Planetfall For Marda

by Zenka Wistram

  Then I came and stood near them, and barked at her.

  Because I'm a jerk, you know.

  “Sing like you got lungs as well as a voice!” I said. She looked at me, lavender-blue eyes shocked and wide, and making sure no one else saw, I gave her an encouraging smile.

  At least I hope it was.

  Anyway, she started singing, if only to shut me up. And once you start singing, and the world doesn't explode, it soon becomes no big deal. I hate to see people not sing just because they think they're bad at it. Even if they are, to hell with everyone else. Singing is a human birthright. Screw anyone who tries to take if from you, why allow anyone to have that kind of negative power over you?

  But it's not like a teenager with a shy, pretty voice is going to listen to a grouchy old man.

  I think I'll save the rest of my contraband liquor until we arrive at the settlement. There's enough here for a decent little celebration. Tonight I believe I have a few more Japanese folk tales to tell. Cho, believe it or not, is very excited about this, and has pictures she's dragged out to share as I tell the story. She has a feltboard she uses to illustrate stories when she tells them to her spawn; once the school's set up I'll bet we find her down there telling illustrated felt-tales to all the children.

  I'm still not sure exactly what Alis intends I help teach the little monsters. She and Randi Jones have been doing a lot of quiet discussion, and more than once I saw them look at me.

  I mean, they looked at several different people at different times, and took notes on their pads, but it makes me nervous when I'm the one they're taking notes about.

  I know Alis has already begun encouraging and cajoling the scientists to come in and teach the kids a bit of their own specialties. Doc Raines is enthusiastically on board for a fitness class.

  It'll be nice, once the dome is built and habitable, to go for an evening walk just like you and I do back home. Right now I just walk in circles and check on things.

  Ok, it's looking like story time. I'm going to upload this letter early this evening.

  Love you, Marda. Wish I'd remembered to say that more to your face, but I won't forget again.

  Night 19.

  Dear Marda,

  We are so close to the settlement that I find myself feeling like I'm walking around on my toes, leaning like a compass needle toward where the settlement is. I'm actually excited. And sheepish about it. I mean, come on, it's just a potentially failed settlement, one of twenty starting out on Estoper as I speak. It's not really home, with our little garden, and our bay window, and my recliner.

  But it could be home. Someday. There was no way to pack your rocker for the first drop; all large furniture was left behind. Unlike other families settling here, we didn't have to put everything in storage and sell our home. Your sister has already moved into our home, and I know she'll take fine care of it. I just worry she'll get so attached to your rocker she won't want to send it along at some point after I've sent for you.

  No worries, though. If she wants your rocker, and you want her to have it, I will make you a new one. When there's time for it, I will build a little workshop, and send for whatever tools and materials I need that I haven't brought with.

  I already have an idea for the rocking chair. I want to make a canopy like the one Cho Kimura's making out of grass, and use it to shade our front door. I think a rocker would sit there, in the dappled shadow of the canopy, angled so you could see as much of the world as you feel like seeing.

  I could make something along the lines of an old bentwood rocker with the woven seat and back. It wouldn't take much in the way of material; I could easily use one of the pour plastics once I make a mold for the sides, and attach the sides together with bars – nowhere your body would actually touch, then weave a sort of hammock-y seat from grass. Or barter with Cho so she'll make it; I bet if I make an extra frame I can trade it to her for the woven parts.

  And here I am nattering on about furniture projects just like at home.

  I dearly miss your immediate input, and watching your expressive face for signs my idea is a terrible one.

  So I'm writing to you, stylus to pad, forgetting the world around me while describing the world around me to you, and Cadell Gethin comes and flops down next to me.

  “More letters!” he says. “Aren't you worried you'll run out of letters?”

  “No,” I say, frowning at him, lowering my eyebrows.

  “I would be. I told my mom if she keeps making me do so much schoolwork I was going to run out of letters. She said maybe if I played outside for a bit tonight I'd find some more letters.”

