The Moonday Letters E-Book

Emmi Itäranta

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 495

Beschreibung

"The Moonday Letters is a thing entirely its own, full of melancholy, a sense of wonder and hope." Hannu Rajaniemi An effortlessly rich and lyrical mystery wrapped in a love story that bends space, time, myth and science, perfect for fans of Octavia Butler and Emily St. John Mandel. An effortlessly rich and lyrical mystery wrapped in a love story that bends space, time, myth and science, perfect for fans of Octavia Butler and Emily St. John Mandel. Sol has disappeared. Their Earth-born wife Lumi sets out to find them but it is no simple feat: each clue uncovers another enigma. Their disappearance leads back to underground environmental groups and a web of mystery that spans the space between the planets themselves. Told through letters and extracts, the course of Lumi's journey takes her not only from the affluent colonies of Mars to the devastated remnants of Earth, but into the hidden depths of Sol's past and the long-forgotten secrets of her own. Part space-age epistolary, part eco-thriller, and a love story between two individuals from very different worlds.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Praise for the Moonday Letters

Praise for the Author

Copyright

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Dedication

Prologue

Part I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

Part II

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Part III

19

20

21

22

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

THE

MOONDAYLETTERS

PRAISE FOR THE MOONDAY LETTERS

“The Moonday Letters is a thing entirely its own, full of melancholy, a sense of wonder and hope. It takes you on a shamanistic journey to a living and breathing future, carried by a mystery that slowly unravels. Itäranta is a compelling narrator who also knows when to pause to conjure stunning images with her always confident, exquisitely polished prose.”– Hannu Rajaniemi, author of The Quantum Thief and Summerland

“The Moonday Letters ticks all the boxes for me. The solitary vastness of interplanetary space entwines with myths and mysteries of the ancient North; a personal tragedy interacts elegantly with the enormous ecological challenges of the future; and through the whole enchanting story echoes Itäranta’s exquisite, poetic, visionary writer’s voice.”– Johanna Sinisalo, author of The Storm Flute and Strangers Inside

PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

“[A] poetic and melancholy debut.”– The Guardian

“Itäranta’s lyrical style makes this dystopian tale a beautiful exploration of environmental ethics and the power of ritual.”– The Washington Post

“Gorgeous and delicate.”– Library Journal (starred review)

“Itäranta’s steady piling on of pressure on her protagonist grips, even as her prose soothes.”– SFX

“Where Itäranta shines is in her understated but compelling characters.”– Red Star Review, Publishers Weekly

“Brilliant, lyrical prose.”– Tor.com

The Moonday Letters

Print edition ISBN: 9781803360447

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803360454

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: July 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Emmi Itäranta, 2020

Original edition published by Teos Publishers, 2021

English language edition published by agreement with Emmi Itäranta,HG Literary and Elina Ahlback Literary Agency, Helsinki, Finland

Emmi Itäranta asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

THE

MOONDAYLETTERS

E M M I

I T Ä R A N TA

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To all those who have lost their homes

Undated

Sol,

This may be the final page, the one I write after everything has already happened. The one I will tear out at the end of the notebook and place between the cover and the blank title page. The first word on it is your name: that way you will know at once the sentences on the upcoming pages are for you as much as they are for myself.

It is the morning after everything.

From where I sit, I can see the dust-gray plain and the hills that yield to its shadows, the bare slopes of craters. The moonscape is lifeless as a sea turned to stone, unless you count the remote glow of the dome village, near invisible. The horizon runs across the desert as a black brushstroke. At the bottom edge of the sky made from night floats the rising Earth, its outlines clear and air-light. The cloud-rime on its surface looks rigid against blue and yellow and brown. It reminds me of the first frost of winter that stalls the fallen leaves on the surface of a pond.

It is as if there is more green than yesterday. It must be my imagination. It is too early yet.

In silence Earth seems to climb higher, a flawless, rounded drop of water that contains everything: each day, past and future. From this distance, not a single scar is visible on it. It seems to me that if I reached out my hand, I could stroke its surface, stroke it back to sleep. A dim glow of water and earth would remain on my fingers and linger when I’d later fall asleep in my room, a hand under my cheek. Perhaps, after waking up, I might find a trace of it on my face, like a memory, or a dried tear.

The curve of a large continent splits the sea on the right, another on the left. I move my gaze upward, toward the North Pole.

There is nothing but the white, thick mist of clouds in the spot I’m trying to see.

I close my eyes and picture it.

It is early night, and that moment of the year when autumn has not yet descended upon the landscape, but the air no longer smells of summer. I imagine a stretch of forest where I used to walk as a child. There light grows slanted among the pines, and the trees reach their narrow fingers against the sky. The sun still coaxes scent from the needles fallen to the ground. This is the way I want to remember the place. Forged full of late-summer light, stopped in its own sphere of gold.

While filling these notebooks for you I used to think that words could bring you to me. That through them you would see what I did: the blue glow of Earth and the precise outlines space drew for it, the table at which I am sitting, my hand curled around the cup. The distances we learned to cross together.

But would you after all, Sol?

I imagine you across the table, gaze turned to me. No; you are looking out of the picture window as wide as the wall. You are looking over the desert beneath and beyond the domes glowing afar, beyond the horizon and across the darkness toward the blue drop of water. The results of your work.

I cannot see the expression on your face.

Against space, I see a reflection in the window glass, a distant and translucent figure that walks across the floor. The moment is as long as the universe.

