Mitchell Green: Mars, Arabia Terra
Big. It was big.
The sea of red
spread out infinity in all directions, blurring the distinctions
between land and sky. It made Mitchell feel incredibly small. In
fact, the landscape of Arabia Terra – that vast, cratered plane of
iron-colored soil and winding canyons in the north of Mars - was so
immense that it dwarfed even the mighty hull of the Andrew Levitz,
still steaming and glowing behind him from its violent entry into
Mar’s atmosphere. Not for the first time he felt intimidated by
this huge, open place. By the tall, russet-colored grasses that
brushed gently against the outside of his safety garb. By the vast
intimidating ceiling of firmament that pressed down upon him from
every angle. By the ocean of genetically modified plant life that
spread out before him in all directions, its monotony only broken by
the distant black dots of massive Martian buffalo grazing in their
thousands. It made Mitchell feel dizzy and sick just to look at it.
Mars was all so
terribly large when compared to his normal world of cramped
corridors, artificial light, and recorded bird songs. So… real.
Yet Mitchell knew that much of the world he gazed upon had been
created by the hands of men, just as his own had been. But it was
also different. The Martians had used highly modified nanotechnology
– a science his own people shied away from – to craft their home,
whereas his people had relied extensively on Antigravity to create
theirs; a science the Martians seemed to have lost. It had taken
centuries of patient, never ceasing toil to turn some of the
landscapes of the Red Planet into environments that could support a
limited number of extremely modified species. Yet in many ways it
remained as inhospitable to men as the hard vacuum of space, its
promise of a new Eden seemingly eternally, tantalizingly out of
reach.
A figure detached
itself from the countless black dots in the distance and headed
toward him with long, confidant strides. Mitchell knew that would be
his Maasai contact. He hoped it would be his friend Sironka. They had
worked together on previous trade missions, and Mitchell enjoyed his
company. But there no guarantees: Martian-Maasai society worked in
ways unfathomable to Mitchell Green, though he had done his best to
study and understand it. He knew that they were nomadic, wandering
across the northern latitudes of Mars much as they had Tanzania and
Kenya on old Earth. He knew that they worshiped a god called Engai,
believed that having a lot of cattle made you rich, and that most of
their food came from those cattle. He knew that their society was
grouped into “age sets” of people who grew up around the same
time, that they were divided into twelve tribes, and that they were
very tall and very tough. He also knew they were masters of genetic
modification: the art of changing living things so that they were
different.
But these were
mostly just words on a screen to him. He liked the Maasai. They were
cool and alien; though Mitchell suspected that his own kind were as
alien to the Maasai as they were to his. It was difficult to say. The
skinny Martians were so easygoing and confidant that it was very
difficult to say what they did and didn't find strange. Really, he
would probably never know. The two groups of human beings had become
very other – and possibly they were that way before either
had ever left Earth. But such things were never spoken of. There were
only three rules universally held by all of the scattered and diverse
children of Earth, those Interesting People who in desperation had
fled its safe, comforting biosphere for the unforgiving wildernesses
of the void. The children of the Nakba: the Disaster. One, they didn't make war upon one another. Two, they didn't interfere with
one other’s internal affairs; though, really, they didn't have
to. The solar system was so unthinkably large that avoidance, rather
than conflict, was the social norm. Trade, rather than conquest, its
standard for interaction.
Three, they didn't talk to the Earth. Ever.
Before very long the figure began
waving. Mitchell waved back. He could make out its characteristic red
robe slung over a skintight, reddish-brown environment suit. The
Special and the Maasai were such a study in contrasts that they could
have made an excellent comedy team, he reflected to himself with a
quiet smile. (He liked comedy teams.) Mitchell was dressed in a
bright yellow, inflatable outfit festooned with pulsing lights and
topped with a spherical dome for his head. He was short, pale,
clumsy, and as generally incongruous with his surroundings as a
parrot on the bottom of an ocean.
