{"product_id":"before-mars-isbn-9780399587320","title":"Before Mars","description":"\u003cb\u003eHugo Award winner Emma Newman returns to the captivating Planetfall universe with a dark tale of a woman stationed on Mars who starts to have doubts about everything around her.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter months of travel, Anna Kubrin finally arrives on Mars for her new job as a geologist and de facto artist in residence--and already she feels she is losing the connection with her husband and baby at home on Earth. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn her room on the base, Anna finds a mysterious note, painted in her own hand, warning her not to trust the colony psychiatrist. A note she can't remember painting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen she finds a footprint in a place that the colony AI claims has never been visited by humans, Anna begins to suspect that she is caught up in an elaborate corporate conspiracy. Or is she losing her grip on reality? Anna must find the truth, regardless of what horrors she might discover or what they might do to her mind.\"\u003ci\u003eBefore Mars\u003c\/i\u003e is an expertly woven story that includes elements of science fiction and intrigue to keep the reader guessing from page to page...very accessible for readers who are new to the series.\"--\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A psychological thriller wearing the cloak of a gripping sci-fi story…delivered in excellently page-turning fashion”--\u003ci\u003eLA Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A thrilling read.”—Space.com \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Part science fiction, part corporate conspiracy thriller…[Newman] channels both Andy Weir and Elon Musk to craft a compelling space odyssey.”—\u003ci\u003eMountain Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A slow-burn psychological thriller…a science fictional spin on the gaslighting theme as novels such as \u003ci\u003eGirl on the Train\u003c\/i\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Emma Newman has done it again…\u003ci\u003eBefore Mars \u003c\/i\u003ewas tremendously engaging and surprising. The \u003ci\u003ePlanetfall Series \u003c\/i\u003eis easily one of my favorite ongoing science-fiction series.”—SFF Reviews \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for the Planetfall novels\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Cathartic and transcendent.\"--\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Exceptionally engaging...A vivid, riveting read.\"--\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gripping and sorrowful, this imaginative story is a satisfying return to Newman's future of greed and hope.\"--\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A thrilling tale of murder, mystery, and madness...Will keep you riveted until the very last page.\"--Kameron Hurly, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Stars Are Legion\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Emma Newman creates addictive page-turners.\"--\u003ci\u003eStarburst Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The murder investigation will intrigue readers, while the overall feeling of something more sinister happening keeps the pages turning until the unexpected conclusion.\"--\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eEmma Newman\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003ePlanetfall\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAfter Atlas\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBefore Mars\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eAtlas Alone\u003c\/i\u003e, and is also a professional audiobook narrator, narrating short stories and novels in all genres. She also cowrites and hosts a Hugo nominated podcast called \"Tea \u0026amp; Jeopardy.\" Emma is a keen role-player, gamer, and designer-dressmaker.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am not on this beach. I see the waves and hear them smashing      against the shore. I can even taste the salt on my lips and feel      the grains of sand between my toes. I breathe in deep and for a      few moments even believe that the crisp, fresh air is filling my      lungs. I close my eyes and tilt my head back like a sunflower to      the sky, letting the sun's heat soak into my skin and turn the      darkness into the deep pink of my eyelids.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I'm not choosing to do any of this. I'm just going through the      motions now. And it's not enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There's the dog barking, right on cue, the sound of his panting      getting louder as he closes in. The first time this happened, I      thought Basalt was going to crash into me, but now I know he is      racing past. As I open my eyes again I see him, all wet fur and      exuberance as he plunges into the surf and barks. Stupid dog, I      think affectionately yet again. But unlike the first time, when he      stank the car out on the way home, I feel a terrible longing to be      with him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mama!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I turn to face my daughter, her chubby legs paddling in the      shallows, arms stretched up so her little hands can hold on to her      father's thumbs. \"Are you paddling, Mia?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mama!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can't see her face beneath the ridiculous sun hat's frills. But      I can see Charlie's face already going pink, despite the sun      cream. His ginger hair is already bleached white-blond in places      and the freckles across his nose are a deeper browny orange than      they were a month ago. He's watching Mia, smiling at her staccato      steps and the way her legs jerk up, forward and down, the walking      too new to be smoothed into an easy gait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We should have come here before!\" he says. \"Mia loves it!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I look away, seeking the horizon. We couldn't come before but I      won't say it. And the reason we're here isn't as pure as he thinks      it is. It's not for Mia. It's for me. Selfish as ever, I wanted to      come to this beach and make the recording to capture something      precious. Something to take with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Anna?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Charlie looks at me and I smile like everything is fine. I can see      him searching my face for any signs of brittleness. We are reduced      to this; even when I smile, he worries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We should go,\" I say. \"You're starting to burn.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll put on my hat.