A remark on date and time notation in the document collection entitledThe Moonday Letters

At the time of the writing of Lumi Salo’s notebook entries, space colonies still widely followed the old Earth chronology, which was frequently used in parallel with Martian chronology. Salo dated her entries solely according to the Earth calendar, presumably because she grew up on Earth and it was a way for her to maintain a connection with her home planet. For authenticity, all dates in this collection have been retained in their original format. When converting the dates from one system to another it is worth remembering that one Earth year approximates only half a Martian year. Thus the year 2168 CE1 corresponds to Mars year 68 MC.2

The acronym MST, used in connection to time of day, stands for Mars Standard Time. Since a Martian day is 39 minutes and 35 seconds longer than a day on Earth, it was common to notate this by adding the plus (+) mark after midnight until a new day started from the beginning, for example: 00.00+37 p.m.

The Martian and Earth calendars diverged in the Inanna period. During this time, nearly all colonies apart from the cylinder cities in Earth orbit adopted the Martian calendar.

Since the era of new unification in the Solar System began in the Martian year 94, adopting a consistent, common-to-all chronology has been proposed a number of times. However, for the time being the proposal has failed to gain sufficient support in the Solar Council.

1 The acronym was used on Earth to mark chronology in cultures that had adopted the Gregorian calendar, sometimes in conjunction with other systems. From the turn of the twenty-first century, the religiously neutral CE (Common Era) and BCE (before the Common Era) replaced the acronyms AD (anno Domini) and BC (before Christ) to a degree, particularly in academic context. In everyday use it was customary to leave out the acronym and only notate the year. This practice corresponds to the current practice of Martian chronology.

Come, call me Stardust

I’ll show you worlds sky-high

Burn your rulebook, claim your new look

You know why

“Stardust Ride,” Mx MxM. Chen & A. Al-Shamir, eds.Shallow: An Anthology of Pop Lyrics from the 21st Century,vol. 1. New York II: Moonage Press, 2104.

25.2.2168A long-distance starship somewherebetween Jupiter and Mars

Sol,

The empty space of the blank notebook opens before me as I turn the first page into view and write these words. I finished filling the previous book yesterday, the one with the green cover that you gave me for my birthday. I wrote the final sentences on the inside of the back cover. I wrapped the book in the bamboo scarf that was also a gift from you, and pushed it into my suitcase under the clothes to wait for the moment when I can press it into your hand. But there is yet more to write before we meet again.

Let me prepare everything for you, Sol: set the stage and open the curtain, so in your thoughts you may settle next to me and be with me in this moment. You said once that writing is journeying beyond infinite distances; with these words I transport you to me across time and space.

Imagine the deep blackness behind the wall.

Imagine the faint and rare bright spots sparkling in it, like scattered rain, into the heart of which the ship is journeying. Imagine the humming of the vessel’s motors that are pushing it toward Mars; imagine the smothering silence of space.

Imagine the narrow bed of the cabin into which I invite you with me. Just like that: sit down next to me, place your head against my shoulder and follow the movements of my pen. The blank paper is like a white sheet, or skin wrapped in anticipation, the tale drawn on it letter by letter like the touch of the beloved.

Ziggy is sleeping at the foot of the bed, curled into a striped coil, snoring faintly. The sound is so clearly distinct from purring that there is no chance of confusing them. Ziggy’s ginger-red ear triangles point toward the wall, his chin rests on his paws and occasionally the paws twitch, moved by the threads of sleep.

On the unfolded side table that is barely larger than this notebook waits my dinner, a metal bowl of soup bought in the cheapest canteen on the ship. Delicious hot or cold, read the digital display of the shelf. I have eaten similar bowlfuls often enough to know that neither is true (and I can hear you gagging when the smell reaches your nose).

Are you here, Sol?

Yes: I can feel the warmth emanating from your skin. Ziggy’s snoring pauses for a moment when he senses your weight on the mattress. I move my leg a little, closer to you.

Now that you are sitting comfortably, I want to tell you about Europa.

*   *   *

On the first day six weeks ago I stood upon the surface of Europa, in a tower reaching far above the ice crust, and looked toward Earth. I couldn’t see anything but the enormous orb of Jupiter and the stars glinting behind it. If I had swiped one of the telescopes along the rounded walls of the tower with my pay bracelet and looked into the ocular, I might have been able to discern a pallid blue dot in the distance, but I did not do so. The vast windows of the tower were lined with information screens that updated regularly and portrayed the starry sky in different directions, depending on the positions of the celestial bodies. Here I could see the dim rings of Saturn, that way its moons: Titan, Dione and Enceladus. Over there, the ninth planet of the Solar System, always invisible and therefore, for a long time, undiscovered.

I thought of how far away from home I was. Part of me was startled by the realization. It marked a sore spot inside me. If anything were to happen there – an accident, a technical flaw causing delays, an unexpected moonquake and ice tsunami – everything was alien, I was alone. But underneath the thought I recognized another that burned like the sun: this was how far I had made it.

I only wished you could have been there with me, Sol.

I believe you’d like Europa. The tower episode was an exception, after which I spent the rest of my time under the ice crust (surface excursions are, of course, strictly limited). Admittedly, it bothered me at first, because as you know, I’m not used to underwater cities. Yet within mere days I began to understand that for Europans the water and the ice covering it signify shelter and safety. And how the ice looks from below, seen through their glass roofs! They have created a new kind of architecture that makes no attempt to imitate any other, but utilizes the natural elements of their immediate surroundings.

A translucent, crystal-glittering network of caverns encompasses the surfaces of the oceans everywhere. One day I visited an interfaith sanctuary built in the vault of an ice cave recommended to me by my patient. The mosaics, glass figurines surrounded by flowers and the lights kindled by the tides rippled in ceaseless interaction between the edges and smooth surfaces of the ice. It was so quiet there that I could hear the breathing of the people who had stopped on their cushions and mats and benches, at times even the faint words dancing on their lips.

