Is There Life on Mars?

06-16-2308

I was on hold. When there’s not a humid pink haze hanging on the morning, the sizzling scarlet disc burns it away makes the Martian day intolerable anywhere but indoors. Its not even noon but I can already feel its orange heat radiating through the plexi-panes of my living room window. With the eye of my texti fixed on my face, I stared outside dreadful of the atmosphere the walls of my unit kept at bay. I was trying to get home on the line before it’s too late in the day there. I’m usually not even awake this early, but with all the time zones between here and Earth, I had to make sure I was reaching my family during regular banking hours. I had to get a hold of Earth so I can go back to it.

Since I just finished my classes, I still have no job and my roommate is on Europa, I figured it a good time to take a vacation myself. I think I could use some time off the surface of Mars too, though I wish I could travel to the outer worlds. I called up Earth to get my dad to wire me credits for the trip, snatching the last available seats on a flight back to Mars three weeks later.

PREV: CH. 12 «Respite from my Texti»

NEXT: CH. 14 «Still Stuck on Mars»

06-06-2308

We living in the soon-to-be desert town Fender were mired by a muggy Martian heat wave. I had to rearrange my sleeping schedule in order to accommodate to the sweltering conditions…and doing anything during daylight hours was out of the question. I stayed bundled up in my blacked out bedroom with the air conditioning unit pointed at me on full blast while the mean red sun was around.

It was only at this time of day with the violet of twilight washing through the windows downstairs that I could feel comfortable to move about. I expect this is when every resident of Fender is starting their days…unless they’re cold blooded or something. I don’t know how they beat the heat otherwise. Pashan had conveniently taken holiday to visit his home on the icy tundras of Europa. I had the unit to myself for weeks but could only revel in my newfound solitude during certain hours permitted by the sun. When I could, though, it was bliss. Silence. Except for something that kept going Beep!

Seated on a weak sofa in the living room, I was in the middle of enjoying a good ebook on Neptune when it began. For the following hour and a half, as I was trying to focus on late dynasties and vulgarly decadent architecture, five minutes didn’t go by that it wouldn’t let out a desperate moan. Finally, after the repeal of the ban on pantheistic worship, my texti gave two terminal cries and faded to black. I set the booki down on the table and got up.

A lump of scientifically engineered silicon, wire and plastic sat stoic on the sill. Its telescoping eye stared eerily at me catching the reflection of my hand. I felt relieved when it didn’t jump or wriggle or squirm in my grasp, it was just sterile piece of cold plastic in my hands. Thumbing the power button, the device sprung to life for a nano before fading again, “Low Battery” flashing in red before everything disappeared. I sighed aloud.

Now I’d have to go all the way to my crawler to charge my comm. I’d lost the wall plug ages ago to those adorable pet rodents of mine–I’d barely had the texti a year when they chewed through the charger cord.The salesman couldn’t contain his laughter when I handed him my outdated, obsolete, thick plastic paperweight. At this point its only a couple months until I’ll get my comm upgrade at 2 years, so I might as well tough it out. It was going to be difficult. The lifespan cycles (down to near 2 hours and shortening), the propensity to switch off during calls, and the incessant ‘I’m dying’ beep, which, pathetic and feeble as it sounds, must not help in the struggle to conserve strength.

MARTIAN HEATWAVE

I thought Mars was bad. Where I live in SoAm we’re privilege to summer weather 9 months of the year. And when I say summer weather, I mean blistering temperatures and drought conditions. I’ve heard of this pattern that’s supposed to occur called the June Gloom, but I guess Fender is too far inland to experience some break from the marine layer…that or it just isn’t happening this year because it’s been obliterated by a gorking heatwave. I don’t know how the Martians do it. Or I didn’t know how the Martians did it.

I walked to the convenience store just outside the complex after my comm had charged up a bit. I shouldn’t have left my crawler. I should have driven the 0.1 miles from her bay in the port and brought the bubble of climate conditioning along with me. The orange day was sweltering, skin sizzling when in direct beams. I’d never looked so desperately sought for cover behind the shadows of units, sphere walls and parked carryalls. I slinked between them on my way down the shimmering white cement. Its uniform mass-manufactured edges seemed to waver and melt in the distance wherever the orange sun shone directly on it. It was daunting, but I forced ahead down the harrowing sidewalk to the Square-Q Mart.