\" He lifts Mia out of the surf and earns a      squeal of delight as he swings her across the sand ahead of him      while taking giant strides. I watch them go back to the towel and      the remains of the picnic, and listen to the babbles that Mia      makes as they go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I crouch, scooping up a palmful of sand so I can examine the      grains and tiny shells. It's easier than watching my family. I      know the first time I did this I was wondering when to tell them.      How Charlie would take the news that I was leaving. I was lining      up the arguments, ready to fling back at his inevitable anger and      distress. Those thoughts weren't recorded though. Just what I saw      and smelled and touched and heard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Using my lenses to zoom in on the sand grains, I study the tiny      shapes and colors that only magnification can reveal. I let most      of the sand fall through my fingers and zoom in again on the      specks left stuck to my skin. They resolve into the calcified      shells of organisms that once lived in the sea, chips of coral and      a peach-colored fragment of shell. Minuscule lumps of olivine have      been tumbled smooth by the violence of the ocean, along with a few      specks of quartz.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even as I studied the microscopic world in my palm, I knew I      should have gone over to Mia and Charlie. But I tried recording      them close up during the picnic and I kept wanting to cry. I don't      want to spoil today. I've done that too many times. Did; I did      that too many times. I didn't want to spoil that day on the beach.      It was supposed to be perfect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But it is not enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I brush the last grains of sand from my hands, just like all the      other times, and look down the coastline. I cannot help but      identify the different strata of rock exposed in the cliffs. It's      impossible to ignore the booming sound of the sea in a nearby cave      that's been carved out by so many thousand years of relentless      energy from the waves. Farther down the coastline, I see a stack      of rock left standing in the sea, now looking like it was never      once part of the cliff. Shading my eyes, I stare at it, imagining      the way the sea beat against its former connection to the      headland, how it bludgeoned the softer rock and made it crumble. I      picture a rugged hole between it and the rest of the cliff, a      gaping wound where the sea has smashed space between the stack and      its source, a thin bridge of rock all that's left joining it to      the land. Then I imagine that last connection collapsing, the roar      of the rock plummeting into the sea, the stack left stranded out      on its own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Anna,\" Charlie calls. \"Come and have a drink.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I look at him and Mia, the stretch of sand between us, and feel as      if my legs are rooted in place. I simply cannot cross the distance      between us. \"I'm fine, thanks,\" I call and turn back to the ocean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like all mersives, even full-sensory memory recordings get stale.      I have echoes of the feelings that flooded me when I recorded this      day, triggered by the associated neural pathways being lit up by      my chip's playback, but weaker than when I first came back and      sank into this recording. Those pathways have been distorted by      all the other emotions experienced in the months since-not just      diluted, but fundamentally changed, like those chips of olivine.      The playback of this day on the beach has been tumbled by the wash      of my thoughts and emotions, its sharp edges smoothed, its      original raw shape softened. And now there is a new emotion being      added to the churn, one I am trying my best to ignore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am afraid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As soon as I acknowledge the fear, I try to suppress it. In some      bizarre way I am surprised nothing is altering the force of the      sunlight here. If this were a dream, a thunderhead would be      blooming in the sky behind me. Its shadow would stretch across the      sand, swallowing my own, whipping the gentle breeze into squally      gusts and adding white crests to the waves. Mia and Charlie would      look up at the gathering storm; she would probably start to cry,      and he would hurriedly pack away the picnic as the sand stings his      legs. We would all know something terrible is coming, something      destructive that will end this fragile warmth and shift this haven      of natural beauty into something that wants to scrub us from its      presence with waves and rain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But the sky remains blue and the cloud is nothing but an echo in      my imagination, reverberating through mental corridors to where I      am now, a long way away from its cause. Yes, I am on this beach      and the sun is shining and my family are safe and happy. All is      well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Perhaps I could just stay here. Forever. Knowing my family are      just over there, happy, better off without my being right there.      Yes, better that I am over here, the water just a few steps away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Dr. Kubrin?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The woman's voice makes me jolt. This isn't part of the recording!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Dr. Kubrin, the connection has been made now. You need to end      immersion and disembark.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stupidly, I look around for the source of the voice. Connection?      What is she talking about?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You need to end immersion now, Dr. Kubrin, or I'll take steps to      do that myself. It's time for you to disembark. You've arrived.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Arrived?\" I look around the beach. I've been here forever,      haven't I?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, Dr. Kubrin. You're disoriented due to immersion, prolonged      solitude from the trip and being in a low-g environment. There's      nothing to worry about.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Arrived where?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There's a pause. \"On Mars, Dr. Kubrin. You've arrived on Mars.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ÒEnd immersion.