  “Is it working?” “No,” he sighs, almost managing to look woeful. “I guess I'll have to play a lot more. Mom says soon we'll be at the town, and then her sanity will be safe. I told her she should keep her sanity inside the crate and then it would be safe, and she said she's trying to. And then she kicked me out of the crate.”

  See, this is why I'm glad I never had any kids. Not only would I expect any kid of mine to be as obstinate and grumpy as I am, but your basic kid model just makes so little sense to begin with. We've found if we secure the connections and panels beneath the crate with silver tape, the grass usually can't curl around anything enough to work it loose. Mornings are much quicker now that there's so many fewer repairs needed before we can start out.

  I'm guessing anything built within growing distance of the grass is going to need to be as smooth as possible to prevent being worked to pieces by the so-called grass. I remember when the worst part about grass was just maintaining your lawn.

  Good heavens, I've really made myself feel even older. That sort of stupid nostalgia is crippling!

  No one's escaped from the fence since the Almaric kids wandered off. I think that's reassuring, but it also means we still have no idea what, other than Benjones' “pooka” let the little runts out.

  I was reading about pookas. Benevolent but mischievous spirits or faeries. Not exactly the best playmate for an adventurous four year old.

  Only a few days to go. Goodnight, pretty Marda.

  Night 20.

  Dear Marda,

  Today the herd was back, or we ran into another herd like the first. It was pretty much the same as last time – loud, smelly, and carrying enormous potential for mindless destruction. Now that I think about it, that describes most of the kids around here too. Ok, maybe not smelly, except for little Blaines, who still wears nappies. Anyone who has nothing else to do with their crap but marinate in it would smell like that.

  Anyway. The only difference, and this is a difference that worries me, is that around sixteen hundred in the afternoon, there came this strange animal call, sort of a threatening hoot that ended in a growling noise, loud as hell despite clearly being far off. Once that call was heard, the entire herd loped off to the east, leaving us far behind and between the herd and the animal that made that noise. I'm guessing we've finally met the carnivorous lizard thing, if by voice only.

  I kind of like those purple wrasskeys. They keep looking at us, and I know, I'm sure of it, that once in a while a few of them would imitate us – the way we sit in the cockpits, the position of our hands on the steering handle. Curious and intelligent animals are endless trouble, but they are interesting.

  After we camped, Katsu Kimura was telling me that one of the wrasskeys was copying faces he was making at it.

  If there's any of this herd near where we settle, they're bound to make things interesting. That's not always a good thing, but you know me, I'll take interesting over placid any day. You can bet I've checked and double checked the fence tonight. It's pretty late in the evening right now as I'm writing to you, and most of the families have headed off to bed. It seems more than a few of us are spooked by that frightful call; all the families who've gone to bed have pulled their ramps up over their door and latched them in place.

  I admit I'm concerned about this predator – what if it can jump over the fence? I guess we'll find out. I've m
entioned my worry to Huw and suggested he suggest to everyone that they check the campsite through one of their windows before opening their hatches in the morning. I didn't need to mention any of this to Huw because he wouldn't think of it; he was already getting up to talk to everyone and offer exactly that advice before turning in for the night. Regardless, I felt better talking about it with Huw and making sure we as a group had a plan in place.

  Huw also checked and made sure every crate had their stun rifle enough at hand that they could find it in a hurry if we needed to clear strange animals out of the campsite out in the morning.

  It's not like the stun rifle is likely to kill the beast, but I sure hope it stuns it in a shot or two. If need be we can kill it when it's down. So, off to bed for me. I don't want to be unrested if Estoper NS C10 decides to hop our fence and gnaw on some settlers. Tomorrow I'll try to remember to introduce you to the eight working people in the Black Sun group.

  Goodnight, Marda.

