Today would be a big one....
Bruce, the Secretary General of the United Nations of Earth, has spent centuries trying to protect, develop and unite humanity.
When a distinctly non-human arrival seems to offer a way to do this, once and for all, he wi...
Atop the Space Spire again, the Secretary General waited outside the doors of the ship, emblazonedwith the upward pointing arrowhead universally associated with space flightsince time immemorial, against the red disk of Mars, crossed with the X that hadbeen the symbol of Muskotopian companies since its founding, for reasons nowlost in the mists of time.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The Captain smirked at him when the doors slid apart. "Earthling planet-hugger boss back for seconds?" She jibed "we'll make a spaceman of you yet."
"Yes," he said, more thoughtfully than the joke seemed to require, "I think that might well be the case in the end, after all."
"Halfway Station, eh? Don't wanna see the Warrior for yourself?"
"I already saw Mars." He said "ages ago. Halfway Station is for diplomatic meetings - it's the only habitat in the inner solar system under joint Earthling and Martian control."
"Negotiation psychology." She said, "I sucked at that in school. Probably why I'm out here carrying you about rather than sitting in an Olympos Mons penthouse getting high, like the higher ups. That name's not just about hierarchical structures." She flashed him a wink "but then I'd never have the money that's coming from the bidding war."
"How's it going?"
"Bloody. They're gonna rip each other's throats out for that data. Serious merger and acquisition activity all around the equator trying to liquidate enough assets to up their bid."
"Sounds like you'll have to forget the penthouse." He said.
"The Hell I will! Why would I do that?!"
"You might as well just buy the mountain. Imagine the ground rent."
She cackled hideously.
"I like you Earthling. You're almost not feeble. Let me show you to your coma coffin."
A helpful synth superimposed the subtitle 'hibernation pod' at the bottom of his field of vision.
"Sounds delightful." He said, "After you."
The pods lined the walls in the level beneath the passenger saloon, and above the cargo spaces that formed most of the ship. Not many Earthlings fancied the long journey to a cold, boring rock, and very few Martians had the time or money to visit the mother planet. Those with both often became too lazy for interplanetary travel. But trade blossomed to the delight of Earthlings getting foods extinct on Earth resurrected from ancient seed banks sent to Mars during the Heat, and to the profit of Martians, who liked coffee plenty, but liked the mark up on it even more. So, cargo was always bigger than passenger storage.
"My own little graveyard of undead astrofolk." Quipped the Captain.
The brutalism of Martian design did give it a morgue-like cast. Subdued lighting - partly to avoid wasting energy on people who couldn't see it and partly due to the pain of irises contracting for the first time after a crossing. Black, oblong, unadorned cases, clustered around by tubes and cables.
