Unknown Pleasures

I do not know why I’ve ended up in this café. Portobello’s isn’t the smartest or trendiest place to eat on Mars. Maybe it’s because the chef only uses natural ingredients and eschews the synthetic dietary substitutes we eat every day.

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The Solar-Mining Corporation manufactures most of its employees’ food here on Mars. This was a novelty three years ago, but now their limited cuisine tastes all the same. The heightened chemical flavours have a sour after-taste that catches on the back of my throat. It reminds me of that popular mousse they used to sell on Earth back in the 1990s. Do you remember it? It came in three colours: orange, strawberry and blackcurrant. Distinct flavours, that’s true and certainly based on recognisable fruits and berries. Yet, I recall the three varieties had a similar gritty texture and artificial essence. They each left the inside of my mouth feeling dry, as if I’d eaten too much peanut butter. 

To be fair, Solar-MC’s food manufacturers have changed their output in response to criticism. They’ve mimicked a few of Earth’s popular foods and their products look similar to our old favourites. With a little care and attention, the minced porcini burger-mix can look like a regular ground beef patty. Solar-MC also offers desiccated sliced onions, which help matters, and their own-brand ketchup can disguise anything when it’s available. 

I’ve noticed the demand for Earth’s natural produce has increased over the three years we’ve been here. At first, the old-world imports arrived every month, however our mining community has trebled in size and currently we’re experiencing problems sourcing staple items from back home. The Solar-Mining Corporation built its wealth and international reputation on rapid deliveries and limitless retail opportunities. Now it’s better known for countless excuses and allowing Earth’s household essentials to remain in short supply. Meanwhile, they fully stock their retail outlets with own-brand products and assume we’ll settle for what they offer.

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Hey, but that’s better than the horrific life we escaped from back at home. Even with your improvements in efficiency, you still have to ration your energy and now you have population control. That, to me, doesn’t sound like a very exciting civilization for your grandchildren’s grandchildren to live in. On Mars, we don’t have to endure those issues. They tell us we can support many millions of humans here and the solar system beyond has the resources for trillions more. Solar-MC’s press release said it was very doable, but we had to get started. It told us, “Earth doesn’t have forever.” So we embraced the pioneering spirit and left our suffocating blue planet to make a new dream home on this big red rock. 

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At least we have clean air to breathe here and no pollution inside our enormous glass bubble. The Solar-Mining Corporation generated the atmosphere here by nuking the permafrost below the North Pole and releasing all the trapped oxygen. That’s not cheap, of course, and we’ll pay the charges for decades to come. We have utility meters in our homes for electricity, water and air. They account for each watt we use, and every drop we drink and particle we breathe.

There are benefits to living in a giant, air-conditioned snow dome. We enjoy endless days of pleasant summer weather throughout the year. Solar-MC controls the internal climatic conditions to promote our health and well-being. They require us to function well in order to maximise productivity; we have tons of minerals to extract and regular mining quotas to meet. 

Seasonal illnesses are things of the distant past. We’ve no winter sniffles or runny noses because we’re bug-free. Viral life forms don’t exist and they’ve removed the burden of annoying insects, bugs, or vermin. Solar-MC allows healthy gut bacteria, of course, and they harvest their fields of fungi perpetually. 

It seems we’re protected from mother nature’s ills and cocooned in an idyllic world. There’s nothing to cause us any anxiety; it doesn’t even rain, although we’re allowed six hours of snow on Christmas day. We joke they give our mighty dome a gentle shake and release the powdery white flakes manufactured especially for the occasion. 

To be strict, the annual Christmas holiday should occur every two years, because our orbital period is 686 days. No one’s told Solar-MC’s executives about this, so Mum’s the word. Don’t repeat that, right? 

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When we arrived on Mars, our family units gathered in circular formations around central utility hubs. I recognised this pattern of behaviour after reading about the nineteenth-century gold prospectors. In those days, they parked their covered wagons in defensive circles surrounding communal fire-pits. It’s not like the Wild West on Mars, but the there are similarities. As someone once said, ‘there’s money to be made in them thar hills.’ 

We’re all intrepid souls here but, unlike previous stampedes to find precious minerals, the opportunity for entrepreneurial business activity is limited. We get a regular wage at least, but not much more. The Corporation’s executives control every aspect of our lives. They are godlike on their private planet and world building for real. We are their playthings and they are our omnipotent puppeteers. We’ve no legal recourse here because we’re beyond Earth’s jurisdiction. All they need to do is flick a switch and they could end our lives with impunity. However, they need us to survive because we are their captive workforce. 

