Chapter Text
The transition from Martians and pure humans to the star peoples was not fast; on the contrary, it was slow and painful.
After the civil war, and the first generation of star people, and the decline of Martians and earthlings
At 16, Oliver Rothschild was drafted to go to Mars by the American government; he would be part of the last wave of the fertile generation (thanks to the mandatory castration that came in waves, starting with older ages to avoid social revolts). He received 3 months of prior training, a time when the original Homo sapiens were almost disappearing from Earth, the earthling population dropped to 1.5 billion inhabitants, and the rest of the genus Homo was trying to spread across the galaxy; Mars was like the corner of the house, it was lucky to be so close to family.
It was a low-class mission; he had already been there for a year. Homo sapiens, star people, and Martians lived together; they were genetically close enough to have children, yet infertile and in need of dietary supplements, and there was an invisible, prejudiced tension between them. Not all star persons were arrogant (at least, Oliver thought they were arrogant); for example, his superior, Saem Collins, a 29-year-old star person, had children on Earth and on Mars, was divorced from his first wife, and married for the second time; he had 1 star person child from the first marriage and 2 hybrid children; he was a good friend despite his doubtful romantic history.
He was a very complex man; his subspecies was smarter, stronger, with larger eyes and a larger head; they were paler too.
As for Martians, they were lighter and taller, making him feel like a half-sized dwarf.
Forced to leave his family, 1 Border Collie dog named Cooper, and an urban farm with its horses and calves; forced to leave friends, basketball (1.75 tall, he was an attacking-style point guard), and the chic tailoring he liked so much on Earth, the blue sky, the movies, the climbing, Oliver had to survive in the hostile environment of Mars. In the rigorous hierarchy of the soldiers, his job was very simple there, so much so that he thought it was unnecessary; all he had to do was guard borders from north to south, that didn't even make sense, the worst part was that the salary wasn't even that good for the damn routine of enduring insults from roommates (thanks to the sexual fetishization, or lack thereof, of pure humans).
The only lights there were Saem and a very friendly military dog named Storm, a German Shepherd breed; both Oliver and Storm had to wear light spacesuits at all times, which was annoying for going to the bathroom, sleeping, or eating, while the star peoples and Martians walked around without them.
Life on Mars was like on Earth, but each colonized planet in the Milky Way needed specific adaptations; there were cars, though he hadn't managed to get a vehicle of his own.
Military dogs were useful for their sense of smell and emotional support; their suits had oxygen and gas filtration, with a small tube in the snout area for the dogs to smell the environment—the only animals that humans took to the stars, despite it being a great injustice to their equine friends, since they built civilization.
Storm barked and wagged his tail upon seeing him; for some reason, he wasn't so open to star persons. The animal accompanied everyone, but only jumped happily on pure humans; you know, animals aren't as ignorant as they appear, even the herbivores on the farm were better psychologists than humans. The German Shepherd stayed with him most of the time; he circulated around the colony, socialized with other dogs; Oliver felt he had a special bond with the dog, they were in the same boat, luckily they hadn't made star dogs yet.
Evolve or be left behind.
He blinked in surprise as he felt a movement beside him —"Thinking?"— Collins asked.
—"Yes"— he replied.
—"I think I'm going to die a virgin"— Saen gave a little laugh —"I don't think so, there is still time, you're not half bad"— he tried to give some big-brother-style advice, holding the barrel of the weapon resting on the ground —"I doubt it, who is going to be attracted to a sardine can?"— alias the spacesuit, it was carved, who would notice his teenage muscles? He isn't a bodybuilder, he was thin and dense, but not that muscular, he was a light mesomorph, being healthy, otherwise he wouldn't even be there.
Saen pulled something from his clothes, a magazine of human models, the ones with an 18+ rating —"Here, for you to get inspired, I found it on the old commander's desk"— he took the paper, which was almost an insult to so much technology; there were Martian, pure, and star people women.
He flipped through the pages; Saen noticed Oliver's pupils dilate, after all, he was a hormonal teenager. Looking closely at the bare legs of the star people model, he sighed. With a blow to his ego, he threw the magazine away; it hit the metal wall in anger. He was a rough youth, but with no less character; he was a young man who fought for what he thought was right. The blunt thud made Saen look at the wall, still noticing the hormonal spike Oliver had, an involuntary testosterone reaction due to not being castrated; lucky there were only the two of them there.
