by wade coleman
CHAPTER 1
I’m lying on my bed watching the Mars Channel. It’s the Mount Ascraeus Spaceport webcam. A few hours ago a twister moved through. It picks up the dust and leaves a clean spot in the weathered terrain. Today, like most days, the sky is pink and cloudless. I watch the shadow of a rock move until it touches the newly swept clean spot.
I live in a forty-story apartment building with thin walls. The married couple to my right is fighting. Only morons get married. Class D citizens get two hundred square feet of living space plus a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower. When you get married, you have to share the same bathroom. Instead of four hundred square feet, you get three-fifty.
Better to remain single. That way your neighbors don’t have to hear you fight.
I put on my headphones and listen to ocean waves while the shadow moves across the surface of Mars. The built-in TV’s have better than human vision resolution so that I can zoom in on the rock.
On Mars you can go anywhere, you want. On Earth, people are only allowed in designated areas. The rest of the land is for tree frogs, grass, antelope and things like that. Not much room for people, so we squeeze in tight.
B class citizens get eight hundred square feet of living area for each person. C citizens are allowed five hundred. A bump to C would be nice, but I got no skill set, so I sit and watch TV.
On Mars you can walk anywhere you want with no dusk to dawn curfew.
Augment clinics got synth lungs that can breathe the CO2 in the Mars air and extract the oxygen. Can you imagine, thirty-seven percent Earth gravity? That will put a bounce in your step.
There are about hundred thousand people on Mars. Most live underground. You could walk all day and never see anyone.
Mars is big into baseball. The air pressure is too low to throw a curveball, so it’s machine pitch baseball. Every pitch is over a hundred miles an hour.
Mars’ baseball added another position, rovers. Girls on electric bikes use modified lacrosse sticks to catch home runs hit three to four hundred meters in Mars low gravity. Typical scores are in in the twenties and thirties. It’s way more fun to watch than Earth baseball.
I’m brought out of my daydream by my neighbor to the right. He’s a big fat guy, and his footsteps vibrate my bed.
Lighter feet stomp to the kitchen and then stomp back.
On TV, the rock shadow gets longer at a faster pace. I notice little details like that. The sun will set in about a half hour.
Jerry yells, and then something heavy hits the floor.
No more footsteps.
I take off my headphones. It’s quiet.
Then the guy in the apartment to the right yells at his TV. He’s watching sports. I call him Sports Guy.
Above me, my neighbor is pacing. “Screak, screak, screak, screak,” is the sound his feet make. He takes four steps, then turns around and takes four more steps.
He’ll do that for hours. I don’t know his name, so I call him “Screak.”
I’m not good with names. I’m good with numbers and facts. I think it’s because people don’t act like their names. My high school counselor thinks it’s because I’m a high functioning autistic.
I remember names if it’s important. Like my old crew. Six guys, I met in the Gov-run orphanage. I didn’t like to talk, so they made me speak. The guys would take turns dunking my head in a toilet until I yelled: “Stop!”
Oliver figured out that I don’t like being touched. Then those wankers would hug me until I spoke. They forced me to interact with them. That’s probably why I’m a high functioning.
But now they’re dead. Serves’em right. A couple of years ago, a new drug showed up on the streets called, Flash. It sped up reaction time. It also caused small rips in the heart. Thousands of addicts dropped dead in a matter of weeks.
My crew knew Flash was killing them and they kept snorting it. They would get high and go out looking for a fight. It wouldn’t take long before another gang would oblige them.
I’m an okay fighter, but I’m kind of clumsy. I stand still and let someone come to me. Then I put my head down, get in close and punch to the gut. I got hit in the head a lot, and now I have cauliflower ears.
After winning their last fight, my crew celebrated by taking more drugs. They OD’d in an alley, twitching like a robocop tased them.
Fucking bastards, but we grew up together, and they were the closest thing I had to a family. And now they’re dead, and I’m on my own.
I was never into hard drugs. When I was eight years old, a foster father took me for a ride in his car.
We would drive down the streets of the city, and he would point.
“Son, look at that bunch of meth-heads. I bet the oldest meth-head in the world is forty. Those guys are in their late twenties.”
The men were covered in tattoos and missing their teeth. Their eyes were hollow.
On the drive back he said, “In this world, everyone medicates. Stay away from anything that’s manufactured. Go natural; you’ll live longer.”
My stomach growls louder, and I’m brought back to present time. I don’t want to go outside. Without a crew, it’s not safe on the streets.
But it’s the first of the month, and I have to go to the unemployment office to get credits installed on my phone. You have to do it in person. It’s how the Gov checks to see if you’re still alive.
I get up and put on a pair blue jeans, a T-shirt and lace up my boots. I grab my phone and head to the door.
I take hold of the handle and pause. I hate the first of the month. I hate that I don’t have a job and no possible prospects. And I hate the humiliation of knowing that will never change. I’m a wasteman in a city of wastemen.
There’re more than hundred thousand D class citizens within a square mile. The number keeps going up as more people come in than die.
