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This story explores the Foreboding Future's Earth from the perspective of someone whose ethics are closer to our time's.\n\nThis setting is based upon, of all things, debates that occurred on the SoFurry forums. Ethics are things that change over time, and I base this story upon that fact. Within, I present a vision of the future where ethics are foreboding, bizarre, possibly even evil from the perspective of those in the present.\n\nTo absolve you of such assumptions, I don't view every ethical shift this future makes favorably. But I won't tell you what the select few things I don't approve of are. I won't tell you because I don't wish to judge this future as better or worse than our present. Instead, I want you to judge this future.\n\nDespite so brazenly exploring all the tags from loli/shota, bestiality/zoophilia, to suicide, the story stops just barely short of showing these things explicitly. In spite of these extreme tags, this is actually a technically clean story!", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Here is the second story in the setting of the Foreboding Future. This story explores the Foreboding Future's Earth from the perspective of someone whose ethics are closer to our time's.

This setting is based upon, of all things, debates that occurred on the SoFurry forums. Ethics are things that change over time, and I base this story upon that fact. Within, I present a vision of the future where ethics are foreboding, bizarre, possibly even evil from the perspective of those in the present.

To absolve you of such assumptions, I don't view every ethical shift this future makes favorably. But I won't tell you what the select few things I don't approve of are. I won't tell you because I don't wish to judge this future as better or worse than our present. Instead, I want you to judge this future.

Despite so brazenly exploring all the tags from loli/shota, bestiality/zoophilia, to suicide, the story stops just barely short of showing these things explicitly. In spite of these extreme tags, this is actually a technically clean story!", "writing": "[center]Premise[/center]\n\nFor entertainment, many have written of futures with truly bizarre moral foundations. But for this story, I ask you to consider the possibility that this world may in fact be the future of ours!\n\nHow utterly alien are the ethics of today to the people of long past? How utterly alien would the ethics of the foreboding future be to the people of today? If you knew, would you damn your own future?\n\nI do not judge this world of alien ethics as better or worse than ours. It is you who are meant to judge this strange world, for I ask you to consider its possibility.\n[center]\nThe Foreboding Future\n\nThe Lonely Martian Refugee\n\n—1—[/center]\nThe stalks of lalit dropped ruby red grains as the boy ran in and out of the trails chewed through them. The grains, the size of pea-pods, stuck out like quills from the thumb-thin cobs. An Earthling would bleed badly after jaunting through lalit, but the boy did so without a care in only khaki shorts. He stopped and leaned back against the metal walls of an agri-tower and pulled a grain of lalit to chew on. It was mildly sweet, woody, nutty, and even citrusy. He shook the white hair out of his face. He was albino; most Martians were.\n\nThe agri-towers were hexagonal pillars 200 meters across and 600 tall, with only 10 meter gaps between them. They sported 150 floors, most of them growing aeroponic lalit under artificial light. The circle 5 towers in diameter stretched for over a kilometer. The boy looked up and saw a trace of pink cloud through the gaps. A sandstorm blew in the distance, but judging by the cloud’s hue, it wouldn’t arrive for about an hour, enough time to finish the hunt.\n\nThe boy cocked his pump-action crossbow. He looked for the telltale bends and scratches on the lalit stalks, found the trail again, and ran. The trail headed left at a junction between three towers. The boy put the crossbow to his shoulder as he saw rustling in the lalit. Coming closer, he saw flashes of brown fur and fired, using the rustles as his guide.\n\nThe rustles stopped. The boy slung his crossbow and lanked over to his prize, a fat male nutria. The bolt had pierced the back of its skull, and the boy smiled at his prowess. It was ironic that Cimmeria was the only place in the solar system where Nutria seemed welcome, as they kept the lalit that fell from the towers from growing too tall, even if just barely. Nutria were much cheaper, though much less effective, than machines. Most Cimmerians didn’t mind. The nutria that grazed on lalit were immensely more delicious than any found on Earth.