Planetfall For Marda

by Zenka Wistram

  Planetfall for Marda

  Zenka Wistram zwistram@gmail.com

  Thank you to Ty, who read it first. And to Angela, and David, who read it next. Thank you to Ryan and Julie, whom I inexcusably forgot to thank last time I thanked people in a book. And thank you to Alan for being awesome and providing the musical soundtrack. Every single one of you are people I am proud to know. Thank you for being.

  Night 1 after landing

  Dear Marda, The food is terrible, and I know you expect this. You are the most practical - and so the least annoying

  - optimist I've ever met. I tried to follow your example this time, it's the least I could do. I opened that first packet and tried the food with an accepting and hopeful heart, and it was awful. While we're traveling we have metallic packets of mostly Standard labeled “food”, though some seem colloquially labeled, or at least badly translated from a colloquial language.

  "For mix of Water packet and sweeten to tasting appropriate" says what I presume is coffee. I've been in some bad, crummy places, but I've never had the experience of coffee with the texture of poorly mixed talcum powder in water.

  But for you, I'll do this. The transfer ship landed last night as we slept, and we woke up early this morning already on the new planet. Doesn't look new. Looks old, and foggy, and the grass is strange. I feel old and foggy. I'm the oldest one in this drop, and the only one who has a crate to himself. There's five families and two crates of incorporated groups in this drop. I think the incorporated groups are stupid. Sure, they're friends and roommates or old college buddies at the beginning of the trip, at the end I guarantee it you'll have six people who never want to speak to one another again, and at least one of them actively daydreaming harm on the others - if daydreaming is all they do.

  Families have learned to tolerate each other in a reasonable amount of silence, mostly; old marrieds, certainly. You and I could do this trip in contented companionability, but here I am, in this dropcrate, alone, doing this for the both of us.

  Like I said, I'll do this, because you want this. You want a start for both of us in a new place, you want our marriage, our "us", to be part of the cornerstone of a whole new culture and world, and because you couldn't come on this trip, I'll do it and get us settled in.

  "Maybe they'll name a town after us," you said, grinning over your coffee cup that morning. You make real coffee, and I miss it and I miss you so deeply I could be walking around with a stab wound in my back and I'd never notice it, too used up on managing the missing of Marda and all the good things Marda means.

  Companionship. The jokes and the laughing and the teasing, the sound of you, I miss it. Your dark, dancing eyes, your soft, gently wrinkled skin, I miss the sight and feel of you. The lifetime of you in the lines on your face, the slumping of your shoulders, the frailness of your skin, the silver lace of your hair, all of it, I miss it. And the food! I tolerated so many people in our home because you love to feed people, and people love your food, and your laughter.

  This is a stupid letter. Night falls hard here - light one moment, and then the fog turns purplish, and then the light is gone. We stopped the crates and circled them around so that we could activate a perimeter fence. The father in the first crate - family's name is Gethin or something Adrash like that - put the beacon in the center of our camp and lit it so Edgerift Industries (awful bastards, all of them) will know how far we made it today and where we are.

  Not sure they can see this far from the base; we lost the base in the fog in the first half hour we were moving. We're navigating by satellite now, and surely they're keeping track of us the same way. So I'm sitting here, stylus to the pad, writing you this letter in the watery glow of the solar lamps on the side of my crate, and this kid walks up and starts staring at me. He's one of the Gethin twins - one boy, one girl, short, loud and silly like all children. You'll love them. I think he's about seven, unless he's deformed or something and too tall or too short for his age. I can't tell.

  And he's staring at me, so I set the stylus down and set the pad on my lap and glare right back, and he tips his curly head to ogle the pad.

  "What are you doing?" he asks, because kids are nosy as well as loud and destructive and smelly.

  "I'm writing a letter," I snap, and deepen the glare for good effect. To no effect.

  He takes this as some kind of invitation and walks closer.

  "You got a buncha letters on there, Mister," he says.

