Exhausting week; apologies for being wordy.
“I’ve seen wonders, Van.” said Barry, simply. “I never thought, growing up, I’d be doing this.”
Van was leaning forward in is chair, both hands holding his phone steady, so he could see Barry and his wife, Brenda, in the full screen. Barry was facing the wall phone while Brenda worked an improbable looking control panel. Van was alone in the downstairs living room; his wife, Marla, was upstairs sleeping. Outside, the river rolled gently past their cabin. The Cascade Mountains framed the scene.
“You should come,” Barry added.
‘You’ was such an imprecise word, Van thought to himself. ‘You’ could be plural or singular. We or I. Van was very concerned about the preciseness of text; text was his job.
“She’s dying, Barry.” Van said, finally.
Barry looked off screen for a moment, composed himself. To know something was never the same as saying something; to say it was to bring a thing alive.
“I know, Van. I’m sorry.”
Van shook slightly and his eyes warmed as the tears began pooling. He grabbed hold of his emotions and choked the feelings back; this was supposed to be a happy goodbye. Barry was his best friend in the entire world; a friend since childhood. They’d never lived more than a continent apart; and now Barry was taking his entire family—Brenda and the three kids—and immigrating to Mars Colony.
Van smiled weakly. “We will deal, Barry. So, how long before you leave?”
Barry took the cue and followed Van’s change of subject.
“Next day or so. The Relay’s going to leave then. I think we were the last Lifters out, this run. Brenda’s negotiating us some docking space and once that is done, we’ll ‘reduce’; the kids are already cocooned. I think this will be my last call in real time, man.”
Migration to Mars was easy. Your only upfront purchase was the oneship and the size drove the cost; for Barry, they had to grow a particularly large oneship, biologically attuned to his family of five. When they got to Mars, the oneship would form the kernel of their homestead. Lifter time you rented; there were probably a hundred cooperatives, it seemed, that were in the private lifting business. They’d mount your oneship on a rocket and send you straight into orbit. What you did from there was your business. You could tour the orbitals or, like the Barry’s, hook to Relay and immigrate.
The Relay was a simple cylindrical skeleton, five hundred meters long. The crew cabin was mounted up front, a lattice work of attachments behind, and the Orion pusher engine in the back. The Relay did nothing but make the two month journey to Mars and back. Once all the oneships attached—a cluster of grapes around the Relay’s central mass—the Relay would use its chemical engines to push beyond the Moon’s orbit before igniting the nuclear bombs that provided her main thrust.
Real time. Once Barry got to Mars, the tyranny of light speed limitation would demand that he and Van speak by messages dropped down the solar internet. Barry up in orbit, Van among the mountains…that was as close as the two friends would ever be. Even though the communication over the network was seamless right now, Van knew the latency would only grow. Could, only grow.
“Van…Van, what is Universal saying?”
“They want Marla to come down to Seattle; they sent a slick she could wear, when we get to the city. The slick is supposed to give her some protection from the fog. Universal thinks maybe they could re-sequence her, use some synthetic DNA mods to slow her reaction.”
“Has she considered Recycling?”
“Reduce, reuse, recycle…no. She won’t even consider it, Barry. She doesn’t believe in it, my friend.”
“Belief?” Barry said, slightly bitter.
“Text,” shrugged Van.
Marla was one of a tiny minority for whom the future had no place. Physically, she seemed fine; her illness showed no outward symptoms. But her genetic code, for some reason, did not react well with the utility fogs, the nanites, which defined modern life. It was the primary reason Van and Marla had moved from the city to the mountains, to see if by dissociation, she could heal. But even out here, two hours north of Seattle, even out here, Universal said the same: she was dying.
“Talk to her, Van.”
“I do, daily. We do nothing but talk.” And scream and cry and shout and curse, Van did not add.
The image of Barry shook and a wet meat on metal sound came through the phone. Barry looked of camera and nodded. He turned back to the phone.
“We’ve docked, Van. I gotta go; Brenda and I need to cocoon down before we run out of atmosphere. Relay rules.”
“I understand, bro. As soon as you touch down on Mars, drop me a telegram. Let me know how things are going.”
“I will. I will. Promise. Gotta go, man,” Barry paused. “Van, you should come,” he said, and the phone went blank.
You. Singular, not plural. Final.
Van began to cry.
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