NOVEL NEXT Chapter 71: Chubby Fingers
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Marie: We'd go insane without periodic time spent with green things. I feel bad for city people.
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Sol 496 FY 26, 11:00 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 9.32.002.B
They called it the farm, but it was really a garden, a commons, a shrine—though of course it was also, and primarily, a farm.
Clover carpeted the ground in soft, lush mats—deeper green than it had any right to be, under lights and meters of stone. It wasn't grass. Grass took more than it gave. Clover fixed nitrogen, stayed soft underfoot, and held just enough texture to let children run barefoot without slipping.
Raised beds full of crops striped the grounds, but the clover walkways lead everywhere. Perfect for children playing tag or hide and seek.
The chickens came here, sometimes. Not for food—they were well-fed elsewhere—but to hunt crickets, peck at soft soil, scratch at the world. The children followed them. Everyone did, eventually.
The bees were here too. Their hives were tucked into the far wall, built into a recess behind a screen that showed the edges of an orchard that didn't exist. They didn't sting much. Too calm, too lazy in the thin Martian air. Or maybe just too full of rosemary and mint to care.
They loved the herbs. They dove into thyme flowers, vanished inside basil blooms, and swarmed the clover like it was their birthright. A dozen scents hung in the air—bright, green, earthy. Not artificial, not scrubbed. Real.
And overhead, the ceiling played a slow, endless sky. Grasslands. Mountains. Forests. No stars. Just the memory of air and light and color, on a planet that had none of those things naturally.
This was where you went to relax after work.
Except, today, the sprinklers weren't working, so Marie was here to work.
First, the retracting access pumps that extended down three meters to the reservoir. She twisted the anchoring handle. Nothing.
The handle was buried in dirt.
Not regolith—farm dirt. Real, loamy, compost-rich muck with fibers and grit that clung to everything and made gloves useless.
It had packed itself into the tiny keyhole like it had grown there. Which thing was also locked, of course.
Marie crouched, tugging a slim tool from her pocket—her hairclip, titanium, etched with the fading lines of a chemical lattice she'd once found beautiful.
She dug out the dirt. Gently. She was not going to pick this lock unless she had to.
An engineer would use the key. Picking could misalign the pins. Damage the mechanism. Break the damn thing.
She tried the tubular key first.
It slid in, but wouldn't turn.
Of course not.
With a sigh, she flipped the clip around and inserted it again, this time deeper, angling it to feel for the pins.
Four tumblers. Not bad. She'd been worried it was six.
She used her pinky to tension the core—something not everyone could do. The cylinder was tight, but her hands were small and her hands were strong.
"This would've been solved," she muttered, "with a faceplate. Even a soft one. Even printed."
Click.
The handle turned.
Click.
The cylinder rose—a clear plastic sheath, fogged slightly at the edges from pressure differentials and age. It was six feet tall, pneumatically sealed, and contained the tether housing for the water pump, accessible only through a triple-latch system that had been designed by someone who had clearly never worked on a farm or dealt with Martian children.
Marie unrolled the disposable tent from her pack—thin, clear, sealed at the bottom with re-stick gel strips. She wrapped it around the cylinder, climbed in, and sprayed disinfectant into the air like she was about to host a surgical operation inside a balloon.
That was the plan.
The children had other ideas.
"What are you doing?"
"Can I help?"
Little hands poked at the plastic.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
She sighed. As much as it complicated things—she welcomed the distraction, too. She'd re-sterilize.
"ALRIGHT you little rapscallions!" she shrieked, gloved fingers curled to claws. She rolled deftly under the skirt of the plastic sterilization tent. "You know better than to touch my things! Beware … the BANSHEE!"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh," went the Banshee. "Aaaaaaaaagh!! Hee hee!" went the children.
And around they went. Little things are important.
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Harry stood in front of the tall bookshelf, cloth in hand, brushing dust from the spines of old paperbacks. Most were sun-faded, their titles barely visible. As he worked, the voice in his ear crackled slightly through his wrist-mounted portable.
"Harry?" Karen's voice came tentatively.
He tapped the screen. "You got me. You're go for Harry. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Sort of." There was a pause. "We don't really talk much, do we?"