\n\nJust before lifting his prize, the boy heard gunfire. His family didn’t own any guns. The boy’s gut lifted into his chest, and his hard skin suddenly felt awfully sensitive. He spat out the lalit seed, left the Nutria, and ran again.\n\nThe boy reached another junction a few minutes later where the lalit had been mowed down to the nub. The entrance to his home was in that central tower.\n\nThe boy saw men in mirage ponchos, their torsos invisible. But their limbs and heads sported gray armor. They pointed pulse rifles at his mother and father, who sat on their knees with their hands behind their heads. His brother and sister lay dead in the ground, the lalit nubs beneath them stained red. The pain, and there would be plenty, would come later. At that moment, the boy operated on survival instinct. He ducked into a patch of uncut lalit, pressing his body against a tower wall.\n\nOne of the men had no helmet, and held the wheel and striated tube shapes of a particle gun. An actual particle gun, made on Earth! He was clearly their leader.\n\nThe leader approached the boy’s father. “Worthless, inhuman, Objectivist fucks,” he grumbled.\n\nWhy did the man say that? It made no sense to associate such insults with Objectivism. As far as the boy knew, an Objectivist was nothing more than a person from Cimmeria.\n\nThe leader pointed the particle gun at the boy’s father, making the boy’s lungs freeze-up. “I’ll give you 3 chances to enlighten yourself. Repeat after me. 2 plus 2 is in the eye of the beholder.”\n\nThe boy’s father looked up at the leader with a wince and clenched teeth. “2 plus 2 is 4,” he whispered.\n\nThe leader raised his particle gun and fired. The boy perceived nothing but a flash and hiss from the barrel. But his father fell onto his back screaming in pain. A puff of black smoke rose from the palm sized piece of char on the father’s chest where his tee shirt and skin once were.\n\n“2nd chance,” the leader said. “Repeat after me. I am only who others believe me to be.”\n\nThrough his cries, the boy’s father managed to growl, “No one can take away my identity!”\n\nThe leader fired again, turning another palm sized hunk of skin into smoke and char, this time on the father’s stomach. He screamed louder, clutching his burns and writhing in pain. By then, the mother was also sobbing and screaming, and the boy shivered in hiding.\n\n“Last chance,” the leader said. “Repeat after me. Truth is nothing but the rapist and murderer of individuality.”\n\n‘[i]Pretend to agree![/i]’, the boy thought. Why couldn’t his father just pretend to agree with the leader’s words, however insane they were?\n\nThrough his growls, the father barely choked out the words, “fact is absolute, final, universal, and eternal!”\n\n“Wrong answer!” the leader said.\n\nThe leader turned a dial on his particle gun and fired again. The father’s body erupted into billows of black smoke with white flashes of particle arcs inside. Only his desiccated, blackened corpse remained. The mother screamed louder.\n\nThe leader held the barrel of the particle gun to the mother’s chest, who finally hushed. “Would you like to tell me any so-called facts? Would you like to tell me just how wrong Postmodernism is?”\n\nAs he wept, the boy wondered again. Why did this man associate such ideas with such titles? As far as he knew, a Postmodernist was nothing more than a person from Tharsis.\n\nThe mother shook her head. “There’s nothing in this region but agri-towers. We live on subsistence. This land is worthless!”\n\n“Well, here in eastern Cimmeria, yes,” the leader answered. “But your neighbors at the Sea of Hellas? Those mines are just waiting for more rational owners. Just think of your farm as stepping stone on the path to the enlightenment of Cimmeria, courtesy of your Postmodern Tharsian neighbors.”\n\n“You don’t represent Tharsis!” the mother shouted.\n\n“We will,” the leader replied calmly.\n\nSomething snapped in the boys gut. He stood, drawing the attention of the armed men. He cocked his crossbow and fired, but the bolt bounced off the leader's leg armor. It took only long enough for the leader to turn to Christopher for one of his followers to smack him in the face with the butt of a pulse rifle, knocking the boy out cold onto the ground.\n\n“Leave Christopher out of this!” the mother screamed.\n\nThe leader turned toward her. “Why? Do you have something to offer me?”\n\n“Half a kilo of pure 440 kelvin superconductor,” the mother answered. “I keep it for hard times.”\n\n“What do we do?” one of the armed men asked their leader.