I left the convenience store with a slushie beverage pressed to the back of my neck, feeling pretty proud of myself for figuring out what must be the secret to surviving a heatwave…until I spotted these locals taking a break beneath an overgrown cactus in the landing lot.

«···»

I stood outside my unit on the front stoop wearing nothing a poly-silk robe and boxers shorts with a cigi smoldering in my sour face. The sprinklers had just started to spray on our feeble attempt at a lawn and upon my ankles. I had timed this 3 AM smoke break perfectly; I hadn’t felt this refreshed in days. This was the perfect respite from the heat wave.

Speaking of feeling relieved, I’m happy to report I finally of a friend in this wasteland. My old schoolmate Eon Beurot has come to Mars to escape her life on the Earth. Since forever ago, she insisted that people call her Lou, or Onny, or anything but her real name because she doesn’t like the way it sounds. But I do, and always have, so I call her Eon anyway. I remember us considering ourselves tortured artists, and I feel like her writings from the heart inspired me to express my thoughts with words. It was emulating her that I began to keep tlogs like the one you’re reading in the first place! I might be desperate for any signs that I’m not alone here, but I think it’s no coincidence Eon ended up with me on Mars.

The winds had taken her all across the Earth, though she never had the pleasure of settling for longer than a few months before another gust came to uproot her. A couple jobs and a fiance later, the doldrums brought her to rest at last upon the rusted face of Mars. And if it weren’t for social network applications and their obnoxious sharing of every detail committed by you to your entire network, I’d have never noticed she arrived here.

When I came back inside from my cigi, renewed and well-irrigated I noticed a green indicator flashing on my texti. I was elated to see it was alerting me of a message from dear Eon. After reading it and melting a little bit inside, I started on my reply. I was trying to find the best way to word how nice it was to have a like-minded person to relate to in a foreign place like this. I even remarked on how I felt it was destiny to find each other here. I paused and contemplated whether now was the time to mention how big of a crush I had on her. My malfunctioning mobile took this opportunity to die, gasping two last beeps and fading to black while I was in the middle of my message.

Gritting my teeth and taking a deep breath I clenched the uncooperative comm in my fist and shook it frustratingly in the air. I’d smash it to bits if it wasn’t for that childlike eye staring up at me. Machines know not the sins of man, how could I punish such an innocent creature? Then with one last defiant snap of energy, the texti shocked me. In recoil I threw it across the room.

PREV: CH. 11 «MODEL:Z-140x»

NEXT: CH.13 «Visiting Earth»

05-19-2308

I run the bottoms of my palms and finger tips along the smooth and slightly worn surface of the plastic case. It’s rigid and semi-glossy, with a weird graphite sparkle from something metallic in the composite. It’s the familiar blend acrylic and styrene that makes up so much of the world around us. 87 individually molded and labeled tactile keys rest at the call of my fingertips, able to do anything from word processing and data input, to software function and OS control. The keypad is the conduit which I have to the digital exchange existing within the polymer walls and upon the silicon plains. There is also a touch pad that makes up the bottom of the input surface, a pointing device that manipulates a cursor on the screen, like a virtual fingertip, to assist in navigation of the Graphical User Interface.

A GUI sounds fancy but whether it comes with a pointing device or not, you probably have them in every gadget you own. From your computer and PDA to your  texti or the heads-up panel in your vehicle. In your home entertainment center’s control panel or just the menu of your DVR. The bathroom controls have one, the kitchen controls have one too; your home’s surface computer has one giant interface covering the entire tabletop. The atmosphere, electricity, plumbing and waste control terminals all have some rudimentary arrangements on top of that. The automated teller machine at the bank or in the food court uses it, as well as the order menu at any walk in restaurant and the help centers in most retail stores. It’s just an explorer or browser display; the neatly tabbed, filed and aesthetically rounded window you’re currently reading this through. It’s an underappreciated aspect of any operating system, one which all other elements of accessibility and function are contingent.

