25.2.2168
A long-distance starship somewhere
between 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.
* * *
3.3.2168
Harmonia, 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. ...
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