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Outside our bubble, the air atmospheric pressure is so low that water can’t exist as a liquid and evaporates into a gas within seconds. Inside the dome, we’ve each got our strip of land and we’re encouraged to grow crops to supplement our income. The red soil is rich in magnesium, sodium and potassium that are necessary for plant growth, but there are concentrations of toxic perchlorate salts that are poisonous to humans. We endeavour to work the land, but it’s laborious and deadly if we get it wrong. The cost of living here has increased and eating out has become an indulgence. If we find a reasonably priced venue, we keep quiet about it, lest the place becomes inundated and their food supplies run dry.

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I discovered Portobello’s Café on Mile End Road in the only commercial district within the colony where they tolerate independent traders. Portobello’s Café is amongst a cluster of shops that specialise in “natural” produce. They advertise a wholesome menu that is free of additives and untainted by enhanced flavours. Most of Mars’ residents are less adventurous and frequent the Corporation’s central shopping mall to buy their approved products.

Mile End Road looks like a one-horse town with makeshift painted hoardings attached to ramshackle warehouse structures. It’s rough but bona fide and reminds me of the trading emporiums in the cowboy movies from my childhood. 

Portobello’s Café is idiosyncratic and cluttered inside; it’s adorned with treasured tat and has a welcoming easy-going vibe. They’ve decorated its walls with paintings of Earth’s raw beauty; high waterfalls, Sequoia forests, glacial valleys, and lofty granite peaks. Gerry, the owner, greets me and offers a laminated menu. I crave homely comforts and respite from chemical preservatives.

A pot of tea and cake for me, I say.

The café boasts an abundance of home-grown produce that’s both “fresh and nutritious.” Gerry explains how they’ve had tremendous success growing everything in a fungal-based compost. The growth of his field mushrooms is so prolific that he has a sideline in high-quality vegan leather goods, including rugged belts, fine crafted wallets, and hand stitched shoes.

Portobello’s owner has aspirations to expand his domain and describes his vision of an alternative future for the colony. However, he lives in a twilight world that’s counter to the norm on Mars and his controversial ideas border on insurrection. I can’t imagine the Corporation tolerating a competing culture unless it’s to their advantage. Maybe our illusion of choice is enough to assuage increasing public unrest?

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A doe-eyed waitress approaches with my leaf tea infusion and a Victoria sponge cake. It’s a wonderful-looking creation that’s risen to the occasion and appears both light and airy. I watch as its open texture succumbs to her gentle pressure, and the serrated blade slices through the cake to reveal its golden interior. She places an ample wedge of the luxurious confectionary before me. 

I marvel at its perfection. 

Will that be all, sir? She asks.

It’s too much for me. 

I turn my head as an unshed tear stings my eye. For a moment I’m back on Earth enjoying a semblance of normality. The simple pleasures are what we remember long after we’ve left home. Maybe the new frontier in space isn’t important after all, and the race into the unknown is a false promise? 

I reach forward and my fingers hover above the cake fork’s ceramic handle. Its sharp, bevelled edge challenges me to cut into the sponge. I resist the temptation and withdraw my hand.

Would you care for a box, sir?

Yes, I say, I’ll take it home. 

It’s selfish to eat it all by myself.

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Rosanne greets me as I remove my new footwear.

She notices the hefty price tag and sets her jaw. 

Don’t say you’ve spent all our hard earned money? 

I explain about the café and the vegan shoe factory. 

Is that right? She shakes her head and sighs.

I ask her to sit down and bear with me. 

She frowns, but humours my request.

Close your eyes. I say.

I fetch a plate and place the cake in front of her.

Surprise!

Rosanne gasps. 

It looks too good to eat.

She breaks off a piece of the sponge with her fork. 

With gentle prods, she examines the fluffy texture. 

Try some. I say. It’s a hundred per cent natural.

Rosanne grins and raises a forkful of cake. 

I smile as she closes her eyelids and works her jaws. 

I lift a piece to my mouth as she swallows.

The sponge melts in my mouth and releases its flavours. 

Rosanne’s eyes pop open and her nostrils flare. 

I detect sweet vanilla and buttery notes. 

Her face tightens like a clenched fist. 

Rosanne?

Coughing and spluttering, she dashes to the sink. 

Rosanne!

Ugh! It’s bitter like… mushrooms. 

Rosanne?

This is my worst nightmare.

The End