Ó\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The waves pause, impossibly, and the sound of the sea ends with an      awful, swift finality that feels frightening on a deep level. I go      to turn around, to take one last look at Charlie and Mia before I      leave the beach, but of course, I can't. This is a recording, not      a fully rendered virtual environment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There is a moment of total darkness, and then I see the interior      of the craft that's been my home for the past six months. I look      down at my body, encased in the flight suit I cannot wait to take      off (and burn, if I had my way) instead of the blue summer dress      from the mersive. I'm a stone lighter than I was when it was      recorded, fitter than I've ever been in my life, even taking into      account the inevitable decline caused by the journey here. I throw      a glance at the door to the mini-centrifuge. I'd burn that whole      section of the craft too, if I could.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's nothing like the spacecraft in the mersives I played when my      chip was first implanted, and even just calling it that seems      wrong. There's no consideration of a pleasing aesthetic in the      design, no smooth lines or sleek panels hiding all the tech behind      them. Practically every inch is filled with equipment designed to      keep me alive and, where possible, comfortable. There's just      enough space for me to stretch out my entire body in the main      section, positioned right behind the seat I'm in now, but that's      it. The rest of the craft-little more than a glorified rocket-is      filled with cargo and the pod that's designed to keep my body      working properly on the journey over. I'm just the sort of cargo      that has more demanding needs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The large screen in front of me is filled with the communication      between my rocket's AI and the Mars Principia base. I scan it,      catching up on what's happened since I immersed, in an effort to      convince my brain that I am actually in the cockpit of a rocket      recently landed on Mars and not on a beach on Earth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Most of the \"conversation\" between the two AIs relates to a      problem with the connecting corridor between the base and my      craft-the connection that woman mentioned-which has been resolved.      I've got a green light to disembark. It's all I've wanted to do      since I climbed into this bloody tin can, and now, strangely, I      find myself reluctant. For a moment I consider looking through the      external cams but decide against it. I've seen enough of Mars      through a camera lens. The next time I look at it, I want it to be      with my own eyes, with only the plasglass of my helmet between me      and the view.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An icon flashes on the screen, indicating an incoming call. I'm      confused by the lack of a corresponding ping from my neural chip's      Artificial Personal Assistant before realizing I must have      disabled that feature. I haven't needed it for months. I answer      the call with a two-second-long stare at the icon and the screen      shifts to show the face of a woman I recognize from my briefing.      It's Dr. Arnolfi, neurophysiologist and psychiatrist. Her hair is      a sandy brown, her large eyes blue with long lashes. She looks      older than I expected though, in her early sixties at least and      tired enough that her face borders on haggard. I wonder how long      ago the picture of her included in the briefing files was taken.      Probably before she went to Mars. That was only a year or so ago      and she looks at least ten years older. Shit, is this what this      assignment will do to my face? Perhaps she was too vain to have a      more up-to-date picture taken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiles and I force myself to return it. I'm out of practice.      \"Welcome to Mars, Dr. Kubrin. I'm very sorry about the delay. Some      dust interfered with one of the instruments, giving us a false      reading so the umbilical corridor wouldn't attach and form an      airtight seal. It's been resolved now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I nod. Then I remember I should reply straightaway. \"I see. Good.      Thank you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's very common for new arrivals to feel a reluctance to      disembark,\" Arnolfi says, \"no matter how much they've looked      forward to leaving the ship. Leaving a place that has become      familiar in a time of upheaval can be difficult. It's perfectly      normal to feel a variety of emotions that may seem contradictory.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I frown, bristling at the way she has decided how I feel and      commented on it as if I asked for a diagnosis. Bloody      psychiatrists. They're all the same. \"I'll be out in a couple of      minutes. I just want to check a couple of things first.\" I'll      leave when I'm ready.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nods, but I can tell she doesn't believe my excuse. \"These      will be a challenging few days for you, with a huge amount of new      information to assimilate. We're all looking forward to meeting      you properly and will do anything we can to make your stay here      rewarding and comfortable.\" There's a sense of her managing me, a      firmness to her suggestions, probably to challenge my inertia. Her      confidence and professional manner are impressive but they don't      make me warm to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thank you,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't like her. I end the call and stare at the blank screen,      trying to work out why I've made such a snap judgment. She seems      friendly enough. Polite. I want to put it down to the fact that      she's the first person I've interacted with in real time for six      months, but I know the truth. It's because she's responsible for      my mental health here. She'll have read my file. She knows me far      better than I know her, and that sticks in my craw.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The hatch lock is displaying a green light for the first time      since it was closed, indicating it is safe to unlock and open the      door. I release the harness that holds me snugly in the seat and      feel a small thrill at the fact that I don't immediately start to      float off. My head aches and I'm already tired, even with the      weaker Mars gravity. I dread to think what I'll feel like when I      return to Earth and back to feeling gravity three times stronger.      There's a doctor here though, and I'll be checked over right away.      That, I'm not looking forward to.","brand":"Ace","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301633511653,"sku":"NP9780399587320","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399587320.jpg?v=1767722367","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/before-mars-isbn-9780399587320","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}