Life on Mars
“Isn’t it fantastic?” Ms. Man chirps, and without waiting for an answer continues, “Can you believe that Paradise was right under our noses the whole time?”
Nothing has been under her decent nose-job the whole time. It has taken a club of billionaires, an army of architects, engineers and experts, plus a large construction crew several decades to plan and complete The Colony.
Back on Earth, Ms. Man was a hardboiled, moneymaking business woman. Here on Mars, all of her life’s savings would barely stretch to cover a few years’ stay and a return ticket to Earth. Who knows what state the Earth is in? Ms. Man certainly did her fair share of destruction, and she has no desire to return. Intending to spend the rest of her days here, on the red planet, she has entered an infinity contract with an oligarch, who has made sure that if he is to spend the rest of his life in a greenhouse in space, at least there will be plenty of female company. In all shapes and sizes. It could have been a sheik, but she’s just not into desert-domes.
Ms. Man sips her wine. It’s full-bodied and rare. She closes her eyes and enjoys the noble rot. Then she tunes in on the sounds of the old world; tranquil ocean, rain drops, rustling leaves, wind in the grass, swamp-crickets and frogs, sometimes even distant traffic. Versatile, just like the Host promised. There are days when all she does is try to pinpoint the transitions between the sound moods or to find the moment when the whole sound series loops. Ms. Man is secretly searching for imperfection. But she finds no flaws in life on Mars.
On Earth, Ms. Man made spec housing for average people. Habitats in sharp contrast to her present space-paradise-for-the-elite. Thank God, they never found life on Mars. The thought takes her back to shouting along to The Colony’s signature song in the karaoke bar the other night – Bowie’s “Life on Mars?.” Or was it last week? She is losing her sense of time. Living in a two-season dome, where spring and summer float together, does that to you.
Ms. Man was among the first to emigrate, which worried her family and friends. Especially her siblings, who were all unable to say goodbye with a mix of pity and unnecessary anxiety in their eyes. Early settlers had to quarantine and train for space on Elon’s Island – an immigration station, orbiting Mars. The artificial planet, made from upcycled space junk, closed down after the first generation of Hybrid Sapiens became able to travel in individual hydrogel skins, drifting on the natural energy streams of the Universe.
In a world where evolution is no longer driven by natural processes, Ms. Man considers herself genuine. She doesn’t envy the new, optimized generation, with their androgynous bodies, bred to perform and survive. To her, life on Mars is intoxicating and first and foremost safe. Satellites constantly watch over you. Perhaps it’s the thought of being monitored that gives her a sudden unpleasant sensation. As if someone is watching her right at this moment.
. . .
The Martian observes the geodesic domes, lined up like exotic souvenir snow globes from various destinations. A non-visible extraterrestrial, of course, has no comprehension of souvenirs or snow globes. The alien lifeform inside the structures – caught like insects in killing jars – come from the larger planet in the next orbit. Lately, its launchings of specimens into space have intensified. Looking at their beautiful blue-green planet, the Martian has to ask itself: Why?
