231 - stripe

ittle clouds of dust hung in the air as Ben's gloved fingers traced straight lines through the soil on the ground. He chuckled to himself. Air. Soil. He was still having trouble letting go of his former life.

His knees unlocked and his legs straightened with a newfound ease. The same weakened gravity which allowed the dust to stay afloat as if suspended in air also assisted his aging muscles in feeling a decade or two younger.

Sunlight filled the little valley Ben now called home. His suit's cooling system did a fantastic job keeping him comfortable, despite its light weight and small size. What marvelous innovations his species had made from the bulky spacesuits of a century ago!

Still, he wondered if there would truly come a day when his descendants would be able to work, play, and live here without the aid of suits or artificial atmospheres. The terraforming plans seemed too fantastical for him, but people of the past must have thought the same about the life he was now living. Anything was possible.

Not anything, he reminded himself. Not his descendants. Not direct ones, anyway. That was part of the deal. Part of the sacrifice. He sighed. It probably would never have happened, regardless, he told himself.

As he turned around to face his little homestead, he flipped the reflective visor down over his eyes. No matter what mankind managed to change about this place in the future, Ben had a hard time imagining they'd ever find a way to reduce the immensity of the sun's direct glare.

His work for the day done, he glided across what could be considered his yard and depressed the access pad for the airlock. The system recognized the beacons in his glove and welcomed him home as it sprung into action. Ben stepped inside and pressed another button to begin the entry process.

More than simply repressurizing the chamber, the airlock also assisted him with the removal of his suit and any dust that he had managed to track into the enclosure. In all, about five minutes elapsed before the progress monitors turned green and he was allowed to open to hatch that led into his living quarters.

Home, sweet home. In truth, Ben did feel a certain sense of relief and comfort upon returning to this little pressurized dome. When he had first arrived, such a notion was unimaginable. This sterile, artificial environment felt as alien as the harsh environment outside. Everything reminded him of being so far away from any place that he could even remotely consider home.

We adapt, Ben thought. Or maybe he had come around to the fact that any environment capable of supporting life—his life—as artificial as it may be, would always be closer to home than a place totally inhospitable to it.

The habitat was not as spartan as he had imagined it would be. The terminal access to the Network alone was enough to satisfy him. This was exile, a kind of punishment, after all. How many prisoners of centuries past had nothing but a cramped cell to pace around as they whiled away their days?

Ben found himself in the kitchen soon enough, heating up the evening's meal. As he watched the microwave unit do its job, he allowed his mind the smallest of moments to wander.

To contemplate all the mistakes that had led him to this place. All the things he had left behind.

The microwave beeped. Ben removed its piping hot contents and headed over to his terminal, those thoughts once again safely hidden away.