\n\n“I’m a trusting guy,” the leader answered. He turned back to the mother. “I’ll have him sent to Earth as a refugee. No need for payment up front. Just be warned. If you don’t have that superconductor, you’ll spend a very, very, very long time wishing you were dead.”\n\n[center]—2—[/center]\nChristopher lay curled up in bed, squeezing a gelatinous pillow against his body. He still wore his khaki shorts, uncomfortable with the cold, slick alloy silks given to him. He would almost swear that some lubricating liquid coated said silk if not for the fact that nothing ever rubbed off on his skin from it. He had thrown the tie-dye motif blankets and sheets on the teal carpet, since they too were made of the substance.\n\nBefore coming to Earth, Christopher had never lain on such a soft and plush, or large, bed. He had never seen a 6 meter wall covered entirely in display film. He had tried to watch videos on it, but its sheer size gave him vertigo. He had seen Earthlings, so short and squat, like dwarf bodybuilders, but he had never seen so many at once. He had never felt such aches in his knees and back just from walking, or the feeling of his face sagging toward the floor. Most of all, he had never felt such an odd form of despair that left him expressionless and able to observe himself with disinterest, as if he were an outsider peering into someone else’s brain.\n\nThe studio door slid open and in walked a dark skinned man with silver hair tied in a ponytail. He wore what looked like a pink nightgown, making Christopher tense in discomfort. A grown man in a dress who wasn’t trying to stand out in any way? This man, and his 2 equally disfashionable assistants, was supposed to take care of him from now on? From what Christopher saw out the window, all of his new supposed siblings also wore such clothes.\n\nThe man approached the bed and sat down next to Christopher, making him curl up tighter against his pillows. “Leave me alone, Bassoon.” That was one of the American phrases Christopher had memorized during his week on Earth.\n\nBassoon shook his head even though Christopher couldn’t see it. He laid a hand on Christopher’s back, making him curl up tighter.\n\n“Put on your goggles,” Bassoon replied.\n\nThat was another phrase Christopher had memorized. He believed he would have no trouble speaking American, as both it and Cimmerian descended from Transitional English. But he didn’t know that only American grammar was purely English, while most of its vocabulary was anglified from the now extinct Spanish. American also had nearly twice as many determiners and prepositions as Cimmerian, enough to make his head spin. How the language managed that with 4 fewer letters than Cimmerian and no diacritics was beyond Christopher.\n\nChristopher swiped a pair of goggles from a green crystal end table and put them on. They would automatically display the Cimmerian translations of over 300 languages, even though one could converse with well over 99 percent of Earth using only 7.\n\n“You’ve barely moved from your bed this whole week,” Bassoon said.\n\n“Leave me alone, Bassoon,” Christopher repeated, this time in Cimmerian, his words translated by Bassoon’s goggles.\n\n“I cognize your parents would’ve wanted you to find a new reason to go on,” Bassoon said. “I brought you some back and knee braces so standing up won’t be such a hassle. Although you’ll still need prosthetics eventually.”\n\n“Standing up means I have to go outside,” Christopher replied. “I don’t want to see anyone.”\n\n“What is it that scares you?” Bassoon asked.\n\n“I don’t know,” Christopher grumbled.\n\n“What if it makes you happy?” Bassoon asked.\n\n“I don’t want to be happy,” Christopher answered.\n\n“I cognize that’s what your family would’ve wanted,” Bassoon said.\n\nBassoon lifted his hand from Christopher’s back and stood. He dropped a tiny red backpack slung over one shoulder onto the bed and exited Christopher’s studio. Christopher waited several minutes before rolling over and opening the backpack. Inside he found a blue squeeze-bottle filled with icy milk and a clear plastic box containing a giant Belgian waffle covered in jams of red, blue, and yellow, and a mound of whipped green delight.\n\nChristopher rolled onto his belly, situated his food, and began taking small bites. To him, a waffle was a soft flatbread with pockets on only one side in which to spread spicy meat paste, and then rolled up and eaten as a wrap. When he first asked for one, the results both shocked and delighted him. He was also quite put off to learn that his eggs, dairy, and meat were all synthesized in industrial laboratories rather than harvested from live animals, but he quickly got over that.