Cindy
*sigh* ud know this if u read the silmarillion...
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- Feb 28, 2018
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EARTH CALENDAR: 23.06.2101
ALDRIN COLONY, THARSIS REGION
MARS
As the Milky Way's sun slowly dipped into the hazy, orange horizon of the Martian dusk, a single shimmer shone through the elapsing evening sky: Earth. Home. Thirty-four million miles away, only separated by seemingly infinite vacuum. Rigid hills and red cliffs found themselves scattered across the region in no distinct pattern, while Syria Planum's flat expanse lied just beyond the mountain ranges. Phobos and Deimos— the Martian moons, glared down their illumination on the now night-veiled landscape. Against the star-speckled sky, transports launched from their embarkation pads as cargo ships proceeded to dock. Surrounding the surface structures fumed several exhaust vents and natural geysers, used to funnel out the excess smog from the subterranean layers of the colonies and to destroy yet another planet's atmosphere.
A dream unfathomable to early cosmonauts and astronauts alike, the colonies withheld a grimmer reality beneath the surface of their territories. The open air of Mars' atmosphere was unsustainable for breathing, while its temperatures above ground were uninhabitable for human life. The process of terraforming the planet to encompass human necessities was mentioned in the fliers, but they omitted the reality that it would take hundreds of years to complete the transformation process, thus it was impossible to live off the fat of the land- purely surviving by means of isolated greenhouses monopolized by the Colony Oversight Committee- the seat of power among the Mars colonies. It was no secret they were greatly pocketed within the influence of the U.S. government back home, who had no care the troubles of Martians.
Most of the population resided beneath the surface; underground cities still being dug out from the planet's crust, and countless natural caverns that had only been turned into overpopulated catacombs by the mass importation of colonists from Earth. The United States government figured they could spend less of their dollars on a human being if they were millions of miles away, and so the marketing campaign for another new life on the frontier began; another destiny to manifest, beyond the scope of their dying planet.
The jobs the denizens of the colonies were tasked with could hardly be called an ideal occupation. They were underfed, underpaid, stuffed into communal housings like bodies unto mass graves, or crammed into any open space they could find within the endless weaving of tunnels in the subterranean layer of the colonies. Life beneath the red sky was a life of every man for themselves— it was no home to Good Samaritans of any sort.
~
The maintenance hatch slowly spun open from inside, light creeping out from the artificial lamps illuminating the dank corridor. Its opening led into a cave of sizable length, winding and turning beyond the view of the hatch. The man slipped his slender if not skeletal legs through the door hanging ajar— a colonist-issue blanket wrapped around him for clothing. As he shut the entrance behind him, the darkness settled for mere moments before being transformed into a series of reflections throughout the tunnel. Flashlights, AB lanterns and technology all ricocheted off of the surface of the cave ceiling and walls, drenched wet with leftover water from the thawing season above.
His bare feet clenched onto the jagged rocks, scaling down from the breach and navigating further and further down into the the pass. According to the readings of the depth-detector affixed into his mechanized prosthesis, he was no more than two-hundred feet below the surface. Wandering eyes drew themselves onto his silhouette as he passed— some human with reflections of light highlighting their stares, while others glowed faintly with a cybernetic aura wedged right into their sockets. Their artificial eyelids collapsed like camera shutters, snapping and clicking with every blink as the pale man descended. A few pairs of eyes sunk low to the ground, where they lie lifelessly from starvation or disease. All the eyes gazed not in alienation or ill intent but empathy: They were all stuck down here, living between the cracks of an emerging society splintering from another at the brink of nuclear collapse.
He traversed the dim-lit crypt until he settled on an opening in the wall- a natural indent in the side of the cavern accommodated with a withered tarp held up by dislodged pieces of pipes, and an unlit lantern dangling from a hooked stone curling out from the indented cave wall. He folded his legs to settle down on a small crate, reaching upwards to adjust the dials on the lantern. As a faint yellow glow encompassed the small area beneath the tarp, he set his prosthetic arm directly below it, and pried open a loose hatch in his forearm. The mechanism that regulated finger movement and wrist rotation was missing, replaced by a small, sealed can to which he withdrew from the impromptu capsule. A printed label was strung across the lid: "ICED CREME; BLUE PLANKTON FLAVOR."
“Blue Plankton” was the first species of macroscopic organisms found on Mars- discovered within the thawing ice of its ancient oceans. It was quickly synthesized into a digestible source of nutrients, and was a successful addition to the greenhouses due to the surplus of supply. Its quantity, however, did not make up for the bitter taste it left in your mouth. Setting the can aside, he shuffled his hand- his real hand, within the wrappings of his blanket and procured a small apparatus made from the parts of several others. He placed it into the now vacant cavity in his prosthetic and pressed it into place, and the man's metal fingers slowly flexed to life once again. It was a beginner's tactic to smuggling small goods; perhaps the oldest one in the book, but an efficient one no less if you were looking to get something past the grunts at the distribution lines.