Without a GUI you’d be staring at raw data, possibly green text on a black screen like some antique CRT; archaic viewers that finally allowed us to give meaning to the term monitor, back in the first days of computers. You’d see the bare frame and structure that make up the system, all the lines of code laying about like so many cables without floor panels covering them, clear overhead ducts passing page after page of script with no ceiling tiles to mask. All the hubs would be exposed and bright with text streaming from it of all sorts of near unintelligibly tangled forms. Nothing would be indexed, as if everything were on one giant source page. No order, just sweet chaos made out of the most obedient of shapes.

It should go with out saying, but I would be driven insane if I couldn’t even use a basic root menu–for any period of time. I also wouldn’t be able to use the tablet surface built into the screen of my workstation. It has a stylus hidden in a spring-loaded bay within the case, a second pointing device that behaves like a pen when brought to the screen, which swivels around and folds flat to look like any regular portable. Well, maybe a little larger because it has an old battery cylinder along the back edge, a rounded bulge that makes it hard to fit in most bags designed for the modern portable that’s so popular these days. Those empirically white ones with all that chrome, dipped in an extra layer of clear acrylic to give protection and that weird luminescence. You know which ones I’m talking about, one of those real fancy digits. Of course you do, you’re probably using one right now. Mine is gargantuan compared to that.

You could be wondering why I would choose to use such a bulky instrument. Laptops, ancestors of portable workstations, had folding screens, which created enough problems in themselves, but the delicate keyboard it revealed beneath was a huge hassle. Not only was it a precarious design for something utilized so frequently, with top-heavy keys on tiny pins that connected a network of flat ribboned circuits, but they were incredibly hard to clean and any bit of water could cause the well-installed and hard-to-replace pad to go haywire. You couldn’t just plug in a new keyboard like on a stationary terminal in your home or at work, so many laptop owners would just replace the entire machine if anything were to happen to the most delicate–and most constantly used–input device.

My tablet PC isn’t so archaic though, it‘s generation could be considered Post-Laptops: systems designed beyond the capabilities of a conventional portable computer for the sake of selling a gimmick and usually to a target group, like artists or contractors. It may not be a typical touch screen, but the keyboard is a newer type of web-like sensor that doesn’t seem as susceptible to water. At least it has screws on the top I see that I can undo to replace the keypad myself if anything were to happen to it. I’m quite comforted by that. The tablet pen and screen were revolutionary when this system was imagined, but by the time it could be manufactured easily, or inexpensively enough for me to afford one, new standard multi-touch interfaces were implemented in the market by much larger and better advertised companies. The pen is actually a complete novelty now when you can use your finger tip as a stylus in art and editing programs.

Alright. Magic pen, sure cosmo. It was more ingenious back before you had to perform all the work on he same surface you viewed it on anyway. And you must still think I’m crazy for using an old keyboard when the touch screen pad you have can’t break, won’t get food or what-not stuck in it, and isn’t going to gork out when it gets a little damp. I guess the only thing that can be said is I’m just a romantic and a sucker for innovation and unique gadgetry. I also love antiquity and, yes, archaic things. I feel like those old machines had real soul in them, they had to work so much harder because they were more carefully handcrafted for real precision and longevity, less factory assembled and streamlined than most of the garbage pumped out today that doesn’t have to be great cause its designed to break down in two years.

And tapping my fingers on a flat surface just doesn’t seem right to the senses at all. I love the feel of real keys beneath my finger tips. Each is alert and stoic like some flat, bold-lettered nipple, waiting to receive and giving way to every push of my will before springing back up, ready for another. Every time with a satisfying noise. I feel like each word–nay, each letter is imbued with all the force with which I pound it’s key, giving off louder sounds the more intensity I use. I’m in complete control of this interface and it allows my mind and the blank page in front of me become as one. My thoughts flow freely to it.

I feel like the greats must have when they put down their immortal words on it, the strokes of their keys clacking away the whole night long in the echo of their empty quarters.

