By Kevin J. Phyland

Ibbotson stares about the crew capsule with a kind of vague annoyance. A thin red mist drifts around him performing macroscopic Brownian motion in the air currents from the recirculator.

In his mind he knows that he has saved the mission, but other aspects of his actions have left him less sanguine. He smiles grimly at that word.

It's not as if he was responsible for the meteoroid that struck oxygen tanks 2 and 3. He did however, crunch the numbers and reach the inevitable conclusion much faster than either Zachariah or Mizuno. 

Even with the scrubbers, recirculators and the oxygen farm, they had enough oxygen for about one and a half people to reach Mars. They were basically on a gravitational path where only minor orientation burns could be made, so no chance of a hard return burn. There was oxygen to spare waiting on the surface of Mars, however, and that was what was to be used for the return trip.

It was just bad luck.

Ibbotson avoids Mizuno's glassy and somewhat reproachful stare. The blood had escaped from his carotid artery in fountains that the microgravity on board had allowed to spread practically everywhere. It had not been Ibbotsons' intention to kill him that way but the stubborn bastard would not get out of his suit. With only his helmet off he’d had to resort to much clumsier methods.

Zachariah had been a different prospect. Ibbotson rubs carefully at the cuts above his eyes and knows that he will come out in livid bruises. Zachariah was large and fit, and the noise of Mizuno's despatch had made him alert. If it hadn't been for Ibbotson's combat training he may not have been the sole survivor. He may yet succumb. That plastic panelling Zachariah had torn loose had been sharp, and Zachariah had been the medic.

Ibbotson shuts down the radio connection with Earth and contemplates his situation. CapCom will know from the telemetry that both Mizuno and Zachariah are dead, or at least have removed their sensors. But the telemetry will also show the oxygen loss and they will have to assume that a catastrophic breach has occurred. They may even assume all three crew are dead.

This both simplifies and complicates Ibbotson's task. It means he can continue the mission and reach the red planet, but at some stage Houston will realise that the oxygen on the surface has been pumped back into the lander. 

The blood is starting to annoy Ibbotson. He risks a short roll burn to get a small gravity on the inside of the ship. This will settle the droplets onto the surfaces of all the crew quarters and allow him to clean it up. It also alerts Houston, after about fifteen minutes, that a manual burn has occurred. Ibbotson punches the console in fury. Now his task is harder. He doesn't think that Houston will understand that his actions have saved the mission. If he had not done what he did all three would be dead, no landing would take place and the proof-of-concept Mars Direct mission would be a failure. 

He risks a quick one-off message. “Houston, radio trouble, meteoroid hit, re-orient burn. Ibbotson out.” He shuts the radio down again. Let them wonder what sort of radio trouble.

For the next two months Ibbotson cleans and polishes the crew capsule and prepares the lander for re-entry position. It can be flown by one man, with a little difficulty, part of the design redundancy. He has placed the bodies of Mizuno and Zachariah in their suits and performed an EVA to attach them to the outside of the crew quarters. They had been starting to smell. Ibbotson did not know if the bacteria used up oxygen or not.

After orbit insertion and the re-entry burn, the computer did a pretty good job of landing near the equipment base. The essentials such as fuel, air, water and food had been sent a year earlier so that the weight of the manned craft was substantially reduced.

Ibbotson sits quietly, listening to the creaks and pops of the lander as it reaches thermal equilibrium and switches the radio back on.

Through the cacophony and wild speculation and worried questions, Ibbotson feels pride. In himself. In the mission. In humanity.

Part of him worries some about that last bit. Both Zachariah and Mizuno have been talking to him for the last month. He's not sure how. They seem angry.

He puts them from his mind and prepares for the hard part. He turns on the microphone.

“Houston, Ares base here. The weather is fine. Ibbotson out.”

With a lurch Ibbotson opens the hatch, air exploding outward, carrying his suitless body a couple of metres towards the base packages.

He is, for now, the first man on Mars.

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