Fiction

“Sunday! Sunday! It’s Sunday and that means it’s Primetime for Crimetime! I’m Bryce Boyd for WFLK The Flock, with non-stop coverage of the best punishments fully licensed under the New Penal Authority…”

The atmosphere wouldn’t allow my companions the dignity of fire. The ship instead collapsed like a house of cards. There was barely a sound. I might have imagined the sound for their sake, since, though eulogies may be given, they’ll be delivered from a distance even ghosts can’t hear. That was eight hours ago.

If Earth people had to breathe Martian air, I think they’d make more effort to look after their own. For one thing there isn’t much of it. You’d have trouble getting it into your lungs in the first place. And once there, it wouldn’t do any good. There’s plenty of oxygen, but it’s all bound with carbon, which isn’t going to let it go to keep humans alive. You could last a few minutes, and few more if you had time to prepare, but you’ll suffocate soon enough.

A nanode arm blossomed up from the halocopter's floor. In its hand lay a tiny golden box, a promise of perfect bliss. “Dessert, sir?” came Bell-C's voice from invisible speakers, but sadly, the six-course inflight dinner still lay too heavy in William Rose's belly. “No, but leave it there,” he said. “And give me transparency.”

A look around. An empty white room with no windows. Features present: black leather armchair. White fluorescent lamps, constant buzzing from furthest left lamp (probable cause: defective ballast unable to maintain constant output of electrical current). A black center table. An empty glass of water. The doctor. Middle-aged Caucasian male. Trimmed goatee, graying hair, blue eyes ringed with flecks of gold ...