\n\nAfter a time, Christopher shook his head, closed the containers, and placed them on the end table. He looked in the backpack again, finding chitinous black clothing, a tank-top and a pair of knee-huggers, as he called them on Mars. He picked up the backpack and tossed it to the floor.\n\n“Computer? Turn off the lights,” Christopher said.\n\nThe lights dimmed and Christopher looked at the stars from out the window. Earthlings had the most insatiable sweet toothes. Even his synthesized milk tasted like it was mixed with caramel. Much as he loved it at first, he quickly became sick of it. They also couldn’t mind their own damn business if their lives depended on it, always wanting to butt in on what other people were thinking, or cognizing as they insisted on calling it. They also insisted there was a difference, but whatever that difference was eluded him. They looked so outgoing, so extroverted, and so utterly brusque and tactless. Haven’t these people ever heard of manners?\n\nChristopher decided he shouldn’t judge all of Earth like this. Maybe it was different outside of Ӿālïfornyū, or however they spelled the name of this town in American. After about an hour of watching the stars, Christopher fell asleep.\n\n[center]—3—[/center]\nThe next morning, Christopher finally stepped foot outside his studio, wearing a red alloy silk tunic and trousers no less, mostly to cover up the chitinous tank-top and knee-huggers that would have made him even more self-conscious than he already was. He had tinted his goggles, as the sun’s brightness hurt his pink eyes, and gave himself a sunscreen injection before stepping outside. He still felt heavy and sluggish, and his face still felt like it was sagging. But at least with his new supports, his back and knees were finally painless.\n\nYellow patches and weeds littered the unkempt grass in the dorm's yard. A prefab. playground of stiff fabrics that would bend and sway under weight stood in the center. He didn’t want to touch that. It didn't look safe.\n\nChristopher didn’t know what time it was. It would take him a long while to adjust to Earth’s bizarre clock. He did know it was a school day, and that most of the children were away. 2 still remained, a fair skinned boy with slick black hair and a girl whose skin and hair were both red. They both wore nightgowns! How were they supposed to tell who was supposed to act like the girl? Maybe they didn’t care. It looked like it, from the way they chased each other with stiff foam halberds, beating each other, hooking each other around the legs and necks, tripping each other with the hafts and their own feet, and laughing the whole time. It made Christopher tense.\n\nHe waited until they succumbed to pain and sought shelter beneath the awnings of the blue painted U-Shaped dorm. The boy bled from his nose, and the girl from her mouth. How could any so-called foster allow this?\n\nAn animal waited on a rocking chair for the boy, what looked like a red and black blotched lemur except for that it was much too big and walked upright, though it was shorter than even the boy. The animal leaped out of its plastic rocking chair into the boy’s arms, licking the blood from his face. He and the girl sat in adjacent rocking chairs and talked. The boy scratched the animal’s throat, who leaned back and trilled in response.\n\nChristopher approached, but stopped and reared back, blinking rapidly, when he saw the boy stop scratching the animal, and the animal respond by shoving its muzzle against his lips. Christopher cringed he saw the boy accept the animal’s tongue in his mouth.\n\nThe animal noticed when the boy opened his eyes and stopped moving. The animal broke the kiss and turned to look at Christopher.\n\nSeeing the Martian boy standing before them, the boy and girl wiped their blood on their sleeves and reached into their pockets for their goggles to put on.\n\n“Christopher?” the boy asked. “Christopher Brown? That is your name, right?”\n\nChristopher nodded.\n\n“Is there something wrong?” the boy asked.\n\n“That was disgusting,” Christopher answered.\n\n“What?” the boy asked.\n\n“Tongue-kissing a monkey!” Christopher shouted.\n\nThe boy suddenly sat up straighter and wrapped his arms around the animal. “He’s not a monkey! He’s a strepsil!”\n\nThe strepsil looked back and forth between his human and Christopher. From his lover’s words, he pieced together that this strange thin boy had just called him a monkey. The strepsil barked at Christopher, making him step back.\n\n“That’s a he?!” Christopher shouted.\n\nThe boy nodded. “Yeah. Why?”\n\nThat fact alone normally wouldn’t have bothered Christopher. Martians rarely had prejudices toward gender attractions. But combined with the other facts, it became too much.