Here’s a preview to a first draft to a sci fi short story I’m working on.
Your dad brought us here for one last go around of his hometown before we left for Mars. He’s the nostalgic type and it’s equal parts cute and exhausting. We won the lottery to enter the colony ship three months ago. Since then, we’ve travelled and tried to take in what was left of Earth as the clock wound down, and it wasn’t much. To go to Disney World under a cracking atmospheric bubble seemed underwhelming compared to when the sky was blue and the air was fresh. But here we are at his parents’ house, in our Faraday Suits with a millimeter thin membrane of silver silk protecting us from the unyielding radiation let loose on Earth. I’m sorry your grandparents are long gone, taken by cancer that took so many more.
“Bram, do you think our baby will ever get to see a blue sky on Mars?” I asked your father as I rubbed my belly where you’ll be staying for another month. My contented sigh is filtered through my rebreather, scrubbing the CO2 out of my exhalation and taking in air from a small high yield tank of O2 when I need it.
“Unfortunately, no,” you’ll get to know that your dad has a curt way of speaking when he’s distracted as he looked around for the spare key to his childhood home, “Sorry Flo. Martian terraforming will take about a hundred or so years to get close to Earth-like conditions, pre-Ravage at least.”
“I know, just wishful thinking,” I said to your dad’s butt as he’s bent over, looking under rocks. You’ll learn more about the “Ravage” I’m sure, when you start school. It’s strange to think of your future taking place on Mars. Will learning to ride a bike on Mars be so different from Earth? Is a Martian first kiss as thrilling and embarrassing as it is here? Three years ago, I’d have never thought of this while I worked at the lab.
The lab was where I met your father. I was a blushing young scientist working on digestible microbial air filters. While Bram was a dashing intern months away from completing his doctorate on developing a low waste method of hydrothermal liquefaction to produce algae fuel. We flirted, hung out and were teased by the staff for flirting and hanging out so much. After a Friday night at the bar, we made it official and coupled up. A couple years of domestic bliss passed by until the Ravage first started, and we lost all common sense and decided to have you. No regrets.
“Found it!” exclaimed Bram. He was standing tall in his mother’s desiccated garden holding up the spare set of keys like a sacred sword.
“You read too many comic books,” I teased him. I tease him a lot, so have it.
“What do you mean?” he looked perplexed. For the being the smartest man I know (and I’m the smartest woman I know), it always takes him a sec to realize when I’m ribbing him.
“You look like Indiana Jones holding up the Holy Grail,” I told him as I imitated his stance. We laugh and its sound carries across the empty neighborhood. The echo makes us look around the place. I had never been here before, but I could imagine these post-war homes fronted by lush lawns with toe headed kids running about. Now, it’s all gone. The lawns and trees are rusted by drought, the roof shingles on every home curled up by the tortured heat of the Sun.
“Two things,” said your dad, relaxed and pointing his finger at me, “One: Indiana Jones is a movie not a comic book. Two: That’s quite the compliment to give me. Thanks, darling!” I could see his smile through the plexiglass face shield completing the seal on his Faraday Suit. I stepped into his mother’s garden to hug him and as usual you came between us.
“What are we doing here?” I asked as he led me by the hand to the back door of the house.
“I’m getting Junior a pet,” said Bram as he fiddled with the key in the rusted lock. A harsh click and his shoulder pressed against the door, your dad got us into your grandparents’ kitchen.
“Who says it’ll be a boy?” I poked him in the ribs.
“It’s in the way you’re carrying. You’re holding a dude in there,” he said this as he takes my stomach in his hands and weighs it.
“You’re basing this on an oldwives’ tale. Very scientific, dummy,” I glared at him, burning holes in his suit. He smiled nervously as he took his hands back and began fiddling with his keys.
“I’ll ask that you not disparage my old wife, moron,” he said as he pulled me in and planted his face shield against mine urging his lips to reach mine. Failing that, he grabbed my butt. I know this sounds gross but deal with it, kid. Your parents are sexual beings. It’s how you were made. No storks or magic fairies involved, just old-fashioned human biology and a couple of beers.
On the subject of biology, your granddad, your father’s father, was a marine biologist. I’ve only met him. He was a sweet man and was over the moon to become your granddad. The unfortunate thing though is that he died. He was in intensive care when I met him for the first and last time. The Ravage played havoc with his COPD as it did with countless other who had trouble breathing. In all of that, it was the cancer that took him as it took his wife, your grandma, the year before. It was about the same for my parents, whom your father didn’t get to meet, and you won’t either. It’s been hitting me lately that it’s just me, you and your dad.
Memories will be important. We’ve decided that knowing your family history on Earth will make you a better human being or Martian, I guess. Speaking of which, your granddad specialized in…
“Carp,” said your dad, “he’ll love it!”
“Carp? As a pet?” I puzzled over this, trying to imagine stowing a fish on a colony ship.
I had started writing this years ago in a spiralbound notebook. My fiancée found it while we were visiting her folks. I’m transcribing it and sticking as closely as I can to what I wrote. I think this’ll be about 10 more pages as the story of getting a pet carp before the world ends takes a turn.
This is a first draft of my first draft so be kind for any missing words.
Denis
Realfunghi Comics 
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