Mars: A Pioneer’s log

After surviving on Mars for five years, we were unrecognisable to the Agency’s search and rescue mission. It’s obvious from reading my diary, we were too busy to notice the incremental changes as they occurred. We’d cultivated the land, adapted to the harsh environment, but then to our cost discovered, ‘You are what you eat’.

* * *

   The day we arrived on Mars, the Space Agency’s cumbersome vessel landed with remarkable precision, despite the fierce wind that greeted us. We herded our livestock and stowed our possessions on the mighty land-cruiser’s lower deck, and trundled across the rocky terrain towards our new home. 

The gated township shimmering in the near distance was surrounded by razor wire and looked like a scrap yard full of metal pyramids, bound by tangled aluminium tubing. It wasn’t what I’d expected and difficult to imagine the confines of this community being the extent of our new kingdom. Given the red planet’s vast, unexplored regions, it was like moving into an enormous mansion and inhabiting a tiny broom cupboard somewhere in the lower basement. 

* * *

   My diary’s first page contained observations about the staggering differences and obvious similarities, and a record of our impressions and reactions. 

   My wife said she felt like the life was being sucked out of her very bones. I recall seeing her anxious face and asking, What’s wrong, Stella? 

   She just frowned and said, Let’s go home, Harlan. 

   Back to Earth? 

   She nodded and said, can you hear that wind?

   Yes, but give it a chance—- 

   It sounds like it’s alive…

   The Martian wind howled, low and wild, especially when the temperature dropped after sunset. That first night, Stella clutched my wrist and shivered whenever the window frames rattled. She said the wind sounded like a gasping, nocturnal predator coming to drink our blood and drain our souls. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, and smiling, kissed her cheek.

* * *

   The subject of going home never went away. Stella’s anxiety remained like an unwelcome guest. I was determined to give it my best shot, but the longer we stayed, the more I wondered about the initial wave of settlers. What happened to those determined souls who'd worked the land and constructed the first houses? Who built our new home and where did they go? We’d been told so little when we bought our tickets to come here.

   One day, Stella said, I feel like a tree struggling in a storm. 

   In what respect? 

   It’s as if that wretched wind is stripping away my leaves, gnawing at my bark and deforming my branches. This planet is for Martians. We’re not wanted here. It’s not for our kind. Let’s go back.

   This is the safest place to be, love.

   Don’t start all that doomsaying, Harlan.

   Mark my words, I said. When those crazy politicians unleash their nuclear arsenals, Mars will be safer than anywhere.

   Safe and insane, probably.

   You’re so cynical, I said. We’ll adjust to the changes. It’ll take a little time. Then we’ll be laughing.

* * *

   It was during the nights when Stella worried the most. The unfamiliar noises unsettled her, and she’d shudder whenever the sand rasped on the windows and the thin outer walls clicked and groaned, contracting in the bitter cold. Stella was convinced the original inhabitants were watching us. Every morning when we ventured out and searched the distant escarpment for movement, she swore there were creatures out there, hiding in the forbidden zone hills. 

   They’re watching us, she’d say. Spying on us.

   There’s nothing out there, sweetheart.

   Believe me, we’re not alone. 

* * *

   My next diary entry was a week later. The news broadcast said London had been destroyed. Europe’s major cities vanished soon afterwards. Then we lost all radio communication with Earth. We were here until our world recovered, maybe longer.

   This is a nightmare, Stella said, burying her head in hands.

   At least we’re alive and together.

   Not even radio contact. She said, sniffing as tears reddened her eyes and stained her face. We’ll never know for sure what—-

   At least we’re spared the horrors, thank God.

   She looked at me as if I were mad. How can you say that?

   We need to keep going, I said, changing the subject. They’ll recover soon enough and send more rockets here. We need to be ready for their arrival.

   That could be years away.

   Five years, perhaps.

   Decades more like.

* * *

   There was nothing for it. We’d have to knuckle down and work the land. We were on the frontier with no way home and no home to return to. They’d warned us about the extreme weather here and recommended a strict regime. We had to plant, nurture and harvest enough crops to sustain us through the first harsh winter. They also advised repairing and maintaining our properties before the ice storms arrived. 

Our safety net had disappeared. 

We no longer had any choice. 

This was our new life.

   I dropped to my knees in the Martian dirt and dug my fingers into the gritty surface. This was all we had to work with. Work the dirt until it gave us life and forget. Forget about Earth for now. Cultivate Mars and forget about the friends and family on Earth. They all had a choice. 

We’d made ours.

* * *

   We’d inherited an irrigation system from the first wave of settlers who’d ventured here. They’d melted the ice caps with thermonuclear devices and channelled the rushing flood waters along parched riverbeds and into gigantic subterranean reservoirs. 

   It was early summer when I noticed our first crops started emerging. They were robust and wholesome, but not what we’d expected. The vegetables were larger than normal, misshaped and the colours distorted. The carrots weren’t orange, more scarlet, like bell peppers. Our potatoes were pinkish, and the cabbages had a vermillion tinge. They tasted similar but different somehow. Not the same. Our livestock didn’t question the lush fuchsia-coloured meadows, however, I noticed they’d developed growths on their heads. Lumps that were firm and gnarled. Our two pigs were growing tusks and horns, and the goat was developing a hump like a camel.

