The Sub Light Anti Gravity drive formed a concave disc that tugged at her. The discomfort began by emitting an electrical buzzing noise that started slow and meandering like a small insect flying in and out of her audible range. The tugging gained a rhythm and a pulse. There was simultaneous pushing and pulling and the very air around her seemed to organize itself in sync with it. The ship’s internal Hulse field generator counteracted the inertia of being pulled through space by the ship’s propulsion. The two systems were synchronized but the infinitesimal gap between the ship’s acceleration and the cabins compensation created the unpleasant tugging sensation. Once they were at 1g acceleration, it became less pronounced but Ratama was already anxious when she boarded.
The atmosphere on Earth and according to the vids, Mars, was tense. And that tension was so tangible that no gravity drive would be able to counteract the heaviness that now permeated the shuttle. “Thank you’s” and “Excuse me’s” were exchanged from between clenched jaws. Grubby faced Terrans roused intermittently from angry naps gurgling something defiant yet barely audible before closing their eyes again. It was the combination of being displaced from homes and being sent by a mode of transportation that instilled fear. A combination that did not make for a pleasant journey. And it was likely to make the destination even less pleasant.
After graduating from the academy, she’d put in for Titan, Luna, and Deep Space Exploration Division. It was a long shot but it was better than going home. Fleet decided to station her in the one place she didn’t want. They dangled DSE in front of her to get her to take Mars. Command’s argument that she was familiar with the territory was sound, if not inconvenient, but after two years she would likely get the assignment she wanted. To her, it was just a tease. She’d go home and get comfortable. Spend a year getting her mother to talk to her or treat her as a person then have to pick up and leave. Forever. She was already dreading the first few conversations. Which Amma was she going to get? Snide? Dismissive? Guilting? It got so she couldn’t tell if it was the persistent tugging of the grav drive or her nerves over returning home.
Watching the space in front of the shuttle begin to displace filled her with a kind of religious terror. Distant stars, their star, lensing in the gravitational distortion created by the gravity drive. The field was otherwise invisible, the only hint of its existence was the stars being tossed about in front of her eyes as if they were luminescent marbles on a tapestry being playfully tugged on at either end. Associating that lensing and the dread with the incessant tugging at her eyes and her cells, only served to reinforce the barely nascent idea that humankind simply was not meant to have that kind of power. The power to bend space and time to their will. The pilot would be sitting in his seat with a cup of coffee brought to him by the yeoman, casually monitoring the grav drives’ status and occasionally making some flight control adjustment. Once she saw a pilot yawn while the convex disc of the gravity field formed.
Did God yawn when he was manipulating spacetime? Not that she was likening the pilot to God. Perhaps in yawning, he was likening himself. Perhaps he was expressing his disdain for the divine, or lamenting its absence. She didn’t like watching them engage the grav drive. She didn’t want it to become so normal that she lost her fear or wonder of it. She didn’t want to become like the yawning pilot turning the unknowable into the mundane.
Once the shuttle was underway she managed to fall asleep but was awakened sometime later by the buzzing of her qcomm. It was disorienting and slightly traumatic since her first thought was a malfunction in the grav drive. Others in the cabin, also Muslim, seemed to be stirring to life from sleeping or reading. The Adhan started to play quietly in her ear. She checked and realized she’d forgotten to calibrate her q-comm to subjective time. On Earth, it was prayer time. According to the nav, prayers wouldn’t be for another 15 minutes aboard the shuttle. Ratama coded her q-comm to the holo in the seat back and called up a real-time projection of the ship’s location in relation to Earth. Deciding for prayer in objective time, she hopped up and made her way to the restrooms to perform wudu, the obligatory pre-prayer cleansing, before a line formed. Despite being afforded the privilege by her new rank, Lieutenant 2nd Class, she declined to sit in the crew section of the ship where there were ikely far fewer Muslims and a bathroom all to herself. The attendant had given her a bit of a side-eye when she refused to sit in the crew section of the upper deck. It was her reintroduction to life on Mars. You never new who was on board that knew your family or someone else you knew. Ratama was reluctant to avail herself of a privilege that might get tongues wagging before her shuttle even landed. ‘Oooh Lah, did you hear about so and so’s daughter? Too good to sit with the rest of us in coach. She think she an earther!’