Apart from the ocean and ice, silence is one of the most remarkable features of Europa. My patient had mentioned it in advance, and its significance was also emphasized in the info clips repeatedly playing on the screens of my outbound flight, which briefed passengers on Europan culture and safety instructions. Even so, I was unable to imagine the reality of it beforehand. The thickness of the ice is so important to sheltering the settlements from radiation that a crack anywhere on the surface of Europa could trigger fatal consequences. The ice is sensitive to sound, so the decibels are never permitted to exceed a certain level. Europans have developed all kinds of silent ways to go about their business in these unusual circumstances, and I learned that when they first started building the settlements, almost entirely soundless new kinds of robotic machines had to be invented so the crust would not be disturbed.

My favorite place ended up being a tearoom where you could sit in peace for hours, drink Europan seaweed tea (I expect you will have your doubts about the idea, but it has a rare, sweet flavor that is not at all unpleasant), and watch the sirens swimming outside the glass wall. Have you heard of them, Sol? Of all the animals I’m familiar with they most resemble walruses, but in reality they are giant tardigrades of sorts, the discovery of which on Europa took everyone by surprise. They live in the freezing oceans, free and protected. In the early years of the settlements some businessman apparently wanted to turn them into cattle, but fortunately at least something had been learned from the mistakes made on Enceladus.

I only visited New Yonaguni because my patient lived there. They said the real gem of Europa is Teonimanu III, and I would have liked to see the library I had heard so much about. Maybe one day you and I can travel there together, Sol. Their collection includes some unique botanical works that might interest you.

Work went well this time, but after two weeks I was content to board a starship again. The pressure brushing my heart and breath loosened its grip as the ship left the spaceport behind and the distance between us began to grow narrower. On the monitor of the passenger compartment Europa looked beautiful and remote as it fell into the arms of darkness, a strange cold moon far from the sun. The ice shell of its oceans spilled with muted light. The few human-made constructs discernible on the surface shrank into shards of stone and vanished into the pale landscape. Seen from afar, red-tinted streaks crisscrossed throughout it like scratches of space, or like long-ago written messages that no one remembered how to read.

Behind, Jupiter spun slow and enormous. Its sandstone-colored storms grew and swept old ones aside. It cared little for the moons orbiting it, or for ships leaving them. It cared even less for us, children of dust and dark matter.

That was four weeks ago. I was pleased to discover on this ship an unusually large collection of printed books that passengers had left behind. Most of them are in Korean, Japanese, and Hawaiian, but there are some written in Martian English that I’m able to read. That has helped pass the long, dark days in open space. My cabin has no window – my patient was not so wealthy as to cover the cost of a first-class ticket – so I have spent as much time on the lookout deck as the radiation safety guidelines will allow.

The red-tinted light of Mars among other lights grows by the day. Today I looked into the telescope on the lookout deck and was able to discern the veins running on the surface of the planet that long ago were thought to be canals constructed by an alien civilization. I wonder what you can see from where you are, Sol, as you approach the planet from the opposite direction. Perhaps you wander around the garden deck of that other starship right now, enjoying the warmth and humidity of the air, breathing in the scent of the plants. You stop to gaze at the green leaves and their forking veins and soft stalks, considering their internal workings.

If you climb onto the lookout deck, you can see Earth from there, far behind you now, but still much closer to you than to me: a bright-blue raindrop on the tongue of space.

Everything looks more beautiful at a distance.

I should send a message to my parents.

It is late, here between all time zones, where the rhythm of waking and sleep is determined by my own body. The soup has gone cold; I have even less appetite for it now. This makes me feel slightly guilty. Perhaps I should write an obituary to it before taking it down to the zero-waste chutes near the lifts and returning the bowl to the canteen. Here lies a mix of edible ingredients that may hold nutritional value but – alas! – so little culinary appeal.

Soon I will place the pen and the notebook on the table, crawl under the blanket and switch off the light. I will watch the white sock of Ziggy’s front paw open and close in the dusk like a flower, as he senses me next to him. Behind the thick metal wall thoughts wander and darkness reigns in all directions; one distance grows shorter while others lengthen.

You are here. You are elsewhere. In mere days I will press the notebook filled with writing into your hand.

*   *   *

3.3.2168Harmonia, Mars

Sol,

On Mars light never looks quite the same as on Earth. On the surface it falls wan and muted, even when there are no dust storms cloaking the sun. Between the dome cities rests a darkness: that of a world long devoid of life when our kind first arrived. We dug our way deep below the surface, so we could survive in spaces never meant for our bodies and thoughts, and we built the brightest lamps we knew how. We made fields and forests in a remote resemblance of what Earth held for us once. But we all know that just outside the fragile sphere of light the dark lays its heavy fingers onto the thick glass. It was here before us and will remain long after we are gone, hungry, untamed, uninterested in anything but itself.

And yet, in passing moments when the angle and time of day are just right, and the season favorable, it is possible to be fooled. That happened to me this morning, when the doors of the arrivals hall at the spaceport opened into the garden dome filled with Martian spring. Far above, green beanstalks climbed the walls toward the crown of the vault. Pollinators drew their paths among the feather-white petals of almond trees, and as my eyes followed the shafts of light filtering through the frosted glass and blossoming branches, a sensation passed through me that was soft and sharp at once. For a brief spell I felt like I was home.

The moment did not last. I attached Ziggy’s carrier backpack on top of my suitcase and began to drag it toward the train station. I nearly stumbled when a fast-moving robotic suitcase wedged itself between me and my luggage, then continued on its way. The owner ran behind it, in too much of a rush to stop and apologize. I hope they caught their train.

On second thoughts, I hope they did not.

The train ascended briefly to the surface between the spaceport and the settlements. Even after all this time the landscape of Mars still surprises me: the low silhouettes of the cities against the yellowed sky, the constructs buried underground for shelter, only glass and concrete peaks poking out, like parts of strange ships drowned in a sea of red sand.