The Maasai, on the
other hand, was fantastically tall and angular, looking as though he
had been hand crafted from the rocks, grass, and soil that lay around
him: all reds and browns and rags and dust. His face was covered with
antique looking goggles and a breathing apparatus that wouldn't have been out of place in the trenches of one of the Earth’s world
wars. He carried a long spear-staff with the air of a man who knew
how to use it. His billowing dark red shuka contrasted against
the brown and black skintight wrappings below it, giving him what
Mitchell thought was a fierce, exotic look.
The lanky figure
stopped a meter from Mitchell. It cocked its head and peered down
regarding him with what the much smaller man guessed was curiosity or
puzzlement.
Perhaps it was
having trouble figuring out whether I am me or not, he reflected
with slight amusement.
Then it reached
down, clasping his forearm in greeting while simultaneously pressing
its breathing apparatus into the flexible dome of his helmet. “Habari
za safari?” boomed a deep voice through the plastic. How
was your journey?
“Nzuri,
asante.” Mitchell responded with a grin. Fine,
thank you. It was
his friend after all. He grasped
Sironka’s arm in response, his smaller hand making it about half
way to his elbow.
“Habari yako?”
Sironka continued, still gripping his arm. How
are you?
Niko
salama.” Very well, thank you.
Swahili speakers typically enjoyed greetings, and could go on this
way for a while until all possible formal and informal greetings were
used up. This suited Mitchell fine. He liked greetings too, and they
were pretty much all the Swahili words he knew in any case.
“What
have you brought us this trip?” Sironka asked, releasing his arm
and gesturing back toward the Andrew
Levitz. Sentience was translating
now, sending completed words into his mind through his earbud.
Mitchell frowned slightly. Sironka was, by Maasai standards, being
slightly rude. Normally they would have exchanged at least another
two sets of greetings. Then he shrugged. Perhaps,
uncharacteristically, his friend was in a hurry. At least by his own
kind’s standards.
Mitchell pointed
back at his ship using his right index finger. On cue – and a bit
dramatically, he thought again with a smile – the bottom two thirds
of the craft began to disassemble itself; rectangular sections
detaching and slowly drifting to the ground to hover obediently
behind him. It was as if he owned his own herd of giant mechanical
cattle. Which was rather the point.
“AntiG tech,”
he began, counting theatrically on his fingers, “suitable for
attaching to lifting platforms. Ceramic insulation to help harden
your AIs, and near-sentience level semiconductor wafers to improve
them. Blocks of pure aluminum, titanium, and surgical grade steel…”
Sironka nodded,
looking impressed.
“…and that
kind of stuff,” he concluded a bit lamely. Drama really wasn't his strong point. But the Maasai bowed sagaciously, as if he had made
some excellent point.
“For you
little ones we have next generation non-self-replicating nanoviruses
capable of repairing cell structures after radiation exposure, “
Sironka responded grandly with a sweeping gesture outward toward his
unseen home, “new extra-cellular matrix cultures for regrowing
organs. Something new to prevent early onset Alzheimer’s that doesn't have the side effects of our old tech. And, of course, as
much beef, grain, and frozen water as you can pack into your
containers.”
Mitchell nodded
thoughtfully. Those were good things. Alzheimer’s was the great
curse of Specials, and even some Standards. You simply couldn't have enough treatments for it. The other two medical things sounded good
too: great tech to have when you lived out in the vacuum. And it went
so without saying that biomass and water were such prized commodities
on a space habitat that he didn't even think about their value.
“Haya.”
Okay.
Mitchell knew that one without the help of his Sentience. Sironka
nodded gravely, and then placed his index fingers on his chin,
bringing them out and up slowly in Sign for smile. The smaller man
beamed back appreciatively. Like every other kind of human in the
solar system he knew a bit of Sign, and it was polite of his friend
to pantomime his facial expressions. Otherwise it was like talking to
a mask.
Sironka pointed
out into the distance with his spear-staff, in a direction that the
tiny AI inside of Mitchell’s safety suit informed him was
southwest.
“Let us now go
to the Manyatta,” he said. “It is not such a long walk.
And you should stretch your legs after such a long journey.”
“Yes,” Mitchell responded simply,
and the two of them strode out into the vast, russet emptiness,
shipping containers following along behind them like a pack of huge
mechanical dogs.