A priest told me that life on Earth was an excellent place for the soul because of all the suffering. He said that life, no matter how lowly, was worth living well.
I open the door and step out into the hallway of the Gov run apartments. I walk up to the elevator and stand next to a meth-head.
After I press the down button and try to think of something nice to say... He was limping a week ago, so I ask, “How’s your ball sack?”
He unzips, lifts up his balls and shows me the scar.
I nod approvingly and try to think up something else. “No infection, it’s healing nicely.”
“Thanks, man, you’re the only one that cares.”
I don’t care, but I’m trying really hard to be likable.
The elevator opens, and I get in a crowded elevator.
The mob inside groans a protest but me and the meth-head push ourselves inside and the door shuts.
The elevator goes down six floors and stops. The crowd lets out a collective groan, knowing they’re only one story away from the exit.
“I got this.”
The elevator door opens, and I expose myself to the group waiting to get on.
My big dick was my first superpower. When I was at the orphanage, the guys would blindfold me. Then I would pull my dick out of my pants and let it hang over my jeans. My crew would bet others my “third eye” could see.
Then I walk around the dorm without bumping into anything. It can’t see. But I got an excellent memory and knew just how many steps before I need to turn or stop. Those were good times.
Everyone just stares at my cock and the doors close.
I put my tool away.
“Is that a G seven?” the old lady to my right says.
“Yeah, I think that’s what the doctor called it.”
“They’re fancier models,” the old lady says: “Lot of attachments and such. Call me old-fashioned, but size does matter.”
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br /> The door opens, and I get out first, making my way out of the lobby and into foot traffic. It’s 10:15 AM and the streets are closed to vehicles. The roads are filled with drones like me, going to their monthly “allotment.”
Rent is free. The room comes with basic cable. The Gov pays for your phone when you’re a D citizen. It even comes with long distance, but I don’t know anyone to call.
I walk down the street and dodge people that are slower than me. I learned to walk fast but not so quick as to look like you’re trying to get away.
About half the people walk in groups for protection. The other half are like me, dodging around packs of people.
Today is “A and B” day. Everyone with names starting with A and B goes to the unemployment office and get their phones loaded with credits.
My name is Adam, Adam-177 to be exact. Wasteman like me get names by the day of the month. I was the 177th male born on the first of November.
My father was some businessman that got the standard mid-level management upgrades during a mid-life crisis. My sperm donor had three different augments, the doctors said. One is the “all-around jock package.” Play golf one day and tennis the next. The next upgrade was on his penis; the “G7” is what they called it. Then, later in life, he got his liver upgraded.
Usually, the nanite robots that rearrange your DNA stay away from sperm cells. But there’s one in a thousand chance that you end up passing down genetic traits after a gene replacement therapy.
I got all three changes. The doc said that’s one in a billion chance.
No one wanted to pay the license fees to keep my balls intact. So I got a vasectomy the day I was born and sent to the Gov orphanage.
You can leave school at fifteen and get the allotment. Ninety percent of the orphans drop out of school before sixteen. They get their first phone, a two hundred square foot flat and a thousand credits a month.
With no rent and utilities, a thousand dollars a month is just enough money to eat well. Or you can buy drugs and eat algae. Not that algae is terrible, it’s boring.
I weave through foot traffic. A man is hiding something in his hand, and I give him a wide berth.
In another block is a drunk. The guy is staggering in the same direction as me. A gang of men walks over. The smallest guy knees the drunk in the balls.
The drunk goes down and vomits.
The small man goes through the man’s pockets and tosses what he finds to the big guy in the group.
The leader goes through the wallet, grabs a gift card and tosses the wallet and phone to the man on the ground. The whole underground economy runs off gift cards.
The phones are genetically tagged so only the registered user can use it. A phone has all sorts of sensors that can detect when a person is in distress. It immediately calls the robocops.
It usually takes about two minutes for a robot to get to a crime scene. You can do a lot of damage in one minute and forty-five seconds. That bash and grab took less than thirty seconds.
I make my way to the unemployment office and get in a line that stretches to the end of the block.
I finger a gift card in my pocket. Sometimes you don’t want a transaction traced back to you. You use your credits to purchase bitcoins and use them to buy gift cards. But the Gov charges a twenty percent transaction fee. They figure you’re gonna to do something illegal, so they want their cut to look the other way.
The line moves steadily, and I stand behind a fat man that blocks the late morning sun.
It’s already hot and muggy. I hate London. I hate waiting in lines.
A half hour later, I’m at the front door.
The unemployment office is a ten-story high rise. On one side of the building is a row of stations manned by Gov workers. Bastards, every one of them. They think they’re better because they got a job. I hate that they’re right. Starting pay is ten thousand credits a month.
The light turns green at one of the stations. I walk over and show the clerk my phone.
Damn. It’s Chunky Fat Face. She hates me. It not my fault. Chunky Fat Face or “Chaffey” for short, is a catchy nickname.
Our eyes locks.