  Night 21

  Dear Marda

  No sign of the loud lizardy predator we presume made that hair-raising yell yesterday. I am relieved. Who wants to have to subdue a hungry predator before breakfast? So I told you I'd introduce you to the Black Moon group. I've noticed my letters to you have been shorter than they started out being lately; I'm sorry for that. It tends to be fairly busy in the evenings, with storytelling, having dinner, keeping kids orderly, talking to people, preparing and plotting for the next day. While I'm sure you understand, I hope you don't feel neglected.

  So, the Black Moon group. I've already talked a bit about Bets Almond. She's tow-headed, freckled, and has twinkling brown eyes. She has crows' feet and a smile-crease. She can talk when she feels like it, but often she just listens, and you know she's absorbing. It's a bit unnerving, but maybe that's just because I know she's a psychologist.

  I believe I've also mentioned Tesla Shane, around thirty and a xenobotanist. She's got short, dark hair and deep set gray eyes. Her expressions and her mannerisms are guarded but not unfriendly; there's something in her face and posture that speaks of terrible sadness at times. Like Bets Almond, she doesn't talk as much as she listens, but it's not unnerving at all. Sometimes I get an urge to try and make her laugh, and sometimes I succeed.

  Then there's Hans Erdich, thirty-two, a climatologist and the subject of one of Annya Sanford's crushes. He's handsome in that bespectacled, absent-minded scientist way; his blonde hair's always a bit messy, his glasses a bit askew, his clothing rumpled. He can be easily brought into any conversation, but he's fine by himself, his mind off wandering around inside itself. If you're talking to him and he mentally wanders off like that, I've found clearing your throat loudly brings him right back with a soft-spoken apology.

  Natalie Sommers is an entomologist. Mid-thirties, long graying brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She's whip-lean; one of those folk so thin they appear frail even when they're not. She's an excellent poker player, and hums to herself frequently.

  Laure Carver is one of the two ecologists, the other one is Basilio Carlo. Basilio is warm brown skinned, dark eyed, black curly hair. He and Laure are engaged and have been for five years. Laure has wavy red hair and dark blue eyes, and is softly plump, much like you, Marda – in that appealing but not quite fat way. Laure and Basilio are madly in love, and I suspect Laure is pregnant – I heard her throwing up the last three mornings.

  Which reminds me, I've got no reason to suspect it, but I do suspect that Alis is pregnant, too. The other day I caught her staring off in the direction of our settlement, her hand on her belly.

  Maybe she had gas. But the combination of that look, that hand, and the morning she spent in the Blue Porpoise crate being seen by Doc Raines definitely makes this nosy old man just slightly concerned. Maybe she had gas, maybe Laure has a weak stomach. I can't say I think it's a great idea to get pregnant this year, but I know enough about people and their gonads to know not everything is planned, and that people will breed when they damn well please.

  So. On to Nic Marceau. Poor lad reminds me of Ichabod Crane now and then – gaunt, abnormally tall, with a big beaked nose. He's smart and a wicked, wicked poker player – he's the only one in camp whose poker face I can't see through. Makes me want to see what you will think of him. He's a chemist by trade.

  Last of all is Harry Randolph, our engineer with a dual specialty in technology and civil engineering. I suspect he's going to be busy as hell and useful as hell. He's the one who pulled out the silver tape for the undersides of the crates; I would have thought of it eventually and I like to pride myself it wouldn't have taken very long, but he had it almost as soon as I showed him the vid of the grass wrapping around the bits under the crates.

  I like folks with common sense. There's always space for dreamers, but they'd get nowhere without a bucketful of practicality to see their plots and plans through. Will write more tomorrow. Huw estimates we're only a couple days from the settlement, that means tomorrow we should really start seeing a difference in the elevation we're covering, and then we'll start the trek down to the settlement plain. Already we can see the rolling hills we've got to cover to get to the natural path we'll find to get us to the settlement zone.

  Goodnight, Marda. Sleep and dream well.

