The Lion of Mars

by Jennifer L. Holm

  Leo darted under the couch right before the room began to shake.

  * * *

  All around me, the room rocked wildly. I tumbled to the ground. Across the room, the desk holding the communications digi-slate rattled, and the chair in front of it tipped over with a loud crash. Papers on the desk spilled across the floor, and a locker banged open. I decided to stay where I was: it seemed like the safest thing to do.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

  Everything was still.

  I crawled to the window and looked out. A plume of red dust was rising, as if it had been kicked up by whatever had crashed into it. The question was, what had crashed? It had looked like a ship, but not like any ship I had ever seen. It was too round, too glowing, too otherworldly.

  Too alien.

  Feet pounded up the stairs. Sai burst into the room, worry etched into the lines of his face. He must have been in the middle of shaving: he had green shaving cream on one cheek.

  “Are you hurt?” he demanded.

  I shook my head and then remembered. “Leo!” I cried, looking around.

  Scrambling down onto my hands and knees, I peered under the couch. Leo was curled into a tight loaf and stared back at me. I tugged him out, checking him over. He seemed fine.

  Then people were running into the room—Darby and Eliana, Trey, Flossy, Vera, and Albie. Albie looked half-awake, his ball cap on backward.

  “Sitrep!” Sai barked. It was short for “situation report” and was his way of asking what had happened.

  “Something crashed!” I said, pointing out the window. “I think it was an alien ship!”

  Everyone looked at me as if I was an alien. Everyone except Trey. He and I had always been fascinated by aliens and monsters. We had watched every digi-reel in our collection that featured them.

  “Alien?” Trey asked, eyes widening.

  I nodded.

  “Bell,” Sai said, shaking his head. “There’s no such thing as aliens.”

  Technically, he was right. We had colonized the moon and begun to settle Mars. In all that time, we hadn’t encountered alien life. But I knew aliens existed. Why wouldn’t there be something else besides us out here? It just made sense. There were hundreds of billions of galaxies. Surely one of them had intelligent life. (Maybe even alien cats?)

  Meems ran in, carrying her portable med kit. She was wearing her bathrobe, and her short gray hair was wet and plastered to her head.

  “What happened?” she asked urgently.

  “Something crashed,” Flossy said.

  “He thinks it was an alien ship,” Trey added.

  “It was definitely an alien ship,” I said.

  Meems pushed her way forward with her med kit, her pale eyes filled with worry.

  “Did you hit your head, Bell?” she asked, her hand in my hair, feeling for bumps.

  “No!” I said, shaking her off. “I’m fine!”

  “But this silly talk of aliens—”

  “I saw the ship!”

  “Describe exactly what you saw,” she said, like I was describing symptoms. She was our doctor after all.

  So I did. I described the circle of light, the bright white tail, the explosion. How everything shook and Leo was terrified.

  “I see,” she said, and looked up at Sai.

  Sai was rubbing his gray beard, which he did when he was trying to puzzle something out. There were still bits of shaving cream on his face, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Sounds like a meteorite,” Eliana said. She was wearing her usual cargo shorts and T-shirt. She liked to wear shorts because she was in and out of environmental suits all day and got hot.

  “But it glowed!” I said.

  “That’s what meteors do when they enter the atmosphere,” she explained.

  “I’m pretty sure one crashed when you said you’d marry me, Peanut Butter,” Darby teased, winking at his wife. “Or maybe that was my heart exploding from happiness?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Really, Jelly?”

  “Peanut Butter” and “Jelly” were their silly pet names for each other. They had fallen in love on the moon. Sai said he’d recruited them to Mars as a package deal. Eliana was super smart; she had helped design the lunar settlement. Darby called himself a jack-of-all-trades.

  “Let me through,” a voice called loudly.

  Phinneus was pushing up to the front with his cane. He was old and moved slowly, but he had a way of making himself heard. He walked to the window and stared out at the plume of dust.

  “Whatever it was, it landed near the French settlement,” Phinneus said, pointing his cane. “We need to contact them to see if they’re all right.”

  “Absolutely not,” Sai said in a firm voice, crossing his arms.

  “Sai,” Meems said, “maybe we should go take a look.”

  “It’s not our territory. It’s not our problem. You know the rules.”

  There were a lot of rules. They said it was because Mars was dangerous. I knew them by heart. We all did—they were impossible to miss. The grown-ups had taped them in front of the toilet in our bathroom.

  SETTLEMENT RULES

  Do not go outside without a buddy.

  Use the alarm bell in an emergency.

  Keep a glow stick in your pocket.

  Rovers are off-limits for children.

  Do not go beyond the flag.

  No contact with foreign countries, ever.

  Beneath the typed rules, someone—probably Vera—had added:

  ALWAYS PUT THE SEAT DOWN ON THE TOILET!

  Vera, who never missed a chance to argue, asked, “Why can’t we go see what it is?”

  “Because it’s too dangerous,” Sai said.

  “Yeah, it’s too dangerous,” Albie echoed.

  “You just say whatever Sai says!” Vera snapped at him.

  “What if someone’s hurt?” Phinneus asked.