Unfortunately Ziggy’s appreciation for such intricacies was short-lived. He traveled the entire month from Europa to Mars like a pro, but as soon as his paws hit the Martian ground, his patience came to an end. The loud meowing in the carrier backpack did not cease when the train passed the monument of the First Settlers outside Harmonia, or when the train plunged underground again between the glass domes that covered the corn fields, or even when the train slowed down near the residential areas. We were both deeply relieved when we were finally standing at the door of your childhood home.

Your sister, on the other hand, was not deeply relieved.

“A cat?” she said after hugging me, and eyed the carrier backpack, behind the window of which Ziggy’s pupils had grown to the size of asteroids.

“I thought Sol had mentioned it,” I replied.

“Not to me,” Ilsa said. She turned her gaze to me. I was suddenly aware of the dark circles under my eyes, of my creased clothes and my unwashed hair that lay limp against my scalp. As per usual, Ilsa looked like she had just come from a hair appointment, and her home rags (as she calls them) are without exception more presentable than my best outfit.

“Ziggy is completely housetrained,” I said. “I just need to clean his litter box after the journey. Sol said they’d ordered some cat litter to be delivered here.”

“A box was delivered yesterday. It’s in Sol’s bedroom.” Ilsa moved aside and allowed me to step in. I pulled my suitcase behind me through the door. (One day I’m going to get a robotic one, I swear.) “Make yourself comfortable. I must work for the rest of the day, but we can have dinner together, if you like.”

I placed Ziggy’s carrier backpack on the floor and began to unzip it. Ilsa coughed and I saw her expression. I zipped up the carrier again right in front of Ziggy’s whiskers and started toward your old room.

You could have warned one of us beforehand.

*   *   *

In your room I let Ziggy out of the carrier. He circled the honeycomb shape of the walls with his tail up, jumped onto the wide bed in the alcove and curled up to sleep. I took off my coat and placed it next to him. Ivy climbed on the living wall. Your mother or Ilsa had left a jug of water and two glasses on the foldable table – that was thoughtful of them. On a whim I looked for Harmonia on the old-style globe map standing in the corner that used to be in the living room. Apparently the city had yet to be built when the map was drawn. Do I remember correctly that the globe was your father’s?

The wardrobe smelled of old wood when I opened it. I don’t think I even looked in when we visited last year; I’d forgotten I’d left a couple of dresses in there. They were still hanging from the rail. I must have got them ages ago for some party or other that Ilsa stubbornly insisted we attend. There was also a pair of high-heeled shoes standing on the floor. I don’t remember wearing them more than once.

I opened my suitcase and dug around until I found the notebook with the green cover. I unwrapped the bamboo scarf from around it and placed it on the table between the water jug and the globe map. I hung up a couple of cardigans, a clean boiler suit and my work cloak next to the neglected dresses. A shadow-filled mirror flashed on the inside of the wooden door. A memory surfaced: the two of us standing here, your face smoother than today, my hands softer.

I closed the wardrobe. The rose patterns cut along the grain of the dark wood were beautiful and blind under my fingers. I went looking for your mother.

*   *   *

I found Naomi in the communal garden atop the building complex, where she sat on a bench under a tall, flowering quince. On my way to her I walked past two women who were swinging a skipping rope for their daughter on the paved playground – was her name Stella? Estelle? Has she started school already? I waved at them. Stella (Estelle?) waved back, not missing a beat while jumping. One of her mothers – the one with tons of curly hair, I can never remember their names either – shouted, “Look who’s back!” The other looked over her shoulder toward me and flashed a smile.

“Mom, you’re going to mess up,” Stella protested.

The dome that sheltered the city arched far above, its thousands of lamps casting daylight-imitating rays into the garden. The flowers flamed bright orange-red on the delicate branches of the tree. Naomi was staring at something on the lawn, perhaps an insect walking among the stalks of grass. A blue-winged butterfly sat on her knee. After a long moment she turned her gaze toward me and extended her hand. The butterfly flew off, a flicker of faraway sky and water in the air. A dark, gray-streaked braid fell onto Naomi’s chest. Her eyes were nearly black.

“Lumi,” she said and took my hand. “Sol isn’t here yet.”

“I know,” I replied. “Good to see you, Naomi.”

She was quiet. I sat down on the bench next to her. Her gaze wandered along the quince branches, where some flowers had already scattered their petals and swollen into green fruits the size of a fingertip. I closed my eyes and held her hand, listened to the stirrings in her. A slow, murky weight flowed into me like water. I sensed what I had suspected: the sickness was settling inside her again, making a home under her skin.

I opened my eyes and asked, “How have you been?”

Your mother smiled. A tree-branch drew a shadow on her face.

“There are good days,” she said. “And there are others. This time of the year is always harder.” She went quiet.

“Loss and grief are physical sensations,” I said. “The body remembers them from one year to the next.”

“And from one decade,” Naomi responded. Her smile waned.

“Has the medication helped?” I asked, although I was familiar with the symptoms and knew the answer.

Naomi pulled her hand away.

“Maybe a little,” she said.

We both knew it wasn’t true. I could tell what she’d ask for next. I waited.

“Do you… do you think you could arrange a session?”

“Of course, Naomi.”

Your mother squeezed my hand and smiled at me.

“Thank you,” she said. “If you need any supplies, give Ilsa a list.”

I did not mention to her I have carried all the essentials with me since Fuxi. As I left your mother in the garden and returned inside the building, I felt the slow weight I had sensed near her withdraw from my body little by little. Yet it left behind the kind of bone-deep chill it always does, like when you have been so cold for so long it takes hours to feel warm again. You know the kind, Sol: you have tried to chase it from my body often enough with your touch.

As I passed the closed door of Ilsa’s rooms, I heard her talking on the phone. Soft classical music was playing in the background.

I must go and make peace with her soon.