  Night 22

  Dear Marda,

  I write to you tonight from a lofty position. No, not as High Lord Mayor of the new settlement (I nominate Huw – let his head be the heavy one). I'm writing to you from a hilltop. An actual hilltop, not more than a day's journey from our next home. Because I am enjoying this change in elevation, I am also sitting cross-legged on top of the crate, writing this. If it wasn't already dark and always foggy, I would tell you I can see forever from here.

  You know how long it's been since I've sat cross-legged on the ground or any flat surface. This adventure, this exercise, this planet seem to all have been good for my old bones. I bet you could jig like a woman decades younger here.

  I was concerned we'd miss the turn on to the natural path down to our settlement tomorrow, and it turns out Huw and Soren and a couple of the others were also concerned. A small group armed with the GPS will go out and scout out the trail tomorrow, and we'll have our first demonstration in how to remove the flatbed truck from beneath a crate.

  The GPS will be more accurate if the beacon's up and running anyway. We figure we'll take a day to sit here, so we can spend the whole next day following the path down the hills. We're not sure we'll find a good campsite in the midst of the hills, better to start out early morning after next and arrive down at the settlement that evening.

  The air around camp is humming with taut energy. We're all excited, I guess, so close to what will be ours. The kids are all a bit squirrelly and can't settle; we only told one story tonight. I know more than one of us – because it can't just be me, is sitting here also concerned the area for settlement will be entirely unsuitable and we'll have traveled all this way only to pack up and try to find a new place ourselves. Of course Edgerift would have guidance, but it would still be up to us to actually find someplace nearby to settle.

  Maybe the new place is swampy. Maybe it's been settled by a herd. Maybe there's a nest of the lizards there. Maybe there's a new toxic plant taking over down there.

  Maybe it's beautiful. Maybe it's fertile, and ready for the hands of mankind. Maybe it's exactly what you were wishing for. I know Edgerift dropped small groups of people down onto their settlement sites last year just to be sure they'd do for a start. These same small groups then traveled, in much smaller vehicles that looked in the pictures like dune buggies, back to the landing pad, just to be sure the travel could be accomplished without undue difficulty.

  Now that must have been an adventure! If only we were forty years younger, Marda, I'd have loved to take you trekking across a raw, unsettled planet. Just imagine, the buggy flying along, your hair whipping in the wind, circling around the herds to get a good look at them, just you and me and the pale lavender sky far a
bove us.

  So tomorrow, we'll get together a small group of sensible sorts, hand them some phos markers to stick in where they find the trail, and then the next day we'll follow the little flags of the markers on our rolling maps until we can actually see their light, and we'll have found our trail to our new home.

  But tonight... well, tonight, I bet there's going to be a lot of people having trouble sleeping. It won't be just me.

  Goodnight, Marda. In a couple days, I hope to have good news to tell you, and pictures of the settlement site.

  Night 23

  Dear Marda, I have to say, I'm glad I wasn't on the search group today. They came back in late evening, grouchy and exhausted. It's a good thing we sent them out to find the trailhead, it took them almost the full day to find it. I can't imagine all of us driving around in our crates with grumpier and grumpier children all over the place.

  The group that went out was Soren Hinrick, Harry Randolph, Dan Bascomb and Hisashi Kimura. Harry and Dan were perfect, I thought – a geologist and a tech engineer should be able to figure this out, and Soren went because he looked like an eager puppy with its leash hopefully in its mouth when we were sorting out who to send. The kid's smart and capable enough and determined to prove his broken leg isn't going to make him a detriment to our group. Hisashi went because Cho insisted, and it wasn't a bad idea; Hisashi did a lot of mountaineering and hiking and camping back on Yutaka so he's got a sensible head for exploration.

  It's very important to Cho that her family be of great service to the group. For some reason, the instruments went off a bit as the group neared the trailhead. They spent their time trying to recalibrate, then trying to find the trailhead by eyesight. The fog is generally lighter here than it has been, but it was still thick enough to cause some difficulty. To be certain what they found was indeed the trailhead, they traveled down it a bit; after about an hour down what they guessed was the trail all the instruments started acting as if they had never gone funny.