Doomed planet

By Daruma Neko

It is the 22nd century and Mars has become the Australia of the day, a huge open-air prison for felons in outer space. The Red Planet is now known as the Red Hell. And it's no overstatement: Life on Mars is no rock classic there but a tough reality.
Some people, though, do better than others: it's the GMO's, the Genetically Modified Organisms. Also known as hybrids, they've played a major role in the colonization of the planet. Herr Sputnik is one of them. He is what you may call a cosmic rolling stone and a head for numbers, currently working at a research facility in the Tharsis region.
It's been long since Mars was colonized by humans, following Elon Musk's dream. Their descendants are forging their home in a brutal world and they want freedom in return. The settlers have risen against the Earth rule and are now fighting hard for independence. Revolution, however, is not the only thing sweeping the planet: there's also this terrible sandstorm. To make things worse, a strange poltergeist phenomenon is taking place at the facility. Some claim there is curse on the planet. Others pray for the aliens to come. Herr Sputnik tries to stay cool amid this turmoil and confusion, but it's not easy when the situation around you is as unstable as an electron.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Pallol
• Release date: Aug 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201804107

Daruma Neko

Su nombre es japonés. 'Daruma' significa 'demonio' y neko, 'gato'. Es un gato-demonio. O un demonio de gato. Nuestro autor transespecista es un superviviente de Fukushima. Un gato radiactivo, fluorescente en la oscuridad. También desarrolló facultades humanas, como la de hablar o la de teclear con los pulgares. Y notó de repente unas dotes visionarias, de ahí que se animara a escribir para iPulp thrillers trepidantes con humor, romance, aventura y corrupción generalizada, que es lo que el público parece demandar estos días.  Si ya los gatos son sabios, imagina uno mutante. Para Daruma el futuro es como un libro abierto. 

Book preview

From the methane lakes of Titan to the tea-rooms of Mars

Iwould have never imagined I was going to spend most of my life bouncing from planet to planet, like a satellite that’s gone off its orbit and keeps drifting. As I would have never imagined I was going to survive a meteor shower on a run-down Chinese spacecraft. Fate is always stunning you with its unexpected twists. One of them, probably the last of my cosmic somersaults, has brought me to this research facility located on the planet commonly known as the Red Hell.

In other words, Mars. The freezing world where I’m currently working on a project together with a group of top-class researchers, all under Doctor Ingrid Tupolev’s management. We’re devoted to modifying athletes’ genes in order to increase their natural performance and keep them away from illegal substances.  We’ve been able so far to create super strong rats at the lab by implanting them with a gene that fosters muscular growth. We’re getting close to applying these revolutionary improvements on human athletes. In the meantime, when I’m not busy at devising human high-performance machines, I set my eyes on the telescope and look at the stars. It is my source of joy and an instant sedative: nothing gives me more peace. It’s all I need to be happy. It’s not that I settle for little, don’t get me wrong: all things considered, I can’t really complain. When I look back, I can’t help feeling a legitimate pride when I see how far I’ve got. I’ve had a long haul till I finally landed on Mars. My position is now enviable, bearing in mind that I arrived here with nothing but the clothes on. And after all, ending up on this wretched planet is not the worst thing that could happen to you. Playing the victim card is not my game.

I can only be thankful to Mars, for one strong reason. It allowed me to reinvent myself and start anew, and truth be told, I have fared quite well: despite its bad reputation, this arid and hyper cold planet has meant a land of opportunities to me. Not everyone sees it this way, of course. To many others, this is too ungrateful a planet. It is for a reason that it’s called the Red Hell. Only a few come to Mars out of their own free will. Living conditions here are extreme, especially for the prisoners cramming up in the many penal colonies scattered across the planet. Their existence is appalling. They arrive by the hundreds every day, on high-security spaceships. Among them are murderers, con-men and women, criminals, terrorists, political dissidents... They’re all deported here. Mars has turned into the Australia of the 22nd century, a huge floating prison in outer space. The planet gets a daily supply of fresh prisoners, all of them sentenced to forced labor in the mines and the water-extraction plants around the polar caps.

The hideous way they’re treated goes beyond description. They barely struggle to survive, living in rickety barracks, poorly fed, and often beaten. The prisoners have a really hard time working in the mines; they die by the dozens every day, but nobody gives a damn, nobody feels sorry for them. They’re regarded, very fittingly so, as the scum of the Earth back on our mother planet, and the only way to deal with the problem was, apparently, by banishing them to Mars - social hygiene, they call it -. I reckon I sometimes whine too much about my humdrum existence at the facility, but when you compare it to the miserable life inside any Martian penitentiary, this a jolly summer camp.

Talking of leisure, we also get tourists on Mars. Not many, though, as this is hardly anybody’s idea of a dream holiday. On the contrary: this is a tough and nasty planet. Not everyone’s meant to endure it. You’ve got to be made of a special alloy. Or be desperate. Mars is the ultimate borderland, under terrible weather conditions. But then again, for the same reason, it also stands as the promised land where you can eventually find your niche. And even thrive if you work hard. Lots of people just like me have landed here looking for a second chance. We all wished to leave our pasts behind and start from the scratch, whatever the reasons. All of us are runaways here, when not former convicts, so people generally embrace you without asking too many questions. Mars is the perfect place for those who want to reboot their lives: it is far enough from Earth for your personal - or criminal - record not to be taken into consideration. Indolence prevails, and no one bothers to look into your past. That’s why, as so many others, I’ve come up with a new identity here: I’m now called Herr Sputnik.

My real name - I cryptically clarify to those interested - died along my true personality at a North Korean gulag.

Oh my, they say in awe, that was then too long ago!

Maybe, I respond nonchalantly. Anyhow, regardless of how long it’s really been, does it matter? What do 50, 100 or 200 years represent but a speck in the overwhelming timeline of eternity?

My higher-ups then warn me:

We want scientists here, not poets.

I grunt softly. It’s always the same: I’m just unable to adapt. I’m a stateless person, virtually impossible to classify and, now that I’m living on Mars, you can’t deny I’m a true cosmopolitan. First and foremost, I hide my past. It’s not that I have something serious to conceal, but it is better this way. If you want any references from me, there’s my scientific work. That speaks volumes about me. The rest is immaterial.

All right, all right, Professor Moebius says with tongue in cheek. We all know how much you like playing the mysterious guy.

I blush a little, acknowledging the fact that he’s very much right. This shady attitude of mine only gets to further intrigue my colleagues, who keep on teasing me with their questions. My response is always the same, after shrugging my shoulders: I managed to escape the concentration camp and reinvent myself far away.

On Mars, no less, Moebius remarks after a long whistling of admiration.

I’ve come a loooong way, baby, I say while winking an eye at him.

Anyway, before I continue, there is one fact I’d like to settle down for once and all. I might have bounced like a crazy shiny disco ball across the solar system, I might have changed my name, my hair, my sex, but one thing I could never trade is my job: I’m sealed by my genetic fate. Yes, I guess it is time to confess: I’m one of the many children from the X,33² Generation, designed à la carte.

The procedure was quite simple back then. My parents only had to fill up a form at the family planning center. When they handed it over to the civil servant lady, she took a quick peek and then raised her eyes to cast a condescending glance.

Let me guess, she said, full of intention. "You also want a child with blonde curls and dimples in the cheeks,