Another downside from the crew deck: There was very little space beyond the seats in coach. A common area on this level, near the aft of the ship, was crowded with prefabricated tables molded to the floor. Even if she and the others were able to find a clear space, the ground of the cafeteria was too dirty to pray on. The point of her wudu was to ritually cleanse herself for prayer so her supplications would be accepted by Allah. The cafeteria would negate this. The crew deck was far more spacious. It seated fewer people and had less crowded common areas. It also had an observation lounge that would be perfect to pray in. However, the other people on this deck would not be allowed on the crew deck since none of them were officers or even crew. She thought for a moment about making use of the lounge but quickly chased that thought from her mind. Whatever difficulty other supplicants would have in performing their prayers, she would share. To her, it was the point. It was one of the things that were meant to bind all of them together whether they were on Earth, Mars, or in transit in between. They were all meant to kneel in submission to God at prescribed times every day. And do it as one. Going up to the crew deck would be counter to this. She would be placing herself and her prayers above the others.
What was more important? The annoyance of a cabin attendant or the displeasure of God? She flagged down one of the attendants, a man, as he was walking by.
“Is there a common area on this level that some of my fellow travelers and I can use to conduct our prayers?”
“Well, there’s a -”
“Besides the cafeteria.” Ratama cut him off and cursed herself for the extra effort. His eyes moved over her hijab as if he were seeing it for the first time.
“There is a common area for the crew of this level just forward of the bunks. I’m afraid that’s for attendants only.”
She knew he was going to say that last part. It made her wonder if his objections were more for the use of the space or what they were to be used for. It was something people of all faiths encountered in these times. Bigotry.
“That’s too bad. I’m on my way to Mars on assignment and won’t be back to Earth for a couple of years. I was able to use all my entertainment comps at the Megaplex in Capetown except three.” Being a Fleet officer in training had its advantages. Free room and board. Free transport anywhere on Earth. Generous pay for cadets. And complimentary entertainment at any one of thousands of restaurants, theaters, and game zones planetwide. Vendors loved to get them because they redeemed them for cash. She was lying about having only three. She had dozens. They were only good on Earth but traders, pilots, Fleet personnel, and workers were constantly traveling between Earth and Mars.
United Earth Authority handed out allotments of comps every semester. And as cadets advanced through the academy, those allotments became bigger. Ratama didn’t have much time for restaurants and holo games in her last year so she decided to save them up and give them to Amma as a gift. With the comps, she would be able to barter for real rice, better prints of meat for months, or a new holo-vid for her apartment.
“How long?” He exhaled and rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance.
“About 10 minutes, five times a day for the duration of the trip.”
“How much?”
“I’ve seen three attendants on this level. One for each of you.”
“Two each.” He shot back.
“Nah.” She shook her head. She knew the value of comps but it cost him nothing to try and up the price. The truth was, there was no amount she wasn’t willing to pay, but he didn’t need to know that. The attendant shrugged in agreement.
Ratama pressed the biochip on the underside of her forearm. A small menu appeared and she selected “currency” then “comps” and entered “3”. Three generic-looking cards materialized above her arm which she swiped toward the attendant. There were three rapid yet gleeful chimes that indicated her contribution had been received. The attendant walked quickly toward the rear of the passenger cabin, turned, then motioned to Ratama and the others to follow him. They passed through the cafeteria with its crowd of stained tables. Food remnants mashed by boot impressions dotted the floor. Then they were in a storage and meal prep area; which was just cubbies full of silver packets containing flash dried meals, and ovens. A couple of grav carts were sloppily shoved into one corner, waiting for the next meal service. A female attendant, who had her boots kicked off and was laying on a sofa beneath a rather large porthole reading a book, jumped up with surprise at the procession of non-crew entering their space. She gave the male attendant a look that was both dirty and inquisitive. He responded by holding up both hands and gesturing for her to be calm.
* * *
Mars grew large in the porthole. And with it, Ratama’s anxiety. She had maintained contact with her family as much as was possible. She exchanged messages, especially with her younger brothers. Amma never said much, unless there was some kind of admonishment. “Stay away from Terran boys. Even the Muslim ones.” or “Missing prayers is a sin.”, “Don’t get used to that Terran food. It will make you fat. Then who will want to marry you?” As the years passed on Earth, she responded less and less to her calls. Ratama wondered if her mother had expected her to fail, or, to drop out and come home. By her fourth year it was obvious that wasn’t going to happen, and was perhaps too much for Amma’s ego to bear.