  "It's how I communicate with people who aren't here," I say, and make the face you call "that pickled curmudgeon expression".

  "I never wrote a buncha letters like that to anyone," he says, and plops down next to me on the grass, bold as you please. "I only have to write like that for homework. My name is Cadell."

  "You can call me Mr Bell," I say, “preferably from your own part of the camp." "Dad says it's safe anywhere inside the crates. He says if I leave the crates, he'll drag me back by my ears and then tack my ears to the inside of our crate, if the planet don't just swallow me up first. You ever see a planet swallow up a kid whole? My dad says it will if I don't listen and if I wander."

  Thankfully at that moment his mother started calling him over to go to bed. There are four kids in that family and two adults; a teenage boy, a preteen girl, and fraternal twins of which the nosy, unquellable Cadell is the male twin.

  At least the planet doesn't smell bad. It smells like fog, and swamp, and a bit like pine and roses and tar all mixed together. But the food's bad, the weather's gloomy, the crate's too big, the bed is almost as bad as the food, and the company is... well, right the hell there.

  I do believe I'll tuck in for the night. I'll send you another letter tomorrow. I don't know how often the beacon uploads communications, but if you're not getting these, it's not because I'm not writing them.

  Goodnight, Marda.

  Night 2

  Dear Marda, We made rather poor progress today. One of the crates refused to start and we spent some time fiddling with it before I saw the loose connections underneath it and plugged everything back in. I told the family, the Almarics, a woman, Phenni, her husband Alferd, their two kids, and her sister Toondie, they should have checked thoroughly before we left the base, and that it was their responsibility to make sure their crate was safe and running not only for their own safety, but so we could keep as close to the schedule as humanly possible. Alferd looked abashed, but Phenni just tipped her head back at me, her mouth thinning.

  “Coulda sworn we did,” she said. “But we got no excuse.” Then I realized her thin mouth was for herself, and not me, and weirdly enough, I felt relieved I hadn't pissed her off.

  Not that I really care. It's probably just politic to keep everything on civil terms. Toondie is a flake. You'll like her because you like people who like to talk and know a lot about bizarre subjects. They had the back of the crate open, with the ramp down to the grass, while some of us with a bit of technical knowledge were looking for the problem with their crate. Toondie stayed out of the way, and kept the two kids out of the way, which, for a flake, was good enough. Especially since one of the rugrats was one of those drooling, squealing toddlers. I think it's a boy, but it's hard to tell at that age, all they wear is a nappy and a shirt anyway. The other kid's old enough to talk a bit, but it's mostly just nonsense anyway.

  So Toondie had pulled up a couple handfuls of the grass – and I use that term lightly, but I have no better word for the green crap that covers the ground here – and of course, first thing she did was put a frond into her mouth. I hope she scanned it with the toxin gauge first, but I didn't see her do it. Then she set the grass down in a little pile just inside their crate, and the two drooling little monsters toddled right over to check it out and of cou
rse, stuff it into their slobbery maws.

  The flake was talking about the grass to the two poop factories, like they have any idea what she was saying, but it reminded me I wanted to tell you about the grass when I write to you tonight.

  And here it is tonight and here I am with stylus and pad, inside the perimeter in the watered-gruel light, holding a strand of the grass so I can describe it to you. The grass is green, but darker than the grass we know. Almost a navy-pine. It's flat on the ground and entwined around itself like a mat, and each strand is long – this one, nearly as long as my arm, and I'm no slouch in the height department, even after losing a few centimeters or so over the years. The strands themselves are fine but tough and springy as hell, and thin, delicate vane-like leaves (or leaf like structures, if we're being scientific) sprout from this strand. The vanes are about a finger's length, and they twist around the strand in a double spiral. The end result is a fairly soft blanket covering the coal black dirt as far as the eye can see – which, with the fog, isn't far.