Naomi and I have scheduled a session for tomorrow evening. It is not too soon; everything went well on Europa, and I have had weeks to recover on my way to Mars. However, it means I may not be awake when you arrive. Please come to me regardless. Remove your shoes in the faint night light, stroke Ziggy’s neck as he sleeps at my feet. Let your gaze stop on the green-covered book on the table and let a smile pass your face. Settle next to me as I stir in my sleep.

Through sleep I will know you are there. In the rooms of the Moonday House I hear your footsteps approaching and extend my hand toward you.

*   *   *

Sender: Sol Uriarte

Recipient: Lumi Salo

Date: 4.3.2168 23.50 MST

Security: Maximum encryption

Dearest Lumi,Urgent work obstacle, I cannot make it to Harmonia after all. Can you come to Datong? The address is 105 Halley. I will tell you everything when we meet.S

5.3.2168Harmonia, Mars

Sol,

I’m happy to report that last night’s session with your mother was a success. It took less time than I’d expected, and toward the end she seemed visibly better. Grief is an animal you can never quite tame: after a long silence in the shadows, it may stir again and scratch open the wounds that soul-sickness feeds on. But Naomi has always been strong. Her bond with you and Ilsa binds her more closely to life. I believe she is on her way to recovery again.

My return path from the other side seemed smooth and clear, so I was a little surprised when the after-effect lingered throughout the night. Sleep held me in the bed, and the shadows of the evening before flickered around me: the circle of candles and the scent rising from the burning herbs, coarse-golden animal fur under my fingers and the song that was born from some strange landscape, yet from me. Tall woods stood in the place of the walls. Between the dark boles I saw the door, and sharp claws scratched wood as the animal leaped onto a tree and began to climb.

But you don’t need to worry, Sol. It was nothing like after we left Fuxi. This was just residue, like dream imagery that sweeps aside the meaningless rubble of daytime events, or like dust that sticks to clothes and can be brushed off. Otherworld echoes, Vivian used to call it. They have no substance of their own, and they fade before long. Every healer has encountered them.

The woods slipped away. I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. The door was still there, and the scratching sound.

I recognized the room and sat up to find Ziggy clawing at the closed door. I swiped on my portable screen that was charging on the night table: it was just after ten o’clock in the morning. No wonder Ziggy was hungry.

I adjusted the lighting to make it brighter, poured some dry food into Ziggy’s bowl and looked around the room. The other side of the bed was untouched, the smooth blanket in place. Only Ziggy’s paw-dents were visible on it. The book with the green cover still lay on the desk. The only suitcase by the wall was mine. The room had empty space in your shape where your presence should have filled it, Sol.

The screen changed color from nighttime sepia to white when I picked it up and opened my messages. At the top there were two responses to my permanent advertisement on Star Professionals of the Solar System. After them, Experience Europa! requested customer feedback on my recent trip. The fourth message was from you.

Is this one of Min-soo’s infamous supplemental project meetings?

Then again, I have not been to Datong in ages.

*   *   *

I’m not sure how things went with Ilsa. I think we parted on decent terms, but I still find her hard to read.

After I’d ventured into the quiet kitchen for a quick breakfast (do you have any idea how much I missed fresh fruit on the flight? They grow strawberries and raspberries on the ship, but the price of one strawberry was twice that of a soup bowl), I went to check on your mother. The door of her bedroom was ajar. It was dark inside. I peered in. Her blanket rose and fell in the rhythm of her light snoring.

I walked up a second flight of stairs and stopped at Ilsa’s door. It was closed, and behind it I could hear cabaret music playing on low volume. She must have started work hours earlier.

I considered going back downstairs for a shower first, but I needed to talk to her. I knocked on the door.

“Ilsa?”

No response. I knocked again, a little louder this time.

“Come in,” Ilsa’s voice called.

Slowly I pushed the door open. Even you don’t keep your desk as impeccably organized as she keeps hers, Sol: I have never seen anything on it except her collection of screens and a pen. Today she was standing very straight before the widescreen display, and was focused on rotating a complex model of a molecular structure with her fingertips. I recognized the digital BioBau Inc. watermark hovering across the image. I thought you’d mentioned she wanted to get the company logo redesigned? A smaller screen propped on the desk flashed with the words TO DO.

The picture wall shone softly, an image of an oil painting of ballerinas putting on their shoes. The original painting must have been a lot smaller, because in the digital reproduction you could see the texture up close: the movements of the painter’s wrist in the brushstrokes, the layers of color and the pores of the canvas.

Ilsa adjusted the molecular structure once again, so slightly I found it hard to tell the difference. She touched an icon at the bottom of the large screen. The image faded.

“Lumi,” she said. “How’s Mom?”

I thought she gave a sideways look to my outfit of cardigan and pajamas, but that could have just been my imagination. She was dressed in a sleek jumpsuit and a lightweight cashmere jumper. (Are there even cashmere goats on Mars, or is the wool imported from Earth? I’ve never found the nerve to ask her.) There were carefully covered shadows under her eyes. I realized she must have stayed up until Naomi and I had finished last night.

“She’s sleeping,” I said. “It’s usually a good sign after a session.”

“So you’ve told me.”

Ilsa waited.

“I’m sorry about Ziggy,” I said. “I should have checked with you beforehand. I thought Sol…”

Ilsa waved her hand.

“I was just surprised, that’s all. Cats and I don’t get along. As long as you keep it out of my way.”

It was cold in the room. I always forget she prefers her quarters a few degrees cooler than the rest of the habitat. I pulled my cardigan tighter around me.

Qui peut dire où vont les fleurs, sang a low female voice in the loudspeakers.

“Have you heard from Sol?” I asked.

“Why?” A narrow line appeared between Ilsa’s eyebrows, under her straight-cut fringe. “Were they meant to arrive today?”

