George Martin - Old Mars

She walked through the large living room, bootheels clicking on the stone floor. The McKenzie house had been hewn out of the redrock cliffs that lined three sides of the ancient lake bed. It stood three stories tall, and two generations back it had held a boisterous clan, but now there were just the four of them, Grandpa Stephen, his son, Kane, Kane’s husband, Noel, and their only child—Tilda.

Tilda checked her ScoopRing. There was a message from Ali Al-Jahani, one of the few people in the area close to her age. His family owned the farm to the west, and they had given him permission to play hooky from chores and say farewell to Mars before he headed off to Paris in a few weeks to begin his medical studies. Ali suggested a flight out toward Mons Olympus. She messaged back that she would join him.

Tilda had leisure time too, because while Noel-Pa had agreed to her learning to fly the long-winged ultralights that were the most common mode of fast transport on Mars, he’d resisted other Martian activities. Like Stephen’s trying to put her to work in the sorting and packing sheds. Just like Ali, she was leaving for college soon. She didn’t need to learn how to be a farmhand.

The yeasty scent of baking cinnamon rolls, cooking bacon, and the dark, sensual smell of coffee escorted her into the kitchen. Noel-Pa circled the big stone table, setting out plates and silverware.

On Earth, Daddy-Kane had kept “the home fires burning,” as Noel-Pa had put it, but here at the McKenzie farm, Kane had skills that Noel lacked—how to run the big tractors, harvesters, threshers. Noel-Pa could have learned, but Daddy-Kane already had the knowledge, so they had switched roles. Tilda wasn’t surprised that the former military officer proved to be as adept in the kitchen as he had been in combat.

He turned at her footsteps and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. She hugged him tight. “So, what can I do?”

“Beat the eggs for the frittata.”

She beat three dozen eggs and helped Noel-Pa season them and pour the mix into an enormous iron skillet. The eggs joined the bacon in the oven.

“I dreamed about Miyako last night. I think I was Miyako. She was greeting the Martians and they were making her welcome, giving her food, and there was a temple,” Tilda said softly to her father. He glanced at her, his expression tight and tense. “I’m not crazy!”

“I know.”

“So, you’ve dreamed about her too?” Tilda asked.

Noel-Pa checked the watch set in the sleeve of his suit. Shook his head. “Not now. Not here,” he said. Then he counted down. “And three … two … one.”

There was the babble of voices and the rasp of boot soles being cleaned on the scraper just outside the back door. The unmarried field hands who lived in the dorm just down the road, Daddy-Kane, and Grandpa Stephen flowed into the kitchen.

Noel’s thoughts were in complete turmoil as he pulled the frittata out of the oven. How could his father-in-law’s dead spouse be invading both his and his child’s dreams? His dreams had not been so pleasant. He had experienced all of Miyako’s loneliness, sadness, and hatred. Resentment of her family for essentially selling her to Stephen. Hatred for her elderly husband. Or was he simply putting his own dislike of his father-in-law onto this phantom?

Noel sprinkled fresh parsley across the puffed-egg dish, and sliced it into individual servings. Tilda removed the bacon and the rolls, and everything was set on a long counter. Noel stepped back as the hungry workers lined up.

Stephen sat at the head of the table with Kane at the foot. No one left a seat open next to Kane, and Kane didn’t object. Feeling absurdly hurt, Noel found room on a bench and sat down.

“What is this thing?” Stephen demanded.

“Frittata … sort of an Italian omelet,” Noel replied.

“Well, why not just make a damn omelet?” the old man asked.

“A little hard to flip three dozen eggs, and this way I could time it for when you all came in,” Noel said placidly. Peace at any price , he reminded himself.

The response from Stephen was a harrumph . Noel saw Tilda glance at Kane, but Kane kept his focus on his plate. In the first month after their arrival, Kane had constantly leaped in to shield Noel from his father’s verbal attacks, but that had stopped. Initially, Noel had asked Kane to back off, thinking that Stephen would eventually come to accept him. But his charm offensive had failed, and lately, it felt like Kane was starting to agree with his irascible father’s constant criticisms of Noel.

They had always had a vigorous and active sex life, but even that time of closeness was becoming less frequent due to plain physical exhaustion on Kane’s part. At least that’s what Noel told himself as he lay awake listening to Kane’s snores and longing for his touch. Noel felt lonely and isolated.

As lonely and isolated as Miyako .

Noel studied his husband’s familiar and beloved profile and wondered when it had become attached to a stranger. He tried to catch Kane’s eye, and briefly succeeded before the younger man looked away. Noel knew that behavior. Knew what it meant. It meant something was up, something Kane didn’t want to tell him. His appetite fled, and the food smelled almost nauseating. Noel pushed away his plate.

Stephen gave a loud snort. “Even you don’t like this damn thing,” he said.

Noel kept his expression pleasant but pulled his hands into his lap so that no one would see when they balled into fists. Once again the litany was running through his head —have a stroke, have a stroke, have a stroke!

He’d had very little interaction with his father-in-law prior to the move. Stephen and Catherine, Kane’s mother, had attended the wedding on Earth. Catherine had been pleasant in a bluff, hearty kind of way. Stephen less so. It was clear that he hadn’t wanted his son to marry a “mud crawler,” even though Noel had had plenty of postings off-world in his career with SpaceCom. For Stephen, that didn’t matter; you were either a Martian or you weren’t, and Noel wasn’t.

Stephen had been alone when he came for Matilda’s christening, Catherine having died two years before from an aggressive cancer. At that time, the old man had tried to convince them to move back to Mars so that Tilda would be a true McKenzie . Kane had stayed firm and refused. Noel had just made commander, and admiral didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility, and Noel knew that Kane liked the soft winds and warm sun of Earth. Liked walking at twilight hand in hand without the separation of an envirosuit. And that he never wanted to dig potatoes or thresh wheat again.

Noel knew that it had hurt Kane when Stephen had announced that he’d remarried, and the old bastard didn’t mince words when he told his son why. Miyako was just a walking womb as far as the old man was concerned. A chance to start a new family, a farming family, a Martian family. A family that would understand history and continuity and never leave. Then came the tragedy of Miyako’s death, and Kane had felt it was his duty to return—and if there was one thing Noel understood, it was duty.

Breakfast ended with Stephen and the hands trooping out to work. Noel was surprised when Kane stayed behind and helped him and Tilda clear the table and load the dishes into the big industrial-sized washer.

“What are you up to today?” Kane asked their daughter.

“Ali and I are taking our lights out toward Mons Olympus.”

“Good. You have fun,” Kane said, dropping a kiss onto her cheek.

“You checked the weather?” Noel asked, trying to keep his tone casual and not sound like an overly anxious parent.

“No dust storms predicted for the next two days,” she answered brightly. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry.” Her blue eyes danced with mischief.