  I can tell, during the day, there's a sun up there, and I can guess the relative location of the largest, brightest moon at night, but you can't directly see either. We were told in planetfall training that the fog never lifts on the plains of Estoper, but that near the coast, where we intend to settle, we'll be below much of the fog. We were also told at times both on the plains and along the coast the fog will roll in so thick you can't see more than a meter or two in front of your face.

  Sounds like a good time to stay inside, drinking coffee, reading old books, and listening to out of fashion music, to me. We were told the seeds we have in the Conservos are tailored to thrive in the dim light here. It's not terribly dim during the day, just hazy. I assume, for the money we've invested in this trip and this settlement, Edgerift wouldn't steer us wrong. Sure they'll make money even off our skeletonized remains if we fail spectacularly (since we paid up front) but if they haven't supported us properly, they won't attract new customers.

  And at least this money's going to something purposeful, something that grows and matters. Considering where it came from, I guess that's all I can ask, and the least I can give you. That Gethin kid is running around right now with a pretend tail made from grass hanging from his belt. His twin sister has a garland of it in her hair, and she's running around being high pitched and loud with him. Most of the younger kids in the group are. The kids spend all day in their crates, in the back, doing school with a grown up, and are only really let out after we stop for the night and put the fence on. We stop for lunch, but the kids don't have much time then to do this loud running around crap that kids seem to need.

  I'm just going to say, it looks dangerous. They're careening in all directions and screeching and I don't know how they can tell where they are well enough to keep from smashing into things or each other.

  I mean, they could break one of the crates, is all. Anyway, I'm old, and tired, and I hate the beds here. They take so long to get comfortable; the puffgel mattress seems awfully thin for the money we paid for the supply package. So I'm going to get to bed so I can begin all the tossing, turning, grumbling, and gas-passing it will take to get comfortable. I bet you're glad you're not sharing a bunk with me now that I've described it so welcomingly, but it's true, that terrible prepackaged ready to eat food gives me gas, and worse, old man gas. I don't feel half as old as my ass tells me I am some days.

  Good night, and sweet dreams, Marda.

  Night 3 Dear Marda, What an ever-lovin' morning we had. This morning three of the eight crates wouldn't start. Turned out once again connections were loose on the undercarriage. What's more, some of the panels on the undercarriage of one of the crates had sprung open somehow.

  I will admit, grudgingly, that I'm flummoxed. Could be Edgerift are a bunch of cheap liars, but a loose panel should have been noticed by now – it should have been rattling from the start. Though technically Huw Gethin is the leader, being the listed Head of Household of the lead crate, I told him we needed to start checking connections and panels before we turned in at night, and again quickly before starting out in the morning, just to avoid the crap fest that was this morning. He agreed, and everyone agreed with him.

  He's a decent sort, calm and clear-headed. Short, though. He seems taller than he is and it surprises me now and then to realize I have to look down at him a bit. His wife is musical, she plays some kind of harp she can hold on her lap – not a lap harp like yours, but an actual miniature harp, and she sings in Adrash (I can tell by all the L's and W's) right after dinner.

  It calms all the monstrous snot machines down enough that they all start doing quiet things, probably having expended all their excess energy bouncing off everything inside the perimeter while dinner was being prepared.

  I don't “prepare” dinner. It comes in a packet, I open the packet and eat the food. I get gas, I grumble, my backside grumbles, I adjust my pants upwards and glare. Alis Gethin prepares dinner. She gets a portable stove lit up, combines things, then seasons things, then cooks things. Most of the families do this to some extent, I don't see the point. Waste of energy. The kids seem to like it, though.

  As I told you a couple days ago, there's five families: the Gethins, two adults, two older kids, two runts; the Almarics, three adults, two very small runts; the Kimuras, four adults, one teen, two children; the Jalloh family, one adult, two teens, one child; and the Watsons, three adults, three children, one teen.

  The incorporated groups, those idiots, are a group of five calling themselves “Black Moon” and a group of eight calling themselves “Porpoise Blues”, like they're a doggone band or something. Who knows, maybe they are. The two incorporated groups haven't really started socializing too much with the families, the families all began socializing immediately, in part because the children all started rolling themselves into a single roiling ball of snot, noise, and debris pretty much immediately.