With the returned power of the superhuman leverage the prosthetic offered, he wedged the can's lid open with his thumb and slowly tore it from the container. The smell of the flavor flared through his nostrils, and he winced in a hint of disgust. No matter how despicable the flavor may had been, his stomach was a rather demanding organ, so he took his screwdriver from his belt and began scooping out the paste, and taking in the bites with haste. He figured that if he swallowed it quick enough, he wouldn't have to taste the horrible flavor. His theory had yet to prove him right after nearly twenty years of surviving Martian food.
In recent time, rumors had made it around to the denizens of the caves, between shifts in the mines and the air conversion plants. The Free Mars Movement was preparing to smuggle through a group of Martians who wanted off the red rock. Who was going and when they were going were not specified. They were a group of armed militants among the denizens of the colonies whose goal was the complete and utter secession from Earth control and to exist as an independent entity. Many believed they were small time until the bombing of the Interplanetary Migration Office in Washington- Proving their influence expanded well beyond the confines of Mars itself.
For most, the ambitions of Free Mars was a fool's goal, as the Colonies were far too dependent on their ties with the United States back on Earth. Others were down to their last few frays of rope, and were clinging onto any hope they could grasp onto. The insurgents, no matter how extreme or radical their actions became, were slowly becoming more and more revered as heroes of freedom among the occupants of the settlements, and even some folks on Earth, past all the propaganda, misinformation and censorship spread about the true condition of the Martian colonies, found themselves aligned with the ambitions of Free Mars.
As his screwdriver of a spoon scraped the bottom of the container, another figure approached the edge of the lantern's yellow hues, and the sitting man stiffened as if prepared to use the very same screwdriver he ate with to defend his small claim of the cave. The dining man glanced upwards at the nearing face, as light illustrated their distinctly Earth-born features. "I hope I'm not interrupting, Troy," the Earthling murmured, his eyes trailed down to the half-empty can of goop, and its state urged him to comment with a grimace. "That's... not that damned blue shit, is it?"
Troy, the Martian, waved his screwdriver with a minor shrug. His eyes settled back down on his meal and continued to eat. He spoke with a mouthful to his guest, and his ‘spoon’ made more unpleasant noises as it scratched the tin. "Breakfast of champions, Bill." He mumbled through chewing motions and snorted at his own comment.
Bill squinted with a varying amount of concern. "It's nearly midnight."
"And you think I can tell down here? I haven't a clock or watch in six weeks since I pawned my last one off for a new finger."
Troy showcased his new possession with a flip of the bird- the finger's alloys and structure were foreign to the hand it was modded onto, as if the finger was designed to be an ornate piece of cosmetic prosthesis, while the hand and arm looked to be homemade hardware. "Those traders on the industrial level drive some damn hard bargains. Remind me to stick to online shopping in the future."
The Earth-man nodded, lowering himself onto an adjacent crate to the Martian and leaned in close. "As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted to talk about. Your online activities."
Troy's screwdriver stopped in place, and artificial air huffed from his lips. His eyes darted to the side, and at the man seated next to him. They trade a few stern looks before Bill continues on. "Lower command has reviewed your request. They're willing to give you a lift to the San Angeles starport as long as a few...-" Bill hesitated, before finishing his sentence with uncertainty. "...conditions, are met."
The Martian grumbles under his breath, using his metal hand as the universe's most efficient back-scratcher. He let Bill continue before commenting his piece. "Long story short kid, they want you on their roster. An inside man Earthbound. We're lacking people with technical applications who aren't complete idiots, and—"
"And you don't think I qualify as an idiot, Bill?" The Martian interjected with a comment and a cough, letting out a quiet chuckle.
"I'm not the one who gets to decide. Besides, you've managed to dodge security checkpoints and trespass into government protected networks without bringing hell down on your own head, on Mars of all places. You know how much extra security they got here compared to Earth customs? It's way cheaper to stop us before we take off than to turn us around when we get there. The fact you're still alive after last year is-"
"By the skin of my damned teeth." Troy interrupted the Earth-man again, speaking through gritted teeth. "That was pure fucking luck."
Before Bill could say another word, a small quake resonated throughout the underground. The Earth-man looked around uneasily while the Martian remained unphased. “Vessels launching,” Troy assured. “Nothing more.”
Bill nodded, inching a little closer and muttering into Troy's ear slowly with a reasserted stern tone. "There is no such thing as luck in this kind of work, T. They're not looking for a loose-cannon, they're looking for a techie who knows their shit and can cover their ass. You know your shit, and God knows your ass is covered."
They exchanged a few more glances quietly, or at least Bill did. Troy transfixed his eyes on the remains of his meal, slowly spinning the screwdriver in the now empty can and fidgeting the handle with his thumbs. The long silence was broken with Bill rising to his feet, and preparing to leave on a final note.
"Your flight leaves at nine in the evening, tomorrow. Be at loading dock fourteen by six, and leave your arm behind. You’ll be shipped in produce, so mind the smell. Don't miss this opportunity to see what back home is like- It's nothing like the pictures on the net."
With that, Bill slowly ascended back up the tunnel, and faded into the darkness, leaving the Martian with a few passing moments to himself. After several minutes to contemplate, Troy reached up to turn out the lantern, and huddled himself into the corner for his last night on Mars.
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