  And then everyone was talking at once, the voices getting louder and louder until I couldn’t tell who was speaking. A loud whistle pierced the noise.

  I turned to see Salty Bill standing in the doorway, wearing his apron and holding a plastic whistle. He had a kerchief tied over his head, and his long gray ponytail dangled beneath.

  “What’s the ruckus?” he hollered as the room fell silent.

  “An alien ship crashed over there!” I said.

  “It was a meteorite,” Sai said.

  Salty Bill just shook his head.

  “I don’t care if a pterodactyl flew out of a black hole and landed here. I’m serving breakfast in five minutes. It’s the only meal you’re getting until lunch,” he announced.

  Salty Bill turned and stomped out of the room.

  Everyone looked around for a minute. And then followed him out.

  Aliens or no aliens, no one ever missed a meal on Mars.

  “Do you really think it was an alien ship?” Trey asked me.

  We were waiting in line for breakfast.

  I nodded. “It glowed.”

  Trey shook his head in amazement. He had thick, curly hair and bushy eyebrows, which Flossy had offered to pluck. But even she couldn’t do anything about the pimples on his face.

  He had on his Stanford University sweatshirt; it was one of his favorites. People on Earth seemed to love sending us clothing from where they went to school. I was wearing a sweatshirt from a place called Dickinson College. It used to be Trey’s. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from him. When I outgrew them, they’d probably be turned into a pillow or something.

  “How fast was it going?” he asked.

  “Pretty fast,” I said, and felt a rush of excitement because Trey was talking to me like he used to.


  “Hmm,” Trey said, and picked up two doughy green buns from the serving platter. A lot of the food we ate was made from algae.

  “I think—” I began, but Trey ignored me and walked away, the conversation over. Disappointment pooled in my stomach, ruining my appetite.

  “Are you going to stand there all day?” Salty Bill asked from behind the counter.

  Salty Bill was the first person Sai had recruited. Sai claimed that the cook was the most important person on a mission. Good food made for good morale.

  I stared at the doughy buns.

  “What flavor are they?” I asked.

  “Cinnamon,” Salty Bill said in a cranky voice. Salty Bill’s resting state was cranky.

  I put a bun and a handful of freeze-dried plantains on my plate. Then I served myself a cup of algae tea sweetened with honey and headed to the oval table. The grown-ups usually sat at one end, and we sat at the other. Flossy, Vera, and Trey were already sitting at our end.

  Meems liked to say the mess hall was the heart of the settlement because a lot happened here. On one side of the room, gray sheets hung on lines to dry. The mess hall was always warm because of the cooking, so it was a good place to dry laundry.

  There was a whiteboard on the wall, where the grown-ups kept a list of what was broken. Right now, the list was short—a broken motor in the algae farm, a light out in the communications room, and a clogged toilet in the kids’ wing (not my fault!). Sai never let the list get longer than ten items.

  Next to the whiteboard was a digi-monitor that usually displayed a live feed of the surface. But the surface camera was broken—nobody seemed to know what had happened to it—and the monitor was turned off.

  I slid onto a stool and took a bite of the bun. It was warm and chewy, just the way I liked it. Salty Bill might be cranky, but he sure could cook.

  Something rubbed against my ankle, and I looked down.

  It was Leo.

  “You’re still hungry?” I asked him. I knew Salty Bill had already fed him.

  “Meow meow!” he said, which meant Yes.

  I snuck him a piece of my bun.

  Across the table, Vera was wearing her favorite color: black. It was all she wore lately. Flossy said Vera was trying to be goth, which was an old Earth style. Flossy was something of an expert when it came to Earth customs, especially fashion and slang.

  “What do you think of my new outfit?” Flossy asked us. “I copied it from a digi-reel. It’s 1970s-style. Isn’t it groovy?”

  The outfit was like an environmental suit, except tighter-fitting and with a zipper up the back.

  “It’s nice,” I told her.

  “It’s called a jumpsuit,” Flossy told me. “It took me forever to do the zipper.”

  “I don’t know why you bother, Flossy. It’s not like anyone is ever actually going to see it,” Vera said.

  “What do you mean?” Flossy asked. “Everyone can see it!”

  “I mean anyone who’s actually interesting,” Vera said, rolling her eyes.

  Trey was staring across the room, where Sai and Albie were looking at a clipboard and talking.

  “Why does he get to be Sai’s apprentice?” Trey asked with a scowl.

  Recently, Sai had begun taking on an apprentice. He taught them about running the settlement. Last year, it had been Flossy. Sai had picked Albie a few weeks ago, and Trey had been unhappy ever since.

  “Do you think it’s because he’s older than me?” Trey asked.

  Flossy shook her head. “I was the first apprentice, and I’m not the oldest.”

  Trey frowned. “Why did he pick you anyway?”

  “Probably because I have excellent taste in fashion,” she declared with a grin.

  “I think Sai chose Albie because he’s so responsible,” I said.

  Vera snorted. “I guess I don’t have to worry about Sai ever picking me as his apprentice.”

  Vera didn’t exactly have the best judgment. After all, she was the one who had thought it would be fun to prank Salty Bill by switching the labels on all his spices. He still hadn’t forgiven her.