“Yesterday.”

I told her about your message.

“Really?” Ilsa swiped her smaller screen on and began to browse her messages. “I’ve only had time for work mail this morning.” Her fingers moved on the screen, then stopped. “Looks like they’ve sent a voice message.”

Sol, there was an awkward moment when neither of us moved, and eventually her mouth went tight and she touched the screen to play the message. Only when the music faded and your words drifted into the room did I realize it was terribly rude of me to expect Ilsa to listen to the message in my presence, and she was too polite to tell me so. There might be something private in it. But by then you were already talking.

“I know Mother won’t be happy about this,” your voice said, “but I have to cancel my trip to Harmonia. I’ll call her tomorrow. If Lumi asks something—”

You went quiet for a moment. There was just white noise. Then you cleared your throat and continued, “Actually, forget about it. I’ll talk to her myself.”

The message ended and the music returned to the loudspeakers. Ilsa’s face was slightly more restless than usual.

“Do you know what Sol meant by that?” she said.

I’d been about to ask her the same.

“No idea,” I replied. “I’ve only had a short text from them.”

Ilsa glanced at the small screen, where the letters TO DO had turned red. She invited a smile onto her face that she probably uses in work meetings with important clients. She is very good at that kind of thing. I don’t mean this as a criticism; I admire that about Ilsa. Between the three of you, she is by far the best at putting on masks in social situations. Someone might interpret it as betrayal, but I see it differently: those masks protect her from the world, create a shield that keeps her safe. That was one of the first things I learned about her all those years ago when I arrived at your family’s house. Each of you has different ways of dealing with loss.

“I’d like to talk,” she said. “But I have to leave for a work meeting in half an hour. I’m going to a concert tonight with some friends. Would you care to join us? I can probably arrange an extra ticket.”

“Sol asked me to go to Datong,” I said. “I need to leave early tomorrow morning. I’m sorry.”

Ilsa’s mouth made a very slight sagging movement, but her smile recovered quickly. She nodded without looking at me. Her lips began to form a word, then allowed it to fade. The screen pinged three times to mark new messages.

“I’m sorry too,” she said. “Do you need anything at all?”

I shook my head.

“You’ll come here together from Datong, won’t you?”

“That probably depends on Sol,” I said.

Ilsa nodded again and swiped her finger across the screen, where messages began to slide past. Her polished nail tapped the side of the screen.

“Is everything okay?”

Ilsa looked up.

“Of course,” she said.

When I closed the door behind me, Ilsa was writing on her portable screen with a pen. The ballerinas in the painting on her picture wall sat still, lacing their pink slippers, enclosed within their own time where the brush had caught them centuries ago.

I left Ilsa alone with them.

Quand saurons-nous un jour? sang a female voice.

I’d better start looking at train timetables.

Sender: Sol Uriarte

Recipient: Lumi Salo

Date: 5.3.2168 13.22 MST

Security: Maximum encryption

Lumi,I need to ask for a favor. Please open the bottom drawer of the desk in my old home office, take out a small wooden box from behind the papers and bring it to Datong with you. S

5.3.2168Harmonia, MarsLater

Sol,

After your second message arrived, I went into your old home office on the ground floor. The door was not locked. Dust had gathered on the desk and on the shelves. The household robot has clearly not been programmed to clean there as often as in the other rooms. The writing desk was empty, save for a photo frame that switched on simultaneously with the light as I stepped through the door.

As the light grew, a faintly glowing picture that moved every few seconds materialized from the dusk. You were in it, maybe eight years old, all spiky dark hair and high cheekbones under the baby softness of your features. Next to you stood your father, who was wearing jeans, a hoodie and a T-shirt with the logo of BioBau Inc. on it. You were both smiling at the camera, and at each other, when the photo moved and he tousled your hair, and then at the camera again, when the picture returned to the original pose. He looked younger than you are now, Sol. I didn’t remember seeing the picture before. Someone had placed it on display after my last visit. You, perhaps.

I opened the bottom drawer. At the front there was a pile of reusable writing sheets that looked like they were from your student days. Among miscellaneous notes, drawings of trees and crops crossed the pages. I pushed my hand behind the sheets and felt around. My fingers met a rectangular wooden surface. I got a hold of it and produced the box.

The box was small, approximately the size of an electronic business card, and made from some vanished tree species of Earth. Spruce, perhaps; I felt a faint scent of resin in the wood. (I didn’t try to lift the lid, but it seemed locked.) I wondered where you had got the box. Note to self: I must ask you when I get to Datong. I have only ever seen objects made from spruce among Vivian’s tools before.

The light went out automatically behind me as I left the room. In the photo frame, your father’s smile and yours faded slowly.

I have made all the necessary arrangements. The household robot is currently putting together my luggage, insisting on the high-heeled shoes despite the fact that I clearly selected “WORK” as the purpose of the trip. I suspect Ilsa has programmed it that way.

Tonight I think of Fuxi: for the first time in a long while, I could claim, but that would not be true. I still think of Fuxi often. Sometimes, when you don’t see, Sol, I allow myself to travel afar and step through the gate beyond which memories live. I defy the distance that parts the past from this moment and retrieve every detail of the places I knew, bringing them back to life.

Delicate, supple branches cover the café where I often sat writing these notes for you, at the tables dappled by light and shadow. Green leaves turn in the light breeze like insects’ wings. On the edges of the paved area tree roots are pushing out between tiles; sometimes also grass and moss that would soon cover the chairs if there were no people to brush them aside. Pale lichen clings to tree trunks. On the next table sits a drained coffee cup that no one has collected.

From the café I return to our apartment, walk there like a ghost.

