Airlock

I snap the faceplate back on the dead airlock control panel standing in knee-deep red dust. The panel is still dark, so I can’t activate the dust blaster or the airlock door. I radioed to see if someone inside could activate the switch manually. No luck, the dust was too deep and the dust sensors were overriding their efforts. Dust storms make everything harder.

I was chosen for Wave One, despite my advanced age of 41, not because of my tech skills as you might guess, but because of my extensive experience with eco-sustainability. I was crazy enough to live alone for 2 years in a sealed terrarium I built myself in the Canadian Arctic. It was my doctoral thesis project, complete with aquaponics to feed me and provide oxygen; cells to store any excess energy produced or collected; and a climate warm enough to live without shelter despite the harsh outdoor conditions. It made me the perfect candidate to be the old guy who knows about obscure microclimate survival. 

I had never planned on having a family or going to space for that matter. Yet, here I am, the oldest person on the planet and about to become the first grandfather in history to a second-generation Martian human — and hopefully be there for the birth, if I can actually get back inside in time.

I wade through the dust making my way to the edge of the porch. It has doors on all three sides. Usually, the prevailing winds allow one of the sides to be relatively free of accumulated dust. 

It’s a miracle some of these antique technologies work at all. The hatch controls and the atmospheric pressure release valve that I came outside to unblock are original, installed in ‘35 by the first crew. 

They weren’t human. 

We arrived five years later. We were the pioneers. There were sixty of us. Everyone but me was in their late twenties or early thirties, 50 women and 10 men. 22 years later we are now 253 people, ranging in age from five to 63. Planetary population is approaching a thousand.

I’ve been making history ever since I left Earth. I was among the first humans to live permanently off-Earth, the oldest man on Mars, the first father to a Martian human — only by 2 days, but who’s counting — and now about to be the first grandfather to a second-generation Martian. 

Now that I’ve rounded the corner, I see that the second control panel is lit. It’s got juice. But, the drift on this side is shoulder-deep and flows around the corner, filling in the nook between the porch and the dome.

Shit. I could shovel, but it wouldn’t be worth it, the wind would pile the dust back as fast as I could throw it. 

The first door is the best choice. I trudge back. I never really liked shoveling. When I was a kid we had a snowblower to do the hard work. That would never work here. When dust storms hit, the bots have to be docked so they don’t turn into ferromagnetic dust balls. That leaves us, humans, to do their work however inefficiently.

I was twenty years old when the pandemics began. We thought we had it hard: online school, social distancing, curfews, masks, lockdowns. We entertained ourselves at home playing a lot of video games and watching Netflix and YouTube.

Ha, what a joke! The oldest true Martians are now about the same age as I was back then. Our life now is a combination of homesteading and Astro engineering. Everyone contributes, even the five-year-olds. 

Ah, the ‘20s. We were so naive. Private industry had begun boldly taking over the world. Governments proved that they had no power over Big Money. By 2028, when they got serious about trying to tax the rich, it was too late. The wealth gap had widened exponentially beyond repair.

The 30’s, they were good. Everything seemed to be headed in a better direction: lots of tech advances; progressive climate cleaning; geoengineering was finally getting somewhere; MoonBaseOne was established. 

Things got interesting when Elon bought Boston Dynamics for his 12-year-old son, X Æ A-Xii aka Ash, as a birthday gift — the company, not just a bot.

Three years later SpaceX had sent 2500 shipments to Mars with robots, 3D printers — even ones that print Marscrete for building structures — and everything else needed to convert the natural resources on Mars into Arya, the first crater-dome city — established in 2040; and then Bran, 2044; and then Daenerys, 2047. Should the sons of trillionaires really get to name things?

Back at the first airlock, there’s one more thing I can try. Odds are not in my favor, but it might work. Eve’s water broke before I left and I just want to get back inside. 

I peel back the velcro compartment on the sleeve of my suit and pull the wires free, disabling my comms in the process. I am going to try to juice up the control panel with the cell in my suit. It’s a risk, but I’m willing to go for it. Story of my life, I guess.

Back in the ‘40s, we were the rebels. The risk-takers. The revolutionaries. The dreamers. Everyone on earth cheered us on. We were in the news more than Donald Trump was during his presidencies up until his assassination. We were the future of humanity. We were setting the stage for good things to come. We started the movement that was going to bring humans to the far reaches of space. We proved anything can be done if you put your mind to it. For a decade, people idolized us. We were heroes.

That was before we lost contact with Earth in 2051 — ten years ago. Ten years since we’ve had contact. Ten years since our last electronics supply shipment.

We’re not sure what happened. The asteroid didn’t look like it was an earth-killer. There is speculation, based on the size of the mushroom cloud that it struck a large nuclear storage facility.

At any rate, no one is talking about us back on earth. We are humanity. It’s up to us to figure out what comes next. But right now, I need to get inside to the baby that is about to be born. 

It’s not pretty, but despite my limited dexterity, I hardwire myself to the control panel. The display flickers to life. I tap the screen and a blast of air from the lower vents blows the mars dust up and away from me. 

The airlock opens. 

I rip the wires free and enter before the doors close automatically behind me. 

Victory! Papa’s coming!