In reality, that little human would have a great chance of being a stud if he stopped self-sabotaging, believing he was a piece of old-model trash compared to the new versions.
Their sexuality wasn't simply just sex like in the old days; now in the new hierarchy, it worked like a thermometer of relevance for subspecies, it became more complex and profound, the act was political besides biological, he didn't even think about it all the time, sometimes he caught himself imagining the future.
—"Look, Red Boy"— he used the most random nickname for Oliver, although there were many hateful ones —"You can go further, to the stars, or go back to Earth, know how?"— he teased, and already anticipated a cynical answer —"Like Mr. Baldy?"— The term Baldy was Saen's nickname.
There were many other pure humans and Martians on Mars, but none in particular that he had intimate contact with, only coworkers and the general population.
—"By being emotional, doing things with your heart, who knows, maybe the US might promote you or notice your melancholy and make you return?"—
It almost sounded like advice for a pet to do tricks to win prizes; earthlings and Martians were losing territory in the hierarchy and humanity 2.0 was taking their place. Saem looked at him with pity and compassion; the boy knew his friend cared, but he hated that look, the one of "I know you don't understand where you are, and how humanity is."
It was a benevolent arrogance.
It made him feel like an idiot.
He felt like telling him to screw off; he didn't do it out of respect, and because of the friendship and unacknowledged brotherhood, the anger was real.
The next day, the red atmosphere hit his corneas and his coffee-and-milk brown skin, and the human and the dog set off for their position. The paws hitting the ground were comforting, making him remember Cooper himself, who followed him with the same enthusiasm up the mountains, besides other extreme sports, like skydiving on vacation.
—"Can you believe that idiot told me to be more emotional? He wants to discuss humanity with me? Is he seriously for real?"— he discussed with the dog, who gave faint barks as answers while they stood still at their outpost. He stayed with the binoculars, staring at each side for 30 minutes, having to report anything strange to superiors, and walked armed, feeding himself and Storm, water, and a moment to relieve himself. Every 2 hours, he went out with the dog along the borders, the interesting part of the job, walking on the red terrain, guiding the animal by the leash, who walked with his head down sniffing the soil. With each step he said —"Stop!"— for the dog to focus on a specific spot; he was an excellent canine soldier, obedient to commands and professional, above all, an excellent friend, who would easily bite someone for an ally.
At that moment, the German Shepherd suddenly went on alert, tail up; the dog broke away from the leash under the force he put into running forward, barking very aggressively and growling —"ARRUR AAAUUUURR GGGRRRR"— he caught an odor, because there was nothing there. The teenager raised his weapon, pointing at nothing in particular, but definitely forward.
—"HEY WAIT! COME BACK BOY!"— desperation took over, he ran after the animal; it was strange, that wasn't how he was supposed to react, it was pure protection. His short dark brown hair flying, and with the barrel of the gun pointed, the adrenaline rushed through his blood, he felt alive again —"GET OOOUUUTTT"— his voice, gradually deepening with age, echoed, quite unprofessional for an American recruit soldier, it was justified, as he was an impulsive teenager —"AAAOOUUHHHRR"— he shouted to whoever it was, to scare them away, it could be nothing, it could be just gases in the Martian atmosphere that Storm found strange for some reason. His run was heavy and fast, he didn't care about the weight of the gun, he remembered his red and white basketball sneakers, and he was even thinking about boxing before being drafted; he knew how to throw some punches if needed, thanks to school fights.
The euphoria was short-lived when stepping hard on superficial soil, the ground gave way —"WHAT?"— he fell into the deep hole, the impact on his back made him break out in a cold sweat. He fixed his weak gaze up there; Storm came to check on the fallen human, barking desperately, abandoning the strange smell.
—"Uuhh uuhh uuuhh uhh"—
He closed his brown eyes; when he opened them again, it was night and he heard the heartbreaking cries of the dog up there.
He closed them again.
He opened them and heard a —"UUHH!"— the noise of the animal's cry, as if something struck it, and then silence.
He closed them, likely there was internal damage, because there was blood on the suit's glass.
"I don't know what happened to Storm."