The bamboo chairs on the balcony overlooking the park stand empty, but the balcony is full: the herbs I grew from seed spread scent from their shelves, rosemary and basil and coriander, and a flowering quince in a large terracotta pot attracts bumblebees. Their buzzing is slow and their fur shines with pollen, and I could watch them all day. We planted the quince together after arriving at Fuxi, your hand and mine brushed each other as we pushed it in the dark compost. You said you were certain it would take root; you had mixed fungi in the compost that would help it reach deeper and absorb nutrients. Still, I spoke to the shrub sometimes when you were not home. I told it I would look after it, asked it to grow strong and happy, and it did.

Above the quince a vine with an unyielding stem flowers on a frame, winding its white, bell-like flowers closed as the night falls.

The Fuxi I see when I look away from this day is not the same one that orbits Mars now. But I don’t want to think about that, not too much.

We carry within us every home, including those that no longer exist, so we’d have somewhere to return to.

Introduction: On technological developmentsof space flight prior to the Inanna periodJ. Kapoor. A Short History of Space Flight. Saraswati:Peacock Press, 127 MC.

Everyone will recognize the first crewed Mars landing as a historical landmark that, as a turning point in the colonization of our Solar System, is at least as significant as the first steps of humankind on the Moon. Today we take this for granted; however, that was not the case for the eight astronauts, cosmonauts and taikonauts who transmitted the first images from the Red Planet to Earth. The year on Earth at the time was 2040 CE (the mission originally planned for 2030 CE had been delayed for a number of reasons, which this book will explore at length below).

The foremost mission of those who first set foot on the surface of Mars was to map the possibilities of founding a potential research station – which was later expanded into a settlement – but none of them knew that a mere two years later, a technological breakthrough would enable an entirely new kind of space travel, and that a new era would be born from their pioneering work. In their eyes, a self-sufficient Mars must have seemed like a utopian dream that stood no chance of coming true within their lifetime.

When whispers began to sound from the scientific community about the potential of the DM Drive (DMD) as something that could revolutionize space travel, the early reactions were skeptical. Several tantamount experiments that had led to dead ends after a promising start were still fresh in the memory: no one wanted a new warp drive or an engine “powered” by electromagnetic thrusts that empirical tests would uncover as nothing more than a pipe dream that belonged in a science fantasy.

Yet against all probability the DMD3 proved to be the device that made the colonization of space a reality. Since the DMD does not require weighty fuel tanks, but instead uses dark matter as its primary energy source, it shortened the duration of long-distance space flights in a groundbreaking manner. While the first crew took nine months to travel to Mars in the year 0, and a flight to Jupiter’s moon Europa would have at the time required two Mars years,4 as soon as in the year 2 flights from Earth to Mars were made within four weeks.

Replacing the old space flight technology with DMD technology was delayed by a few factors. The occurrence of anorthite required for building fully functional DMD engines was rare in the Earth’s crust, and only once Moon mining began on a large scale, the availability of the raw materials was significantly improved.5 The building of the settlements could begin for real – and the rest, as they say, is history.

For reasons that will be clear to the readers, the Inanna period that began in 68 MC meant an almost complete disappearance of craftmanship on Earth when it came to space technologies. During the Inanna period new kinds of space travel were developed on Mars based on theoretical technologies of Earth, which made journeying between colonies all the easier. The most significant innovation among these was the solar sail, on which Earth scientists had been working even prior to the invention of the DMD.

This book is constructed around three turning points: (1) the first successful human mission to Mars that landed in the year 1 MC and the first DMD test flights; (2) the isolationism of the Inanna period that began in the year 68 MC; and (3) the new era of unification, starting from the year 94 MC.

6.3.2168Halley 105 HotelDatong, Mars

Sol,

The journey from Harmonia to Datong was dreadful. If I didn’t know I will meet you here, I would scold you for asking me to endure something like that. Never mind: I’m going to scold you anyway. An eight-hour cattle transport in a crammed underground, where my knees were constantly battered by the seat in front of me, and the smell of packed lunches wafted in the air (I’m aware of the time-honored tradition of onion as an easy and durable crop, but why oh why would anyone wish to pack it for a train trip?). The worst thing, however, was my chatty next-seat neighbor, who wanted to talk throughout the journey, excluding the part where he ate three onion sandwiches and fell asleep for a quarter of an hour, during which he nearly managed to dribble on my sleeve. Only a quick last-minute move saved my coat.

I have never understood why people would rather attempt to open conversations with strangers when they could be quiet instead.

Life with you has trained my habits in a direction of which I’m not proud, Sol. My parents would be horrified if they knew of my reaction to the underground. For them it would have been an experience full of new and exciting things. Perhaps, even, a dream come true: a journey outside of Earth. When I was about ten years old, they saved from their nonexistent salary for a year and sold our best egg-laying hen so they could take me for three days to an employees’ holiday village half a day’s boat trip away. The place had threadbare bedsheets and the smell of urine drifted into the cottage from the outhouse, and there were so many mosquitoes that we were all still swollen from their bites a week later.

But for them it was important, and for me it is one of my dearest memories, rising above others all the more brightly the older I get. Never before had I been outside Winterland, or seen so much forest at once. Never before had I known what a fish roasted on an open fire tastes like. I had not heard the sound born from rushes bending against the side of a boat on a calm lake, where the sun burnishes the waves. And the night sky, Sol: nowhere else is it the same. I know you have seen the sky above Earth, but only tarnished by light. I hope one day I can show you the night swept clean by darkness.

But back to my onion-odored neighbor. For some reason he got it into his head early on that I resembled someone he knew, and that I might possibly be related to him. He wanted to know everything about my personal history and life, and refused to believe I had never heard of the half sister of his cousin’s second cousin’s brother-in-law who worked as the vice-manager of a robotic corn farm near Arcadia or something of the sort. I was curt in my responses, but made the mistake of saying that I was originally from Earth (I believed that to be sufficient proof that we were not related, he was so obviously Martian).