   We can’t eat this food, said Stella, eyes wide and covering her mouth. It’s poisoned!

   No, it’s not. I said, rolling my eyes. You’re imagining it.

   Look! she said. Even our house has changed. 

   Now that is crazy.

   But she wasn’t wrong. The persistent wind had warped the building’s structure, and skewed it to one side like an ancient tree on open moorland, inclined and contorted after constant exposure to the prevailing elements.

* * *

   It was at the end of summer when Stella approached me with a hand mirror. I was tending to our crops when she got my attention, brandishing it in my face. 

   Didn’t your eyes used to be dark blue, Harlan?

   Why? I asked, noticing her trembling hand. 

   She handed me the vanity mirror and I gasped. Sure enough. She was right. My irises were light grey with silver flecks. 

   That’s a trick of the light, I said, frowning at my reflection.

   Damn you! she said, snatching back the mirror. I’m eating nothing else from here.

   But we’ve no choice.

   We’ve frozen supplies, dried produce and emergency rations.

   We need those in case of an—-

   This is an emergency.

   It’s fine, trust me.

* * *

   Lying in bed at the start of our first long winter together, it occurred to me we should hibernate. I heard my wife’s gentle breathing and watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, marvelling at her smooth complexion, flawless and gleaming in the starlight. Her skin had a silver sheen and reflected the specular light from heavenly constellations, twinkling through our quadruple-glazed skylight. 

   The next morning, I noticed my face in the bathroom mirror. My features had taken on a youthful appearance; no more bags under my eyes and sagging jowls. Stella’s given up looking at herself since her hair started falling out. Mine disappeared a fortnight ago and I don’t miss it. It saves time, not having to shave every day. 

* * *

   My diary entries became quite sporadic during the depths of winter. They no longer appeared daily and my comments all but halted. We retired to our cosy nest and dozed our way through that icy cold period, clinging onto each other for warmth under our arctic quilt. The shocking change in temperature had affected our metabolisms and closed down our body functions to a bare minimum. Our heartbeats slowed to a trickle of gentle thuds, like cold-blooded reptiles.

   When the daylight returned and days grew longer, we stumbled back onto our feet and noticed other obvious changes. Our limbs had lengthened, and we’d both lost weight. My wife was lean, like a gymnast, and I’d shed over fifty pounds. 

* * *

   I struggled to remember how Stella appeared before our deep slumbers. I know she’d looked concerned; beady eyed and tight-lipped. Now her deep worry lines had vanished, too. My wife looked ethereal, even angelic. 

   We knew the scorching summer would wear us down again, and we packed a few belongings in readiness for our summer retreat to the hills of the forbidden zone and its lofty, cool breezes.

* * *

   It was instinctive and obvious to migrate up the distant hill range and remain there for the summer. There were buildings we’d discovered on discarded maps in contradiction to what we’d been told. The authorities had insisted we remain in situ until the third wave of settlers arrived so that we could greet them. However, we’d discovered beautiful adobe dwellings that needed redecorating and renovation work.    

   Life here had taken on a slower pace. There was no hurry and no one to hurry us. Every moment hung in the air like a fragrance that was both pleasing and beguiling. There was a harmonious balance to our existence that we never thought possible. Holding hands, we walked together along the elevated rocky trails, enjoyed refreshing gusts of mountain air, and marvelled at our slender silver bodies reflecting the shimmering sunlight.

   It was surprising how little we carried to our new location, compared to the vast collection we brought with us from Earth. We no longer required many personal possessions because we had each other. We’d found our flow, and that was sufficient for a peaceful existence.

* * *

   Five years have passed since we first arrived on Mars. My regular diary entries petered out a year ago, except for occasional remarks. I’d noted an unusual meteor shower, described last spring’s endless sand storm, and wondered whether Earth had survived its nuclear winter. We’d lost contact with Mission Control after hearing the awful news that first summer, and feared our compatriots wouldn’t contact us ever again. So, it was a complete surprise to witness a fleet of interplanetary transporters swoop through the thin atmosphere, bearing Space Agency logos.

   We watched them touch down near our former township, disembark and search all the deserted buildings. They broadened their search into the hills of the forbidden zone, sending out reconnaissance parties to determine our whereabouts and locate any survivors from that second mission.

* * * 

   We made our presence known, and they treated us like strangers, assuming we couldn’t understand their language. I admit, our speech had atrophied into guttural hisses and vocal clicks, and we communicated through their interpreters. However, it was peculiar to overhear them discussing us, as if we weren’t human. 

   “We’ve encountered native life in the hills, Captain. They’re cooperative and understand English if we speak slowly.”

   “Did they say what happened to the second wave of settlers, Sergeant?”

   “They don’t have a clue or won’t admit to knowing, sir.”

   “Do you suspect foul play or a contagion?”

   “We should consider a policy of isolation, sir.”

   “Agreed, Sergeant. However, we’ve our orders too.”

   “Of course, sir. We’ll head back down to base immediately.”

   “First things first, Sergeant. Make sure your men get a square meal.”

   “We discovered some funny-looking pork steaks which we---”

   “Needs must, Sergeant. We can’t tame the planet on fresh air alone.”

   “Consider it done, sir.”   

   “Oh, and, Sergeant.”

   “Sir?”

   “Dispose of the natives as required.”

   “Very good, sir.”

The End