Now that she was back on Mars, back among her own, she felt a dash of local custom was in order. Martians didn’t view Terrans favorably. Some may have mixed feelings about her presence. Some might even hate her. Wearing a more traditional hijab with her uniform might make things a bit easier on her. People in Terran fleet uniforms were viewed with suspicion. Regardless of whether or not they were born on Mars. Her fellow Muslims would also be quick to judge. A woman, away from home for so many years on her own? The men wouldn’t voice their reservations about her out loud, but her mother will have endured the whisperings of the women on the promenade. Her “hijab” was little more than an Ops cowl, a part of her uniform designed to keep her hair out of her face in zero gravity. It was required for women with long hair to wear them. The alternative was to shave your head completely like the men. Though wearing a traditional hijab was permitted, she often opted for the Ops cowl. It didn’t require any of the usual adjustment, pinning, and she never worried about it coming loose on duty.
Fleet uniforms were form-fitting. The Class B tunic and jacket were sized so tight that she wore one-two sizes larger to obscure the outline of her breasts. Today she was wearing her Class A uniform. A black officer’s waistcoat with a flared collar and epaulets. She’d had hers tailored to be longer so the bottom of it fell over her hips. The pants, which were more like leggings and worn by men and women, were also quite tight. Though everything from just below the knee down was bloused inside a boot, everything from the thigh to the waist was visible. The longer coat hid her hips and butt from public view. She pulled at the bottom of it from time to time, internally obsessing over its length. Amma would have something to say about it for certain if she thought it was too short. Or worse, she would look Ratama up and down once, quickly, then with flared nostrils give her a ‘hmmph’.
It was bad enough that she had been living on Earth, by herself, for six years. There were a lot of other myths surrounding fleet life. Her brother once asked, in one of his regular messages, if it were true that fleet personnel were required to use unisex showers and bathrooms. Martians could be provincial but they weren’t the only ones. Terrans, victims of a highly elective culture, were often twice as ignorant despite their unfettered access to everything. While studying and having coffee at a sidewalk cafe in Johannesburg, a young Islamic scholar noticed her hijab in fleet colors and decided to ask her about life on Mars. Despite her denials, he was sure that the very existence of Muslims on Mars went against everything the religion stood for. Stories from the early days of settling there had produced horror stories about starving Martians eating each other, and entire towns devolving into orgies of sex and cannibalism.
Since she elected not to travel in the crew cabin she had to disembark from the shuttle with the civilians. Which meant she had to go through customs with the civilians. The gate area was a chaotic mess, stuffed with recent arrivals from Earth. The tamped-down frustration and anger she detected in the passenger cabin had spilled out into the terminal and merged with streams of other similarly disaffected people debarking from other shuttles. Masses of entitled Terrans loudly proclaiming their Earth citizenship and demanding deference could be heard coming from the front of the customs lines. Others were meekly hunched over their meager possessions, almost in defeat or uncertainty. Every few months the Mars Corporation, owned by Terrans, would send a glut of laborers to Mars to beef up production. Martians didn’t believe they needed the additional manpower, which was demonstrated by the dozens of people in picket lines, holding signs and shouting just beyond the customs lines. The unions accused the Mars Corporation of trying to dilute wage rates by dumping unskilled laborers into the market. Some even went as far as to suggest that the company was scooping homeless folks off the streets and giving them forged low-g certs and shipping them off to Mars.
The customs officer, and an older, balding, white man, eyed her suspiciously. He seemed to scrutinize her credentials closely and looked from them to her repeatedly as if trying to determine if she was really who she claimed- as if every scrap of everything about her wasn’t made available through her biometrics. Ratama became annoyed when he began rifling through her carry on. There was nothing particularly personal or private in it. But he didn’t treat her Q’uran with the level of deference it deserved. He merely tossed it aside as he proceeded to inspect the rest of the cases’ contents. He scrutinized her sidearm, which was in a case that had been stowed by the shuttled purser, and had just passed through one of the scanners. When she’d had enough, she clenched her jaw, pursed her lips, and cocked her head diagonally. The customs officer concluded his inspection hastily then closed the case. After which he tried to sound officious telling her she was cleared to enter.
