talking earnestly into the camera with a grave expression on her face. Hell, what now?
Before he could turn the volume up, his hand device started beeping with an incoming call. The screen showed Doctor Pratt’s face—the medical center’s chief.
“Frank,” he said, tapping the line open.
“Mr. Bickham, I’m afraid we have terrible news.”
Oh. Shit. He was too late.
He was too late.
Ed Smith must have gravely overestimated how much time he had left. And Frank had fiddled and twiddled and now...
He’d lost. The second man on Mars would always just be that. The Second.
“Yes?” he said, tentatively.
“You know the boy? Wixam Hanuman? He’s taken a turn for the worse.”
Frank jumped up with a start. “Wix? What’s wrong?”
“The injuries he sustained are healing, but they’ve revealed an underlying condition that has now been aggravated by what he’s been through. Long story short, he’s in desperate need of a blood transfusion.”
“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be by to visit him in the morning, if that’s ok. Please tell his parents that if there’s anything I can do—”
“Actually, there is something you can do, Mr. Bickham. It turns out that our Wixam has a very rare blood type, rendering all our blood stores we have on hand useless for him.”
Shit.
“And...?” he asked, tentatively, though he knew, and feared, the answer.
“And it turns out that the only other person with that blood type on Mars is a Mr. Frank Bickham. I’m afraid that Wix doesn’t have the three months it will take the next shipment to arrive from Earth. He needs the transfusion, Frank, and he needs it now.”
Shit.
But there was no internal debate. The response was automatic. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He tapped the channel closed, and collapsed back into his chair.
Shit.
Poor Wix. He’d only known the boy for a few days, but he’d visited with him for hours already. He was another one of his great-grandkids now. Like Samantha.
The history books would have to wait. And he might have to put a twenty-four hour watch on Ed Smith. Possibly put him on precautionary life-support. He could arrange for that, right? He was Frank frickin’ Bickham.
His handset beeped again, indicating an incoming message. It was from Su. He’d received Frank’s message and must have immediately fired off a reply.
Bickham. Great news. My status as Mariner Valley colony member #10,451 is approved. See you soon!
Etcetera? That was a shot across his bow. Su was taunting him. And he’d be here in three months.
Shit.
The blood transfusion was quick and painless. But the baggy circles under little Wixam’s eyes were disconcerting. Frank glanced nervously from Wix to his parents sitting nearby. His mother, a small, pretty woman, was making a valiant effort to contain her distress, and tousled her boy’s hair, forcing a thin smile. His father sat stoically in the corner.
“Are you feeling ok, Grumpy?” said the boy.
“Me? You’re asking me if I’m feeling ok? You’re the one in the hospital bed, kid. Have you looked in a mirror lately?” he said with a good-natured smile. He’d gotten the impression early on from little Wix that he was the type of kid that appreciated a gentle ribbing, and his giggle confirmed it.
“They said I’ll need your blood for a long time.”
“Yeah, well, let’s not think about that. I’m sure they’ll come up with a way to fix you good. You’ll be healthier than I am within a few days, and I’m as healthy as they come.”
Wixam nodded solemnly. “I thought maybe, instead of coming to the hospital for more transfusions, I thought maybe we could stuff you into my backpack and just hook up a tube between us.”
His father looked mortified. His mother’s jaw hung half-open.
Frank laughed. “You got it, kid. If you can carry me, I’m all yours. Your own personal blood bank, on tap at all hours of the day. Just save a few pints for me, wouldya?”