\n\nThe girl turned to the boy and shrugged. “Everybody’s got to find something gross.” She turned to Christopher. “I’m Decibel, and this is Axis, and that’s Mocha.”\n\nThe Strepsil, Mocha, nodded and chirped.\n\nDecibel stood and approached Christopher. She clasped her hands together and hesitated to talk. She looked away from him and her voice took on a somber tone. The children were all told what had happened to Christopher. “Is there... anything I can do for you?”\n\nChristopher didn’t expect that question, and hesitated in turn to respond. “I... um... don’t.... um... know. Maybe... maybe the food here is too sweet. Maybe... maybe I’d like something a little more savory. Maybe... maybe some lalit ale soup?”\n\nLalit ale soup? His mother had made that for the family damn near 3 days a week back on Mars! He had grown to despise the monotony. There were times when he swore out loud that he’d sooner kill himself than eat the stuff again. But after mentioning it, a vacuum filled Christopher’s torso, a vacuum that only lalit ale soup could fill.\n\n“I’ll find a place that serves it,” Decibel said. “I’ll find the place where all the Martians eat.”\n\nChristopher furrowed his brow. All the Martians? Only Cimmerians ate true lalit ale soup. It was an ethnic food in Tharsis, and Tharsians could never get it just perfect. Most Noachisis hated it. And that cold, white salsa they made in Elysium? Calling that crap lalit ale soup was an insult to the dish! Christopher clenched his fists but quickly calmed. He remembered how shocking Earth still was to him. These children likely knew just as little about Mars.\n\nSomething then distracted Christopher. Decibel held a finger to the side of her goggles. He recognized the telltale twitches in her face.\n\n“You have a neural interface in those goggles?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Yeah,” Decibel answered.\n\n“Is this dorm rich?” Christopher asked.\n\nDecibel laughed. “All dorms are given the same number of credits per child.”\n\n“Then how could you afford one of your own?” Christopher asked. “I only ever used them at school, and at storefronts.”\n\n“Well... I don’t know how the economics of neural interfaces work on Mars. But here on Earth, they’re cheaper than air,” Decibel said. “Everybody’s got at least two. Your own goggles have one!”\n\n“They do?” Christopher asked. He put a finger to the side of his goggles and concentrated. Suddenly, he was accessing Earth’s network with his brain. He felt a dozen tiny disembodied fingertips in front of him with which he could surf. “They do!”\n\nChristopher quickly closed the network and lowered his hand. Everything was written in American, and he didn’t yet know how to command the goggles to translate text from the network.\n\n“I’ve got it!” Decibel said. “A hole-in-the-wall called Momma Claire’s. I’ll call a transit drone to fly us there.”\n\nChristopher furrowed his brow again. Transit drone fare wasn’t cheap, at least as far as he remembered. “Are transit drone rides cheaper than air here too?”\n\nDecibel lowered her hand and looked at Christopher. “Cheaper than that even. They’re free.”\n\n[center]—3—[/center]\nChristopher felt comfortable for the very first time on Earth. The floors were bamboo and the walls square tile with cracking taupe glaze, decorated with neon tube hiroglyphs and aluminum pots of pygmy bamboo looking like masses of fingers. The hole-in-the-wall felt Martian all the way down to the Martians, who made up half the customers. And they were even speaking Cimmerian, although they had adopted Earthling clothes.\n\nBut something was off. The strepsil had his own seat at the bar, next to Axis. The waitress came by and even set down 4 bowls of lalit ale soup, 4 bottles of basil fizzies, and 4 napkins with spoons. She served the animal alongside the humans. Why?\n\n“What’s Mocha doing sitting up here?” Christopher asked. ‘[i]Mou[s]x[/s]ū[/i]’, he tried spelling in his brain.\n\n“Eating,” Axis replied.\n\n“But he’s just a pet,” Christopher said.\n\n“He's my love-pet!,” Axis said. “He's my boyfriend and he's smarter than any ape. I cognize that makes him entitled.”\n\nAxis wrapped an arm around Mocha and mouthed the strepsil’s ear. Mocha stared beady eyed at Christopher, wondering, from Axis’s words, what the strange thin boy had just said about him. The glare put a knot in Christopher’s throat, and he turned back to his bowl.\n\n“Why not get a human... um... boyfriend?” Christopher asked.