  “It’s so unfair,” Trey muttered.

  I didn’t understand why he cared. The grown-ups only talked about schedules and what needed to be fixed. We kids had way more fun.

  “Three-word story,” I said.

  Flossy gave a little clap.

  It was our favorite game: you made up a story, and each person used three words. Trey always managed to get “fart” into the story. It was a real skill.

  “I’ll go first,” I said. “Once upon a…”

  “…time, an alien…,” Flossy continued.

  “…crashed on Mars,” Vera said with a bored expression.

  It was Trey’s turn, but he wasn’t paying attention.

  “Trey,” I said.

  But he didn’t say anything. Maybe he hadn’t heard me?

  “Trey,” I said again, tapping his shoulder. He turned to me, his lips thin.

  “It’s your turn,” I told him.

  “This is a dumb game,” Trey said.

  I just stared at him. “That’s five words.”

  Across the room, Sai stood up, holding his digi-slate. He was wearing his Command-issued blue uniform, as usual. He was the only one who ever wore his uniform; he said some habits were hard to break.

  “Chore assignments,” he called to us. “Gather round.”

  We crowded around him as he rattled off the chores.

  “Flossy, kitchen. Vera, laundry. Trey, dust duty. Bell, algae farm. And, Albie, you’re shadowing me.”

  “Laundry? How thrilling,” Vera said, rolling her eyes.

  I had nothing to complain about. I loved the algae farm.

  But I could tell from the way Trey was standing—shoulders hunched, fingers curled—that he was not happy with his assignment.

  “Dust duty? Again? That’s the second time this month!” he fumed.

  “We can trade,” I suggested to Trey. “I’ll do dust duty!”

  “No trading,” Sai said firmly.

  “Why can’t I apprentice like Albie?” Trey demanded.

  “Because you’re not ready,” Sai said.

  “I am so!”

  “You’re not ready until I say you’re ready,” Sai said, his voice firm.

  Trey looked like he was going to say something, but he turned and stomped out of the mess hall without a backward glance.

  * * *

  A blast of warm air hit me when I walked through the doorway to the algae farm, Leo padding behind me. The sharp scent of algae tickled my nose. This was my favorite place in the settlement: it was green, and everywhere you looked, something was growing. But mostly I loved it because of Phinneus.

  When the Mars Settlement Mission was announced, Sai said he received over ten thousand applications. But when it came time to choose the crew, he threw out the résumés and went looking himself. He said he’d needed people who were problem solvers. People who were used to messy work in difficult conditions. Like plumbers and electricians and farmers. Sai said that was who kept a settlement running. Phinneus was one of those people. He’d been a farmer in New California.

  I made my way through the maze of the farm to Phinneus’s office. All around the room were massive containers of live algae. The algae was grown in batches depending on what it would be used for: food, fuel, medicine, oil, paper, even soap. The algae also created the oxygen we breathed.

  Phinneus was sitting at his messy desk, fast asleep. He slept a lot these days, usually after meals.

  “Hi, Phinneus,” I said.

  He blinked his watery blue eyes open, looking confused.

  “Bell,” he said, putting his glasses on. “I must have dozed off.”

  He looked at the notebook in front
of him and closed it.

  Leo leapt onto the desk and started nibbling on a leafy plant. It was catnip. Phinneus grew it for Leo.

  “There’s that old lion,” Phinneus said, observing Leo. “He’s getting fat. You need to stop feeding him scraps.”

  “He’s always hungry,” I said. “What’s a lion?”

  “It’s a very large cat,” he explained.

  “How large?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Oh, I don’t know exactly. About three meters long, I suppose.”

  “That’s huge! Bigger than Albie! So why do you call Leo that?” I asked. “He’s not very big.”

  “It’s his attitude. He acts like a lion. He’s fearless,” he said, shuffling papers on his desk. On the corner of the desk was a jar of cookies. Phinneus claimed he got hungry when he was working, but I suspected he kept them for us kids.

  “Can I have a cookie?”

  “Didn’t you just have breakfast?” he asked.

  “I’m still hungry,” I told him, which was the truth.

  “You’re just like your cat,” he said.

  “Fearless?”

  “Always hungry,” he said.

  “What are we doing today?” I asked him.

  “Shampoo, I think,” he said.

  Phinneus made shampoo from algae. It smelled nice, but it gave your hair a bit of a green tinge.

  “Might as well get started,” he said, standing up and grasping his cane.

  We walked back to the main area, past the hydroponic setup where Phinneus raised lettuces and herbs. He also had a tub of soil from Earth. I liked the texture of Earth soil, the crumbly softness of it.

  “What are you growing?” I asked him. Fuzzy green shoots poked out of the soil.

  “Summer squash,” he said.

  “Socksy!” I said.

  Phinneus chuckled. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you saying that.”

  “Socksy” was my very own slang for “great.” When I was little, I hated wearing socks. To encourage me, the grown-ups would give me a piece of candy every time I put on a sock. After a while, I would put on a sock, walk up to them, and announce “Socksy!” just to get candy. In my head, “socksy” meant “great!” because candy was great. It just sort of stuck.