He smiled faintly, wiping down a copy of An Oblique Approach. "Nope. Not really."
"But I was wondering…" she hesitated, her voice softer now, "would you give me your perspective on something?"
"It's always nice to be asked," he said, nudging a paperback back into place. "Shoot."
"Okay." Another pause. He could almost see her chewing her lip. "What do guys actually want?"
He stopped dusting and considered. "Well," he said slowly, "I think most guys want to be loved. And to matter to the people they love."
A small silence.
"Low stress is a bonus," he added, flicking a speck of dust from Cold as Ice.
Karen let out a quiet laugh on the other end.
"I mean, yeah, some guys want to be famous, or successful, or whatever. But honestly, I think a lot of girls want those things too. We're all just folks, you know what I mean?"
"I do," she said. There was a warmth in her voice now.
"But," he added, plucking a book halfway off the shelf and reading the back absentmindedly, "I think what you're really asking is—what does Gordon actually want."
Another pause, and then: "Yeah," she said, almost a whisper.
"And I can't answer that," Harry said. "I don't think he spends a lot of time thinking about it."
"You don't think he thinks about what he wants?" she asked.
"I don't think he's honest with himself when he does," Harry replied, setting the book aside.
Karen didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then: "That's kind of sad."
Harry leaned against the shelf. "How long have you known him?"
"A long time. Since I was a kid."
"Sure," he said. "And you've noticed he compartmentalizes things."
"Oh god, yes," she said, the bitterness creeping in. "He's the worst at that."
"There you go," Harry said. "I've talked to him some. But I don't think he acknowledges when what he wants is… not good for him. Like, he can think 'I want to run away from all this responsibility' and also 'I want someone who loves me' as two separate things. But instead, he collapses them. He says, 'I want to run to someone who loves me,' like it's this noble quest. He's put blinders on."
She was quiet, but he could hear her breathing on the line. Thinking.
"That's kind of what I thought," she said finally. "I don't really think he'd like Mars. I think he's just… imagining it as an adventure. Something exciting. But that's not how you make a lifelong commitment. You have to know what you're getting into. You have to be honest with yourself."
Harry smirked slightly, looking at a battered copy of Dune. "I'm getting into it for the rest of my life with Claire—who is definitely not the captain of her ship. And nobody knows what Hiram's gonna do from one minute to the next. It won't be comfortable—but sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants, and we make accommodations for it."
He straightened a stack of books. "I suppose…I don't think it's about knowing what you're getting into. It's about being willing to deal with whatever you're getting into."
She didn't say anything, but he could feel her nod through the line.
"Thank you for talking to me," she said. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."
"Just dusting for Grandfather," Harry replied cheerfully, swiping a cloth over the top shelf. "I've got nothing but time. Stay a moment."
"Okay?" Her voice held a touch of curiosity.
"I wanted to talk to you anyway. About Claire. And you."
"Oh." She sounded suddenly cautious, distant.
"When we get married, we're hoping to get a house. Actually—we are getting a house. It's just a question of whether it's mine, or Grandfather's, or something new altogether." He paused, aligning a few paperbacks. "But I wanted to tell you—we're getting a guest room. And we're keeping it furnished. You'll get a key."
There was a pause. When Karen spoke again, her voice was quieter. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."
"See?" he said. "You did know what to say."
He let the moment settle for a breath, then added, "I wanted you to know. And I kind of wanted to be the one who told you. You're important. To us. Even if your parents are…" He trailed off, then shifted gears. "Even if you need a place that isn't your house. You need to know we know you're important. That you matter."
He heard her swallow on the line. When she spoke, there was a slight quaver. "Thank you."
"No strange men in the house, though," he said, mock stern. "Or women."
"Yes, Dad," she replied instantly.
He grinned. "Doesn't really fit the vibe. How about…I'm working on a new nickname. Think people would ever call me 'H'?"
"No," she said flatly.
He sighed. "Yeah, probably not."
"But I can," she offered. "Thanks, H. For taking my call. And everything else."
Harry smiled to himself in the quiet hush of his grandfather's study. Sunlight slanted across the book spines, catching in the motes of dust still floating in the air.
One more thing right with the world.