\n\nDecibel looked over and decided to speak up, Axis being too busy chewing on Mocha’s ear. “Because equality-based romances just don’t work! They're doomed from the start.Only a nurture-based relationship can ever really last. Even the words contradict each other... [i]equality[/i] and [i]romance[/i]?\"\n\nThe sentiment made Christopher tense and sent itches running down his back. Is that what Earthlings really believed? Then what about his mother and father? Christopher decided not to respond and forced the idea from his brain. He inhaled the lalit ale soup. There was something different about its smell, but he disregarded that and took a taste. But instead of filling the void inside him, it only made him even more empty. Even Tharsians made better lalit ale soup than this.\n\n“What’s the matter?” Axis asked, his arm still around Mocha’s shoulder.\n\nChristopher shook his head. “This stuff’s too weak.”\n\n“What do you mean?” Axis asked.\n\n“There wasn’t enough gruit in the ale,” Christopher answered.\n\n“Gruit?” Decibel asked.\n\n“Gruit. It’s fermented beef paste and tsuraittake, hops, capers, caraway, and yarrow,” Christopher said. “There wasn’t enough gruit in the ale. I don’t even think they smoked it.”\n\n“You’re not going to find real lalit ale soup anywhere on Earth.”\n\nThe voice spoke in Cimmerian. Christopher turned to see the waitress leaning over the counter on her forearms, looking at him. “Or at least... nowhere I know of,” she continued. “Not unless you make your own ale for it. All these Cimmerians? They come here for the bulbins.”\n\nBulbins were a quasi-dessert of chunky meats flavored with coffee and sweetened with honey, baked in the center of a hard, crusty baguette. Christopher was in no mood for a bulbin. He’d had his fill of sweets days ago. He pushed the bowl back, Clasped his hands on the counter, and rested his chin in them. The waitress went back to serving other customers. Mocha, Axis, and Decibel all stared at Christopher, who glanced at them.\n\n“Is there anything else you want to do?” Decibel asked.\n\n“I don’t know,” Christopher sighed, shrugging. “I want to go somewhere where I can... forget everything?”\n\n“I cognize the Cat’s Parish would be perfect for you,” Axis said. His actual words were ‘la Karato da Kato’, but the rhyme was lost in translation.\n\n“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to go there myself,” Decibel added.\n\n[center]—4—[/center]\nThey had just walked through the ancient revolving door, and already The Cat’s Parish had one of the oddest ambiances Chistopher had ever seen. Gothic gold embossing on red carpets gave way to purple velvet covered walls. Green lamps dimly lit the foyer. The furniture was florally shaped porcelain. Christopher likened the place to stereotypical descriptions of brothels, but that was just ridiculous.\n\nAn old woman waddled the creaky staircase, tightly gripping its handrail. She had grayed hair tied back in a bun, wearing a flowing tigerstripe toga. Something was terribly wrong with her. After only a second, Christopher blinked and shook his head, realizing what. Fur covered the woman, orange tabby fur that hid her fine lines, exposing only her deep wrinkles. Her ears stuck out like large triangles. Her nose and mouth were like a cat’s, and whiskers twitched beneath said nose. Oddly, she had no tail. If not for her goggles, he would have even seen slitted irises.\n\n“Is that another love-pet?” Christopher asked.\n\nAxis and Decibel both stared awkwardly at Christopher, who suddenly gained a new knot in his throat. At least Mocha wasn’t glaring at him this time. The strepsil sat on Axis’s shoulders, blinking softly at the Martian.\n\n“I happen to be entirely human, young master,” the old lady said. “I’ve just had a great deal of mods.”\n\n“Is everyone here like you?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Well, this is the [i]Cat’s[/i] Parish, after all,” the woman answered. She turned to the others. “I haven’t seen you two in a couple months. Who’s your new friend?”\n\n“He’s a... refugee,” Decibel said. “He’s um... had quite a hard time. We’re just trying to make him feel better.”\n\n“We’ll pay for whatever he wants,” Axis added. He looked at Christopher and waved at the old lady. “This is Madam Corona. She’ll get you anything you want. She’s a real pro; she’s been running this place for almost a hundred years.”\n\nChristopher turned to Axis with a furrow and cocked head. He recognized the word 'hundred,' but his goggles translated that as 256. Christoper didn't have time to think about it before Madam Corona stepped upon the carpet, approached, and stiffly bowed to him. Christopher stared dumbfounded at the woman.\n\n“May I have the pleasure of your name?” Madam Corona asked.\n\n“Christopher Brown,” he answered.