She walked quickly, without rushing, to the reception area just beyond the gates, past the crowds of chanting picketers. No one had come. When she was a teenager, her aunt Muneeza had won a trip to Earth in the lottery to go to Hajj. When she had returned, the entire promenade was there to greet her. Her whole family had been there waiting. She’d tried not to make a big deal of it in her message. She didn’t want to seem self-important or pushy. But she’d expected at least one member of her family would have been there to greet her. Amma might be a long shot, but she hoped her sister and brothers would show. Ratama slung her bag and walked toward the maglev terminal, her head hung in quiet humiliation. She felt foolish for thinking that anyone would be happy to see her. Having arrived two days ahead of schedule she’d hoped to spend some time with her family, put on a few pounds eating Amma’s Nasi Lemak, and the Chicken Rendang, (even with the printed chicken it would be delicious), catch up with her brothers, go and hang out on the promenade, and maybe do some caldera hiking and spelunking near Olympus Mons.
As she exited the main terminal of the spaceport she was overwhelmed by a sour, almost acrid smell. Martian tunnels carried the powerful odor of wet mold, a smell she had become so unaccustomed to that it almost made her vomit. It was impossible to forget. She had spent the first two weeks on Earth trying to scrub it out of her clothes. It was the smell of Mars. The smell of yeast farms, mycelial patches, and sweating bodies wrapped in a layer of recycled air. Until now, she remembered it fondly. Those times caught out in open spaces on Earth, overwhelmed by the endlessness of it, she thought of this. Of home.
She turned on her heels toward the Eastbound platform. They weren’t coming. There was no way she was going to spend the next two days in her bunk crying about it. And she wasn’t going to give anyone the pleasure of seeing her moping around the promenade. She was to be stateless. A stranger in her own home. An alien on her own planet. It would be better if she got some rack time and reported for duty early. There were benches on the platform which she slumped into to wait for the next vactrain. That moldy smell lingered at the platform, no doubt after having been pushed all over Mars through the pneumatic tunnels.
The vactrains weren’t silent, but nearly so. They hovered on top of a magnetic strip at several times the speed of sound. Mars’ low air pressure and the absence of friction aided this. The breeze that flowed through the tunnels along with shifts in the air pressure made it impossible to hear when a train was approaching. The only hint was a blast of air that always preceded the train’s arrival. That blast came, along with a megadose of the ever-present sour smell and finally, the train. But it was on the westbound platform, heading in the opposite direction.
The quiet whine of the train accelerating back into the tunnel gave way to the commotion of people who had gotten off and were scrambling to connecting trains, or making their way towards lifts and escalators. From within the low murmurs of the dissipating crowd, Ratama heard exasperated yelling. But the words made no sense. Initially, it sounded like someone shouting “pop!”… pop!” She looked up but saw only people queing for the lifts. She lowered her head again and began massaging her neck through the soft fabric of her hijab when she heard the sound again but this time it sounded like “tom! tom!” She ignored it.
A few moments later she could hear frantic footsteps coming up the escalator to her platform. They were promptly drowned out by a burst of hot, moldy, air, shot into the tunnel and the arrival of the eastbound train. She stood up and stepped to the edge of the platform in preparation for boarding. The shiny metal hull of the train cars whipped past mere inches from her face then came to a halt. There was a hydraulic hiss from the doors opening and just before she stepped in, she heard the voice again. But it wasn’t saying tom or pop. It was saying Ratama.
Ratama looked to her left and saw her brothers, Tem, and Boga, emerge from the escalator well. She was overcome yet paralyzed. She was overjoyed and yet ashamed. Her heart sang even as it sank. It was as if they were children again, playing tag in the newly drilled ore tunnels, or sledding on the dunes at Hellas. Tem, who now appeared wider than he was tall was sporting his militia uniform. Boga, still a teen, was big-eyed and slight, with head, hands, and feet, disproportionately large for his body. He seemed to have a hard time controlling it all as he ambled toward her awkwardly and hugged her. She took his face in her hands and began kissing his cheeks. The briny tears had fallen onto her lips which made her kisses wetter than they would otherwise be.
“I’m sorry sis. I was coming from work and we got delayed. I made this one come meet me to save time.” Tem tousled Boga’s hair.