PREV: CH. 10 «The Second Belt War»

NEXT: CH. 12 «Respite from my Texti»

04-23-2308

There’s a fable I’ve heard repeated about an ancient lost world that used to exist nearby. As legend had it, a large rocky planet named Cybele resided between Jupiter and Mars; a link between the inner worlds and the gas giants. This planet of myth had a people far more advanced than the rest of Sol, supposedly because they were direct descendants of the very alien race that brought life to our star. Few of their gifts were ever passed down, though. They were a wonderfully diverse culture that are said to have operated at a higher level of consciousness and hold intimate knowledge of dimensions beyond our own. The lost civilization spread out over all the land comfortably with these powers and the aid of their great technologies.

The way one historical account ends is by the very machines that helped this people settle this undiscovered planet. Some combination of their prolonged manipulation of nature, hubris, or the straight-up failure of their complex weather-control equipment is said to have triggered an irreversible environmental catastrophe.

Another version paints a different image of the demise of Cybele and its harmoniously advanced race. This interpretation speaks of a faction springing from within them that was fiercely territorial and aggressive. These new people were discordant and cut-off spiritually, seeming less-evolved by contrast to the enlightened race; so much so that debate has arisen about the origins of their particular ancestry. The growing animosity between the peaceful and warlike peoples drove them to civil war, one that continued to escalate until the planet was finally destroyed.

Like any popular legend, the storyteller is going deem it necessary to alter certain details, as long as their yarn contains some key plot patterns. A commonly included chain of events was woven into the plot of a hit action 3D by a director whom I often accuse of stuffing too many explosions in his movis. He and the film shall remain nameless. It came out pretty recently so if you haven’t viewed it yet: BE WARNED! This portion contains SPOILERS! You may want to scroll ahead.

This blockbuster of an adaptation portrayed the incident that destroyed Cybele not only annihilating their civilization, but destroying those of neighboring Ancient races. Debris from a planet being ripped to shreds rained down upon the remaining corellian worlds. Even distant Venus was stricken, her atmosphere tainted and turned toxic from fallout. The skies above the Venusians suffocated them in sulfur and dissolved their bodies without a trace. The poor Martians melted when a massive chunk of Cybele pierced their planet’s core. Enormous volcanoes (like Olympus Mons) arose and erupted for an eternity until Mars had bled out all the magma he had, and his tectonic activity finally ceased. It was a pretty graphic movi, especially in 3D.

The story you heard may change depending on why it was being told to you. The nursery rhyme I remember explains how the fall of Cybele forms The Middle Asteroid Belt and how Ceres and the other belt worlds are born. It claims that by passing to us our moon, life is able to begin on Earth. These notes seem to find their way in most renditions, whether or not they’re lullaby themed.

The point of the fable is to explain the current state of the Solar System. Why we’re here and why things are the way they are. The song of Cybele’s destruction is our hymn of creation. The transition from the original order of the universe to the world we’ve come to live on. Most believe the refugees of the disaster scattered throughout and settled throughout the other planets of Sol in exile. They insist the ancient worlds were founded on the gifts of science and society they brought, and that this is how life as we know it came to Earth.

I’m not going to assert that I subscribe to any of these notions explicitly, my beliefs are much more flexible. I know that because of strong beliefs being held there is now war on Ceres. Two of the largest tribes of Belters currently reside there and live perpetually poised to put an end to each other. It holds interplanetary concern for humanitarians everywhere, attracted by most wars and their atrocities, but of economists as well.

The Middle Asteroid Belt is made up of millions of planetoids covered in nothing but desert. Though they’re devoid of most exportable goods what they are rich in are fossil fuels and plutonium; the cornerstones of Space Travel. Theres a wealth of these revered resources on each planet there, but Ceres is the only belt world large enough to harbor a major spaceport. The Cereans control the trafficking of goods through The Middle Belt and the value of fuels cells through out Sol. It’s assumed whoever controls Ceres can set the prices for most of the traded commodities today. Of course there are a number of integral mining operations throughout the asteroid belt, namely on Pallas, Juno, and Vesta, but Ceres is the true KEY to The Belt–to have her is to have the galaxy on your ring.

It can’t be known if the legends are true, or if the Belters aren’t the descendants of a lost world, still fighting it’s war to a bitter end. You can be sure in these advanced times, though, that someone is going to try and interdict a conflict like this… for whatever reason they have.  The last time The Union became involved in the affairs of The Middle Belt was to supposedly prevent a despot from encroaching on his neighbors. It was swiftly resolved with a modest flex of our military muscle. Now, in this Second Belt War, The chivalrous UT of E has again stepped in to be the self-appointed Solar Police.

