140 MILLION MILES AWAY
The Martian sky always shimmered with a red-tinted glow, a stark contrast to the familiar blue of Earth. Roy Inman sat slouched on a worn metal bench beside a vending machine, his suit jacket crumpled on his lap. His slacks were smudged with Martian dust, his white shirt rumpled, and his red tie hung askew, as though it had given up trying to look respectable. With a soft clink, the vending machine dispensed a chilled can of some Martian-brand cola he didn’t recognize. He had spent 20 creds on it. more than he’d have liked, but it was a small indulgence.
A ritual for himself after a job’s done. Like a pat on the back.
He cracked the can open and took a sip, the fizzy liquid biting at his throat. A sigh escaped him as his gaze shifted upward to the Mars Space Elevator, a super structure stretching impossibly high into the red hued heavens. Vehicles rumbled past, their hum blending into the faint murmur of the city beyond. He sat on the edge of Alba City, one of the largest metropolitan hubs on Mars, connected to its neighbors by sprawling highways and maglev trains.
How he had ended up here was a question Roy had stopped asking himself a month ago. Earth had been his home, but now it was a distant memory, a blue dot hanging above him. One moment he was struggling to make ends meet in some forgotten corner of Earth, and the next, he was on Mars, scratching out a living as a freelancer.
It wasn’t glamorous work. His luck had been abysmal from the start when he got here.. In his first week here in Mars, he had stumbled into the orbit of the Callisto Syndicate, an organization that dominated Mars' underworld. After a tense negotiation involving subtle threats and unspoken ultimatums, Roy found himself pressed into their service. His tasks were mundane, usually delivering physical letters — which he found an odd preference in an era dominated by digital communication. But when the Syndicate pays, it paid well, and for someone like Roy, who wasn’t keen on asking too many questions and desperate, it was a straightforward gig.
Roy drained the last of his cola and crushed the can with his hand. He tossed it into a nearby receptacle and watched as the automated system whisked it away. He wasn’t proud of working for the Syndicate, but it was better than the alternative. He was an illegal immigrant on Mars, and likely illegal on Earth too, if anyone cared to check. His skill set was strangely vast, and freelancing gave him the freedom to avoid corporate slavery. Many illegals felt the same way, preferring this precarious existence over the grind of corporate life.
The distant whir of an approaching bus snapped Roy out of his reverie. He flagged it down and climbed aboard, paying the fare with a quick tap of his cred chip. The bus was sparsely populated, and he made his way to the back, settling into a seat with a view of the cityscape. The buildings of Alba rose like jagged teeth against the red sky, their architecture a blend of Earth’s megacities. Like Dubai’s spires had fused with New York’s towering density, creating this unholy combination. The closer they got to the city center, the louder the noise grew, a cacophony of engines, voices, and distant music that sounded like electro mumble crap to him.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
When the bus reached Arima Street, Roy disembarked and plunged into the throng of pedestrians. The crowd flowed around him like water, and he weaved through with practiced ease. After a short walk, he arrived at a nondescript building nestled between a noodle shop and a repair kiosk. He slipped inside, avoiding eye contact with the security bot stationed near the entrance.
The elevator ride to the top floor was uneventful, the soft hum of the machinery the only sound. When the doors opened, he stepped into his modest apartment. It was nothing fancy, but it was his. The bed was tucked into a corner, a small couch sat across from a tiny kitchen, and a narrow doorway led to a compact shower. The walls were bare, save for a few scuffs that gave the place some character.
Roy shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the couch before grabbing the ladder that led to the rooftop. He dragged the plastic chair to the edge and settled into it, a cigarette already in his hand. The flick of a lighter illuminated his face for a moment before the glow of the cigarette took over. He inhaled deeply and exhaled, the smoke curling into the Martian air.
From this vantage point, Alba’s skyline was a jagged silhouette against the red-hued expanse. Neon signs flickered in the distance, advertising everything from augmented reality experiences to the latest in artificial companions. The noise of the city below was a dull roar, distant enough to feel like background music. Above him, faint but unmistakable, was Earth — a blue dot suspended in the vastness of space.
Roy found it strange how little he thought of his old life. The transition from Earth to Mars had been abrupt, but he had adapted quickly, carried along by circumstances beyond his control. The Syndicate had given him a purpose, though one rooted in necessity rather than ambition. Delivering letters and doing odd gigs for criminals wasn’t exactly a dream job, but it kept him fed and sheltered in this terraformed planet.
As the hours passed, Roy let his thoughts drift. He wondered about the lives of the people in Alba, the ones who lived in the glittering towers and the ones who scraped by in the alleys of Alba City's Labyrinths. Did they ever look up at the same sky and think about Earth? Did they feel as untethered as he did, floating through life without a clear direction?
The cigarette burned down to the filter, and he crushed it against the arm of the chair. He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the Martian breeze wash over him.
For now, this was his reality.
Tomorrow would bring another odd job, another task.
140 million miles away from Earth, this was his life now.