***
They didn’t have time to go to any of the main promenades so they looked for a local place, near the spaceport, on their way to the main equatorial train lines. At least from there, they would be able to catch expresses trains in their respective directions and get where they were going faster. There was a little collection of shops and stands in a kampong at the junction of the main lines. It was 300 meters below the surface at the bottom of a crevasse. The top of which was home to hundreds of moisture collectors. It gave that particular kampong the illusion of rain. A soft gray light poured in from the surface and if you didn’t look up too much, it could have been any little hamlet outside of Jakarta.
They found a noodle joint with “outdoor” seating, and old pvc plank resting on carved Martian rock for a table and small storage crates for chairs. The whole place was just a cart underneath a makeshift awning. Drops of unpurified water pelted the lashed plastic cover with gentle yet uneven cadence. An older woman with wet gray hair who had been standing beside the cart with her hands on her hips, came over.
“Eh?” The sound was meant to ask what they wanted. It was common for hawkers to say things in abbreviated grunts and vocalizations.
“Pesan makanan. Mie goreng onegaaaaiiii.” Tem held up three fingers. Ratama winced at the exchange. She’d forgotten how informal people could be here. And the bahasa jalan with the dab of Japanese grated after so many years of drill and ceremony. It was something she would have to get used to again. Navigating all the variations of language, particles and salutations would change based on proximity to other spoken languages. “I heard the noodles down this way were good.”
Ratama didn’t speak at first. In her mind, she was just taking all of the familiar sights and sounds and smells in. She was watching her two brothers and admiring how strong and beautiful they had grown to be in this place. The old woman came back and placed a small dish with morels and slightly wilted bean sprouts, on the table. Tem and Boga looked at each other in surprise then began to laugh. Ratama got the joke. The old woman saw two military uniforms and thought they were a pair of tai-tais. Rich people. She thought to pad the bill with “complimentary” appetizers and “fresh” vegetables. Not hard to come by on Mars, if you had money. Likely she had grown these in her apartments.
“Look at you in your militia uniform!” Ratama said finally, grabbing a pair of chopsticks and snatching up a cluster of sprouts.
“I applied to the academy but got waitlisted. The councilors Earthside said it could help my chances if I enrolled and curried some favor with my CO.”
“Tem, I didn’t know-“ He waved his hand to signal it was nothing.
“I didn’t want you feeling bad about it. You had enough on your plate.” Tem was a man now. Not only in age but in manner, perception, and thought. He saw through her little façade and still didn’t make a thing out of it. Ratama powered through the awkwardness so it didn’t appear she was feigning interest.
“How is it? I see you’ve got Corporal stripes. You’re well on your way.” He smiled uneasily at her comment. He knew she was trying to make him feel better.
The noodles arrived and in true Martian fashion Boga dumped the remaining vegetables onto the communal plate and began stirring it all together.
“What about you? How long are you here for?”
“It’s my duty station.”
“You’re going to be here for two years?” He didn’t look pleased. It wasn’t her presence here that disturbed him, Ratama could tell.
“At least.”
“Does Amma know?” She responded to the question with a look that indicated he should know the answer already. Tem picked is chopsticks up and began eating the Mie. Welcoming the segue into what she thought would be silence, Ratama did too. “Are you going to see her?”
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Maybe she wants to and maybe she doesn’t. Right now she wants to know if you will. Besides, Bubu Ain is staying with her now. I don’t see that there is much choice. You can’t insult them both over your pride sis.”
Tem had changed. When she saw him last in the flesh, he was very much like Boga is now. Just growing into a body he would occupy the rest of his life, yet much more tentative mentally. He had become so self-assured, so seemingly comfortable in himself and what he thought was right. He also had a very linear way of thinking. Direct. And his adherence to even the unspoken rules of culture was both maddening and heartwarming. She didn’t say it but he could afford to have such a simplistic view of the situation. In the economy of words explaining that would be futile.
On the one hand, it was just pride. And on the other, why go where you are unwelcome? Or made to feel so? One thing about Tem: He was a pragmatist. That much about him had not changed. He had just acquired the maturity to couch is pragmatism in nice words. He was thinking long term. She couldn’t avoid her mother for two years even if she tried. Both of them would be plagued by rumors and speculation. And accidentally running in to her would be a disaster. Since nenek was living with amma, there was no way around it. It was better to go and see her mother sooner rather than later. She just had to decide how much sooner.