This time around the stakes are a little higher. There no an identifiable enemy to target anymore, no singular nation we’re opposed to; it’s a group of idealists labeled as Terrorists. And not only are radical fundamentalists attempting to annihilate each other, but trying to wipe out any other way of life but theirs; particularly the Inner World Way. Of course we appear as bad guys if we try to destroy or “preemptively pacify” them; It’s just another example of the Earth stretching its long white arms to strangle the galaxy into submission. I tend to disagree with the things my government has done recently, but I’m left rather unsettled by this choice to go to war. War for what? It may be even more publicly unfavorable than the Martian-Terran War was, this act of aggression having absolutely no support from the home front or any of the other worlds in the United Planets.

I dread the news to come that a drafts become instated for the first time since the Tethan War. Even worse would be to use the guise of nuclear disarmament to invade Ceres’ peaceful, cosmopolitan neighbor, Pallas. If that happens, I’m fleeing to a non-partisan planet to wait it out. The prices and availabilities of the markets don’t concern me until I need to fill my own fuel tank…or pipe. I’m certainly not motivated enough to want to fight a war over it. If I’m gonna die for a nation you better gorking believe I’ve gotta first be able to stand for that nation’s ideals… perhaps agree with its politics?

Ceres is thus crossed off my travel list until further notice.

PREV: CH. 09 «I Hate Martian Girls»

NEXT: CH. 11 «MODEL:Z-140x»

04-17-2308

I’ve often found myself being asked “why did you ever move to Mars?” and felt it hard to answer so simply. There were many motivating factors for me to come here. I could tell you it’s because I wanted to be a successful artist or pull the actor card and say I was here to claim the stardom I deserved. Another excuse would involve using the cannabis agenda, having arrived on the heels of the Martian Green Rush. But I must admit the greatest fuel to my dreams has been Martian girls. For a century now, 2D and 3D movis have been trying to capture the beauty and mystique of the Femme Mars; particularly girls from Amazonia. Long blonde hair, bare tan bodies and enough baggage to weigh down a star-cruiser.

They are a puzzling creature to pursue. Even more fascinating is studying them long enough to find they’re exactly how they seem in the old movies: two-dimensional. One of the most disappointing discoveries has been to find out that most of the ad-worthy, model-ready photogenic chicks lining the boardwalks and crowding the outdoor malls really don’t have much more going on than what you see. Dealing with emotions and personalities that never evolved past a giddy school girl level, the ignorance to the value of money, and a refusal to grasp the realness of any situation (even their own life) are simply hazards of the occupation of courting Martian women. For starters: good luck getting them them to put away their comms for longer than 2 minutes.

Now, if it were just as easy as getting over a few childish flaws in a girl and looking to the good, this would be a much more concise transmission. This is where it gets complicated… because there’s very little good to start with; don’t strain yourself searching for it. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from or what you have to offer to Martian Girls, they only want guys with three things; credits, treads and an ID that states you’re old enough to purchase alcohol and cannabis.

I can’t lie, I thought the women here would be artistic, or even just cultured, since the atmosphere lends to such creative industries. I merely assumed that something about this place drove everyones’ will to create. I was sorely mistaken. I also thought the women here loved artists, loved watching a man turn raw materials into a brilliant work or plucking the sweetness from the air to play her a song. Two Strikes. Finally, I thought they would dig my old world charm; this handsome young man from Sol’s capital with his ideas and languages, untainted by the city or the people of Mars, powered by an artist’s burning soul; doesn’t quite cut it on this planet.

No, girls just want someone to be their chauffeur, their personal accountant, and provide them with entertainment and an eventful evening when too lazy or unimaginative to concoct one themselves. All they care about is not having to work or think for themselves while they get to reap the fruit of another’s labors—and look fabulous doing it. They want the world served to them on a titanium platter, as it surely has been since birth. It didn’t help things their parents gave in each time they begged for an aircar, or a new nose or pair of breasts implants. Amazonian girls were given everything they ever wanted without ever learning the value of hard work. In short: most are egotistical, egocentric and tend to have a serious Electra Complex.