“Earth?” he bellowed. “But no one leaves Earth legally.”

I corrected him that it was possible to leave Earth with a special visa and those were granted to professionals in fields suffering from labor shortages. He asked what my professional field was.

“Healer,” I said.

Another miscalculation. I had to listen to a one-hour-and-seventeen-minutes-long (I’m not making this up, I secretly timed it) dramatically meandering case history starring the gall bladder, joints and dental roots of Mr. Onion Whiff.

I was enormously relieved when he finally fell asleep, and a little annoyed when the fast movement of my arm woke him up. At the end of the day, a dribbled-on sleeve might have been an acceptable price for peace and quiet.

Poor Ziggy had no appreciation whatsoever for the crammed train trip. As you know, he is quite the seasoned traveler and it takes a lot to upset him, but there seemed to be no end to the miaowing when we finally arrived at Datong and I was able to pick him up from the pet compartment after a long wait. On top of it all, I had to wash him, to which he also presented his sharp counter-argument.

*   *   *

At the hotel a young receptionist looked at Ziggy from behind the desk in the lobby. He placed a smile on his face. I could imagine him practicing it in front of a mirror.

“Pet room?” he asked in Martian English.

“Yes,” I said. “My spouse has probably already checked in. The booking is under their name. Sol Uriarte.”

The receptionist browsed his screen and wrote something on it. He scratched his wrist.

“Your husband arrived two hours ago,” he said. “The room number is 513. Your husband—”

“My spouse,” I corrected.

The receptionist raised his gaze from the screen.

“Pardon?” he said.

“My spouse,” I repeated. “Not my husband.”

I only realized then how young the receptionist looked. This must have been his first workplace.

“My apologies,” he said. I saw a growing embarrassment behind his face. “Your wife?”

Sol, how often I have wished for personal pronouns to be gender neutral in all languages, as they are in my mother’s tongue.

“Not my wife,” I said. “My spouse. They use gender neutral labels and the pronoun they.”

A few drops of sweat had appeared in the receptionist’s curly, dark hairline. His wrist was slightly exposed where he had scratched it. I noticed darker spots on his skin, like a map of a cratered landscape: a telltale rash I’d seen many times, rare among the Mars-born. His accent was nearly unnoticeable, but now that I knew to listen for it, I recognized it in the way he pronounced the consonants.

“Right,” he said and wiped his forehead. He read something on the screen. “Your spouse asked us to deliver a message. He… they have an urgent work matter to attend to, but they will return in a few hours at the latest.”

I thanked the receptionist for the information, tapped the key code he gave me onto my screen and watched him as he informed me about the restaurants, VR gyms and other services at the hotel. His shoulders were tense and his face was twitching.

I lifted Ziggy’s carrier onto my back.

“You’re not from here, are you?” I asked, trying to sound kind.

The receptionist’s shoulders did not relax.

“No. I grew up on Earth. Salt Lake Land.”

“How long have you been on Mars?”

“I got a visa five months ago,” he said.

Four months, then, including the travel time from Earth. Maybe less.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Look, I’m sorry I assumed… Where I come from, only two genders are still recognized.” His face was genuinely uncomfortable.

“I grew up in Winterland,” I said. “I made a lot of mistakes when I first got here. Not out of malice. Simply out of ignorance.”

He stared at the points of his shoes for a moment and then raised his head. He was almost in tears.

“I will learn,” he said. “I don’t want to go back to Earth.”

“None of us do.” I paused. There was no one else in the lobby. A parlor palm grew under artificial light; a blue ocean shifted its slow waves in the pixels of the picture wall. “The hard part is not learning new things. The hard part is unlearning some of the old. The things you are so used to you don’t question them, even when they are wrong.”

The receptionist nodded. His posture relaxed a little.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, and added, “if I may ask, Ma’am?”

Courtesies like that always make me feel so… middle-aged. But compared to him, I guess I was. Am.

“I left Earth over twenty years ago.”

He hesitated. I could see he wanted to say something else. I waited.

“Do you still get homesick a lot?”

I imagined what it must be like for him. Visas were rarely granted to whole families. He had probably left behind everything he knew, every person he could talk to or touch, every place where he did not feel like an outsider. He might never be able to go back.

“No,” I lied. “Not anymore.”

Ziggy gave a loud meow of disapproval in the carrier.

“One more thing,” I said. “What time is the breakfast again?”

*   *   *

You would have known better than me how to deal with the situation, Sol. But of course you had to learn it much earlier than I did, despite how progressive Harmonia is.

It was thoughtful of you to pick a hotel close to the station, although I was slightly disappointed not to find you in the room. But you are almost here already: your overcoat, your suitcase, your message that just arrived on my screen. Your work, which will hold you a little longer, but not much. I close my eyes for a moment and in my mind I walk in the rooms of the Moonday House. I warm my hands in front of the fireplace, I breathe in the scent of the flowers placed on the oak table. In the kitchen that we built together I listen to your humming from the next room. When I open my eyes, you will be here.

Sender: Sol Uriarte

Recipient: Lumi Salo

Date: 6.3.2168 17.03 MST

Security: Maximum encryption

Channel 12 at 17.15.S

Mars Universal Media Network

Current affairs programs

Channel 12

Mars Mirror

Transcripts

Thursday 6.3.2168 CE

Interviewer: Arcturus Teng

Interviewee: Sol Uriarte, Ethnobotanist, University of Harmonia

AT: Good evening from Datong. Leading researchers from universities all around the Solar System have gathered here for an interplanetary symposium looking at food management on Mars. Ethnobotanist Sol Uriarte, who is one of the keynote speakers, is with us tonight. Dr. Uriarte, you specialized in plant grafting and disease resistance. What do you see as the most burning questions in maintaining the self-sufficiency of Mars?