“It’s you,” Chaffy says.
“It’s me alright.”
We stare at each other for a few minutes.
I hold up my phone. “So… are you going to give me the creds?”
“Freeloader.”
“Chaffey, honey bunny. I’ll take any job anywhere.”
“I hope you rot in your little room for weeks before anyone notices.”
“I’d love to get back to my room and catch up on my masturbation, but I need some credits to buy lube.”
“You’re a foul man with a foul mouth.”
She presses some key and my phone beeps.
I check my phone – 1,000cr. I take off and head to the street.
I don’t get far before two men block my way. I turn around and see two more.
A hand grabs my shoulder, and my balls slide up inside my abdomen.
Since I was a kid, I’ve had this magic power. I know when I’m about to get my ass kicked. The boys tuck themselves up and go inside the stomach.
Another man puts his hand on my left shoulder. They steer me away from the front of the building.
Knowing what’s going to happen, I wait for the moment to pull a cheap shot.
Once we clear the cameras, I stomp on one man’s foot.
He lets out a grunt, and the other man punches me in the kidney.
I go down to my knees. As I get to my feet, a crowd forms.
I look up, and a pair of brass knuckles connects with my jaw. There’s a flash of light and then nothing.
* * *
There’s an unnatural quiet. This time of year dozens of kids of should be playing at the beach while teenagers ride big waves on their longboards.
From the back porch, my wife is watching the waves roll in.
“Honey bunny, love,” I say to my brown-haired beauty. “We need to go now.”
She’s wearing a one-piece dress that covers her knees. I got her to marry me by setting a trap.
I am very good at observing and problem-solving. That’s why I’m a scientist. First, you define the problem: How do I get this brown-haired beauty to marry me?
I observed and made mental notes of her girlfriends. Then I got to know the guys, and they introduced me to Moorea.
Now that I was in close to her, I observed her behavior in better detail. Moorea is easily embarrassed and never makes a fuss, especially in public. Even if her food comes cold at our local dinner, she won’t complain.
I proposed in a fancy restaurant. I made sure we had a table where everyone could see me on my knees.
To shut me up, Moorea said yes.
I had a friend record my proposal and her acceptance. I published the video before dinner was over.
Now my brown-haired beauty is pleading with me with her eyes. “I don’t want to leave.”
I take her hands. “Honey bunny, in twelve hours, a meteor three hundred miles long is crashing into the sea. It will turn our ocean into steam and Mars’ atmosphere will bleed into space.”
Moorea sobs into my shoulder. “Mars is our mother. We can’t leave her.”
“I promise, mother of my children, that we’ll come back. If not us, then our ancestors.”
CHAPTER 2
Someone opens my eyelid and shines a light in my eye. I try to reach up, but my arms are strapped to the bed.
“Eh.”
“Don’t try to talk,” the light in my eye says. “I just removed your breathing tube. But you still have a feeding tube down your nose.”
“Eh.”
“Yeah, I know,” the light says and switches eyes. “Your throat is sore. But I can’t give you water. Your new jaw is getting installed.”
“Eh?” I ask.
“You took a real beating; those guys were pros,” the man says as he puts away his flashlight.
I take a de
ep breath and cough.
“Normally we would have wired your jaw shut and sent you on your way. But this was the third broken jaw.”
I wiggle my hand and show him four fingers.
He sits on a stool and rolls up to me. “Do you think that people might object to the things you say?” he asks in that fatherly tone I hate.
I give him the finger.
He smiles and stands up. “Pride is going to get you killed.”
“E ga ne a nu aw,” I say in defiance.
The man in the white coat laughs. “That’s good. ‘It got me a new jaw.’” He picks up his tablet computer and starts typing. “Tomorrow your teeth come in. Then we take out the feeding tube.”
“I’n hine.”
“No, you’re not fine. In fact, you’re not supposed to be awake. It’s that damn liver of yours.”
* * *
I wake up and don’t have any tubes sticking in me. I get out of the hospitable bed and peek through the curtain. I’m in a ward with three people on one side and two on the other.
A robot with four wheels, two arms and a screen for a face comes up to me. “Do you want to go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah,” I say in a hoarse voice.
“Follow me.” We head out the ward and into the hallway. A few feet away is a bathroom. “Will you need any assistance? I can call for a nurse?”
“I got it,” I say and shut the door. My legs are sore like someone’s been kicking them, so I sit on the toilet and piss. Yeah, my ass is sore.
I run my tongue over my new bottom teeth. It feels funny to have teeth again. After I finish a long piss, I get up and look in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
I’m naked except for a hospital gown that’s only tied around my neck. I’m covered in tattoos, except the hands, head, and neck.
I didn’t want tats to be a reason why I didn’t get a job. I figured I’d wear a long sleeve shirt to job interviews. I keep my hair long enough to cover the scars on my scalp. I’m twenty-three fucking years old, and I’ve never had a job – or an interview for a job.
I force a smile and look at myself. With my two front teeth missing, I look like a hockey player.