The Dome | Part 1 of 3
In classic company fashion, the designer had found a way to make a garden feel claustrophobic. Smoke rolled against the inside of the vault of thick glazing that formed a roof over the little courtyard on the side of the hab. The man took another drag. The roll of chandax leaves glowed orange as a melange of stimulants, particulates, and essential vapors distilled out of the leaves and into his lungs. He followed this up with a sip from a warm infusion of red chandax seeds. Both came from the same plant and therefore lacked the collaborative metabolic effect of their earthbound predecessors, but the forms were still comforting nonetheless.
Because it was an enclosed space, the garden was technically part of the hab's interior and he wasn't supposed to be smoking in here. His cohab wasn't supposed to be doing whatever he was getting up to in his cube right now either. The third cube had been empty for a while now. Since it's vacancy, the remaining two men had worked out an informal set of bylaws in which each of their respective peccadilloes canceled the other out.
He exhaled and followed the warm flume of fragrant vapor as it rose and broke against the glass ceiling, roiling apart in two symmetrical waves of gray. He let his gaze linger on the glass, which was starting to develop a noticeable brownish film of chandax resin. He looked beyond the glass onto the drab, chalky slope that formed the side of the depression.
Building the mancamp into the bowl of sunken land was supposed to keep them safe from harm. Just like the hab regulations were supposed to keep their living area free from unregulated exposure to things like chandax smoke and whatever his cohab was probably releasing right about now. Cosmic radiation still made it's way into the bowl and seasonal dust storms kicked up contaminant dust from the plains that collected in the depression. The only thing it actually shielded them from was any long range signals that their PersoComs might be able to pull down from back home. He had joined up for the promise of new frontiers. What he had gotten was a static horizon that functioned more as a wall than a goal.
He followed the line of this horizon until it was broken by the solitary outline of the Dome, just as it was catching the first rays of the light cycle. Somehow every morning it seemed to be a different hue of golden. This singular feature of the landscape provided the only respite from the monotony of this forsaken existence. He finished his morning indulgence and went inside to get some food ready.
As he waited for a pot of water to boil on the induction cooker, he pulled up the last video message from almost a year before. The video was a little hazy, but the audio came through good. PersoCom speakers were optimized for the full range of frequencies produced by the human voice. His wife and child waved and told him how much they missed him already, the baby did something adorable, then his wife cut the feed before she started to cry. He was thankful that his storage was full of these little moments, but he also wondered how many more videos like this he was missing down here, his little one growing up in the invisible transmission waves passing overhead, unreachable from the mancamp. Hopefully, he would be able to pull them from the cache if he ever made it back to the outpost.
At the outpost, nobody had thought to mention that this would be the last chance to send or receive. In retrospect he might have also pulled down some sports highlights or even a txt book; anything to kill the boredom and attenuate three years of drudge work. He wished that he had sent a more heartfelt message out that day. Maybe something with some wisdom for his kid in case he didn't make it back. He wondered when his wife would decided that the lack of communication meant that he wasn't coming back. Hopefully as long as the annuity payments from the indenture kept coming through, she would remember that somewhere out here he was still alive. In some sense, at least.
Naturally, entertainments in the mancamp were few and far between. At first they provided a means of social cohesion. Everyone in a hab would gather around a PersoCom and remember who they were for a few minutes. Eventually someone figured out how to put together a mesh network and for a while guys swapped files like trading cards. Videos became currency and he became a poor man for a while. No matter how spicy or funny or interesting the videos were, though, eventually they all lost their savor and began to serve as a reminder of what they were no longer, at which point the common unit of exchange reverted back to red chandax leaves.
Some water splashed over the edge of the pot and directed his attention back to the task at hand. He unsealed a canister and poured a pale khaki stream of gamma chandax seeds into the boil. Yellow chandax usually packed a high glutamic acid content and was one of the few sources of umami available out on the frontier. The gamma strain, however, had been developed to divert more energy into the stalk of the plant. It's primary function was the production of terraforming compost. Digestibility and palatability had not been among the selection criteria. The human gut was just an efficient way to prep the seeds for use by the inoculants in a bac-pac. When he signed up, nobody had thought to mention that their three-square out here would consist almost exclusively of this banal porridge.
Through the closed door of his cohab's cube he could hear the low-volume audio of a woman's voice that might have been his cohab's wife. He didn't want to stand at the door and listen, but he couldn't help it. It had been one year eight months and nearly 22 days since he had seen a woman, any woman. And PersoCom speakers were optimized for the full range of frequencies produced by the human voice, after all. The thought of his wife intruded on his attention and the female voice through the door pushed it away. He thought of his wife. He thought of the mesh network. He knocked cautiously on the door of his cohab's cube before he could make up his mind to do anything stupid. The volume of the woman's voice cut off abruptly.
"What?" His cohab snapped.
"Chow's up if you're hungry. It's almost time to hit the transport."
Instead of a reply, his cohab flung the door open and stomped over to where the pale gruel was cooling. The cohab shoveled it in with three big gulps before making his way to the vestibule where they stored their tool belts.
"You coming or what?" his cohab said impatiently from the vestibule as he hefted on his kit.
This story is the first installment in a serial.
The subsequent chunks can be found here:
Thank you to Katie Burandt for some of the photography used in the cover image.