Like anyone who sings this tune, though, I just had to give it a shot. Who in their right mind would turn down the opportunity to date an Amazonian girl? So what if it didn’t work out, I’m not gonna let that get me down. I didn’t come to Mars just because I was in love with a blonde heiress; if that were the case I would have packed up and went home the moment I got dumped here.

Its all about the art and the culture, and expanding both within myself, and I’ll just as soon lay down and die as let my dreams do the same. I bet there’s a lady or two somewhere on this planet with redeeming factors, and I refuse to believe a rotten bunch of apples contains no keepers. Call it stubborn, but I’m sure there’s someone out there who paints and sings and sees the universe like I do, who wants to see the worlds I see. I haven’t given up hope that she’s out there, or reading this now. I’ve heard some people claim you have more than one starmate out there, maybe more than one on some planets

I’m fairly certain I simply landed on the wrong half of Mars.

PREV: CH. 08 «The Martian Motorist»

NEXT: CH. 10 «The Second Belt War»

04-02-2308

The topic of Martian motorists can be summed up as such: Survival of the Fastest.

On Mars, the most dangerous place you could ever find yourself is on an Amazonian Freeway. In order to not become trampled underfoot or simply left in the dust, you have to keep up. At those speeds, though, the line between choosing to behave properly or keeping yourself in one piece is often a blurred one. It may look like Martians are living up to their image when you witness this haphazard style of driving; probably putting on a show for the off-worlders. Maybe they themselves don’t feel fulfilled if they’re not always playing a part? What I can tell you from my observations is as often times as bravado fuels them, survival is what’s on their mind—the ones that do survive, anyway.

Otherwise; blatant disregard for posted speed limits, merciless merges and a tendency to drift while texting on straight-a-ways are marks of the Martian Motorist. Usually with a disposable coffee cup or comm in their hands..often both. They are a sort of dangerous breed…who do you think invented the Martian Rolling Stop? All side effects of their colossal commuting system, I’ve gathered. The old freeways and highways of Earth could never compare to its immaculate construction and the efficient, almost fluid like way vehicles are directed along her veins; nor the ludicrous amount of traffic congesting it. The lanes themselves almost stretch double the Terrestrial standard width, overpasses and lamp posts tower over head and a multitude assistive light-board displays (each larger than a classroom) are readable a mile away. Still, it will sadly never be able to accommodate the amount of motorists that will use it.

In the lesser portion of a given day, when it’s not clogged to the gills with reactors stuck in idle, the superway system is a hollow concrete skeleton. The luminescent lines that appear to glow at night seem to go on for eternity, like a trail of neon tubes, echoing the now limitless feeling the surrounding ribcage of posts and bridges, so far away; it awakens something inside of you. Ergo you become acclimated to fast speeds and with good cause; as small of a planet this is, everything is still spaced so far apart to add some sort of illusion of vastness. There’s just a whole lot of desert in between these cities though, not much greatness to be had at all.

Exaggerated human nature made the act of blinking became obsolete. Who knows if it’s gone as far as thinking signaling is showing a sign of weakness, not trusting natural abilities to judge time, depth and the goodwill of others? It seems like if you blink people won’t want to let you in, just on the principle of keeping the lane theirs. You have to take the lane if you want it that bad, you’re more likely of getting it this way than if you put the light on.

My best tip for survival is to assume every other vehicle is piloted by ruthless person, an oblivious person, or some combination thereof. To be safe is to be faster than everybody else on the road, whether they’re mean or just dumb. Speed will help you through most situations you could encounter. That and a good set of breaks… you never know when you’re going to come to a skidding halt because of some other inattentive driver. I guess if all else fails, being more massive is going to save you. Crashes are inevitable, its just a matter of being bigger and tougher than the other guy.

So I guess if you’re looking to get a crawler and brave the freeways, just make sure your vehicle accelerates quick, is utterly massive, and stops well… Of course, if you’re rich enough none of this is even a worry. But not all of us can afford fancy flying aircars and to take the skyways.

PREV: CH. 07 «Never Terraformed»

NEXT: CH. 09 «I Hate Martian Girls»