  I suppose, to make sure you know what's what and who's who, I should describe the families to you. I'll start that tomorrow. All the crates were basically outfitted the same equipment-wise, only the food stores were different and calibrated to the crate owners' orders. Out of habit, I ordered too much – enough for you and for your habit of feeding stray people all the time. I suppose it's not completely stupid, it's not like food will go to waste.

  I don't really need all this dessert though, so I put some boxes of dessert by the crates with families. I wake up well before anyone else, so there was plenty of time to do it this morning before everyone woke up and all of that hullaballoo started with the open panels and loose connections. I just don't want the extra stuff junking up my crate, and stupid little snot monsters like dessert. That's all. I figured not only would you not mind, you'd have made me do it already if you were here, so there you go, Marda's little contribution to group unity.

  Anyway, my point was, the crates all have eight bunks built into the walls in the back, two rows of three high across from each other, and the far back bunks that can be combined into a terrible double bed with a folding screen wall around it. One side of bunks in our crate is simply folded up and away, overlapping slightly like some kind of origami, and the other side has boxes and crap packed onto the bunks and strapped in place. It occurred to me today while sitting at the helm of the crate, alone, that I could take all the puff gel mattresses off the bunks and put them on my bed, so tonight after dinner and before writing this letter I did just that.

  It wasn't hard; none of the extra mattresses were inflated, so they were very flat. I pushed the back bunks together and flopped all the mattresses on top and inflated them, then tucked a few blankets around it all to hold everything in place. Tonight, I will sleep with the comfort of a king.

  If the extra space from having made it into a double bed doesn't make me miss you even more, that is. But I kinda like having your space there, even if you're not in it at the moment.

  I'd say I love you, but that's a stupid thing to put in a letter. You know how I feel ab
out you. I'm going to stop before I become too much of an idiot, and upload this to the beacon, and then I'm going to bed.

  Goodnight, Marda.

  Night 4

  Dear Marda, We passed a lake today, and stopped for lunch on the shore. The kids of course ran down to the lake after Huw and Phenni and a group from Black Moon (a science minded bunch) went down and confirmed it was water even if it was lavender in color, and it was safe.

  The kids weren't allowed in the water since we were just stopping for lunch, and I have to tell you, Marda, that just seems like an injustice. You know how I feel about kids (so it's lucky we couldn't have any) but if I were a kid (not that I ever was a kid like this) I'd question the inherent rightness of any world and any decent day we parked by a lake and I couldn't go at least wade in it. Huw Gethin told the kids – the whole disappointed and now whiny lot of them – we'd be parking by a lake at an evening stop in about a week, and they'd get to play in the water then if it was safe.

  The kids settled for throwing grass and clods of dirt into the lake until lunch was ready. There haven't been any rocks that I've seen yet, I suspect the grass breaks them down pretty quickly. Don't quote me yet, but I have my suspicions that the grass is tugging on the panels and connections on the bottoms of the crates. When I think about saying that out loud, it just sounds crazy, so I've just kept it to myself so far. Maybe it is crazy.

  By doing as I suggested and checking the crates nightly and every morning, we discovered that almost all of the crates had loose connections this morning. I managed to apologize to Phenni and Alferd about blaming them for their problems the other morning, it wasn't easy or comfortable, but when you misjudge someone, you take responsibility for your own damned actions.

  Phenni's hard on herself, so she smiled and brushed off my misjudgment without a thought.

  You'll like her. You like most people, though, because that's how you're crazy. Everyone's crazy somehow, and your crazy is at least tolerable. I told you that the Almarics were three adults and two small children. Phenni is the Head of Household as listed by Edgerift. She's very no-nonsense and was apparently a botanist of some sort back where they came from. She's of middling size, middling height, middling waistline, and about forty years of age, with sandy brownish blonde hair and brown eyes with squint lines around them.