Traditions annoyed Derby Rigg. Too often, she felt, they outlived their usefulness. The so-called Captain’s Dinner was a prime example. Whenever a ship made Martian orbit, the captain had to go down and share a meal with local bigwigs.
The dinner had begun as a pleasant way for colonists to relay their supply needs, which made sense. But like most traditions, the Captain’s Dinner gradually grew more elaborate and less relevant. These days it lasted an entire evening, with boring speeches and entertainment.
Rigg hated it.
After landing at Olympus Mons, she stopped at a mirror to check her dress uniform, then proceeded into the banquet hall. A blur of smiles and welcomes followed as they ushered her to the head table.
Rigg laughed at their jokes and complimented the salad dressing. She applauded the entertainers, with their endless rounds of interpretive dance. The clock on her eyepiece moved in slow motion.
Finally, it ended. There were no more hands to shake, no more dances to applaud. Rigg bade her hosts farewell and headed to the dock.
Rather than boarding the shuttle back to Musk, she rented a long-haul rover. The eight-wheeled transport had an autopilot, which she programmed for Outpost 137.
The drive to Outpost 137 would take eight hours, so she unfolded the cot in the rear of the cabin and drifted off. The rover bounced and jostled across rocky Martian plains.
Rigg woke frequently between odd and disjointed dreams. Her mind kept replaying the narrow escape from the marauder ship Diablo. How did the well-dressed woman know where to find her? Musk had taken an improbable route, yet those mines were waiting.
It could not have been a lucky guess. Something was wrong.
She arose to the light of a hazy dawn. The rover’s galley offered only a continental breakfast, which suited Rigg just fine. She sat at the front window, drinking coffee and picking at a banana nut muffin as the harsh red landscape passed.
So empty and desolate, just like space, she thought. But at least this place held potential. With some help, Mars could once again come alive. Space would be forever dead.
The rover rumbled to a stop midmorning. Rigg worried for a moment it had broken down, but the nav console insisted they had arrived at Outpost 137. She checked all the windows, then suited up and went outside. Nothing.
The answer came when she crested a nearby ridge. A solar farm sprawled across the valley floor. In the distance, two figures tended to the panels.
She opened her mike. “Has anyone seen a pair of dust-eaters posing as scientists?”
Laughter filled her earphones.
“Don’t just stand there,” one said. “Get down here and help us.”
They chatted over the radio as she hiked down the hillside. Rigg had known Taylor and Genna since freshman year. They were a couple when she met them, and she doubted they would ever be apart.
Some people envied their undying affection, but not Rigg. She found it admirable, even comforting. In an ever-changing universe, Taylor and Genna would always be together.
They suit-hugged her and then handed her a long-handled broom for dusting panels.
“How often must you do this?” she asked, feeling the first beads of sweat.
“Whenever a storm blows by,” said Taylor.
“Which is pretty much every night,” added Genna.
Rigg counted the long rows of waist-high panels. “Seems like a good job for a bot.”
“We actually had two bots,” Taylor explained. “One got carried off by a dust devil. The other broke down last month. We’re still waiting for spare parts.”
They finished and went inside. Outpost 137 turned out to be nothing more than a four-room hab tucked into a small cave. Rigg complimented the home, which was tidy and clean, but privately she winced. Life on a cargo ship suddenly seemed luxurious.
She helped pick veggies for dinner from the greenhouse. Some ceiling lights were out, so she raided the rover’s meager supply of replacement bulbs, as well as a stash of chocolate from the galley.
The dinner conversation involved gossip about old friends. Afterward, as they enjoyed the bottle of dessert wine she had brought, the talk turned serious.
Rigg told them about her run-in with Diablo.
“Whoa,” exclaimed Genna, “I guess they’ll know better than to mess with you.”
She smiled half-heartedly. “It’s only going to get worse, I’m afraid. For all of us.”
“I thought the marauders were on the run,” said Taylor.
Rigg shook her head. “That’s just tough talk from the League’s PR people. I’ve heard rumors of a military ship.” She frowned. “Rumors won’t protect me during the next raid.”
They grew quiet. Hundreds of outposts, just like this one, relied on supplies from Earth. Every raid weakened the outposts a little more. People like Taylor and Genna were the true victims.
Rigg suddenly regretted spoiling the mood. She took the wine bottle and emptied it in their glasses.
“A toast,” she announced. “To the noble dust-eaters of Outpost 137. May your panels stay clean, and your greenhouse fertile.”
Glasses clinked. The laughter returned, but less spirited than before.
War was coming. Not a conflict of nations like in the history books, but still a war. With sacrifice, pain, and suffering.
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