\n\n“And what would you like today, master Brown?” Madam Corona asked.\n\nChristopher had no idea what was happening. “What do you have?”\n\nMadam Corona walked away, spinning in circles with her arms outstretched. “Males, females, shemales, and cuntboys. Tell me what you like and I’ll line them up for you.”\n\nNow Christopher was even more confused. His goggles told his that 'shemale' and 'cuntboy' were only rough translations of more proper terms that didn't exist in Cimmerian, but he still felt as if in free-fall. If not for the absurdity of the idea, he'd have been certain then that these children had just taken him, another child, to a brothel. He shook his head.\n\n“I... uh... I don’t know,” Christpher answered.\n\n“Oh, well that just won’t do,” Madam Corona replied.\n\n“Well, it is his first time, so I cognize something a bit ordinary would be best. One female for Christopher here?” Decibel said. “How about Zircon? I cognize she speaks Cimmerian.”\n\nAxis looked, up, prompting Mocha to look down at him. “How about you? You want a couple of males for the afternoon?”\n\nMocha’s tail puffed and fluttered in excitement. He nodded his head excitedly and squealed a great warble in response. He then pointed back and forth between Axis’s chest and his own.\n\n“What? Me too?” Axis asked.\n\nMocha nodded and squealed again. Axis turned to Madam Corona. “How about Oloid, Boreal, and I all be Mocha’s subs today?”\n\nMocha gave yet another squeal and fluttered his tail harder at the proposal.\n\n“I’ll take my usual,” Decibel said, raising her hand.\n\n“Your usual?” Madam Corona asked. “More like your always.”\n\n\"Hey!\" Decibel shouted. \"I'm paying twenty credits for it, aren't I?\"\n\nChristopher sharply turned toward Decibel with a squint and a glower. This was the 2nd time that had happened. He recognized the word twenty, but his goggles translated it as 32. There was no time to ponder this. Madam Corona began walking up the stairs.\n\n“Right this way, everyone,” she said.\n\n[center]—5—[/center]\nThe Cat’s Parish got stranger and stranger the deeper Christopher ventured inside. Madam Corona had ushered him into what looked like a hotel room. It had the same carpets and walls and green lamps and porcelain furniture. But why would a hotel room this small have such a huge bed and huge whirlpool tub? And why would said tub, and the bathroom walls, both be made of glass? The red velvet spread over the bed he sat on felt much better against his skin than alloy silk. Christopher ran his hand and across it. He looked at the calico girl sitting on the edge of the bed, orange hair cut short, breasts almost spilling out of her tigerstripe toga. His goggles rested on the bed, so he could see her in acute detail. Zircon was burlier than most Martian males, but her curves still made Christopher blush.\n\nZircon fluttered her eyes and smiled. “So what should I do?”\n\n“I don’t know,” Christopher answered. “I guess whatever you suppose you should.”\n\nZircon’s eyes narrowed and her smile widened. She got on her hands and knees and slinked over to Christopher. She sat up on her knees and pulled open the top of her toga, exposing her breasts to him. Christopher blinked. But when she leaned over and planted her lips on his, the truth Christopher had scoffed at suddenly became undeniable. He shoved against her, but only succeeded in throwing himself onto his back. He crawled to the back of the bed, shaking his head.\n\n“Fuck! Get the fuck away!” Christopher shouted.\n\nShe had to obey. In a blur of motion, Zircon hopped off the bed, rewrapped her breasts, and backed into the far wall with her hands up and her gaze averted.\n\n[center]—6—[/center]\n“I just cognized that—”\n\n“You thought wrong!” Christopher interrupted Axis. “Or cognized! Whatever! You took me to a whorehouse? And not just that. That woman had to be almost middle aged. I’m only 7!”\n\nAxis and Decibel’s goggles translated 7 into thirteen, Martian years being longer than Earth years.\n\n“I don’t understand,” Decibel said, shaking her head. “What’s wrong with that?”\n\n“What’s wrong?!” Christopher began to weep silently. “Isn’t that... child molesting?!”\n\nAxis and Decibel looked at each other with quizzical expressions, and then back at Christopher.\n\n“Only if she has authority in the matter, or tries to fool you,” Axis answered. “But the whole brothel could get shut down if she ever lied. And she didn’t have any authority. You had all it all. Zircon was your servant.”\n\n“Sh-sh-shut the hell up!” Christopher shouted.\n\nChristopher leaped onto his bed and grabbed a gelatinous pillow to squeeze against his body, his back toward Axis and Decibel. He had taken off his tunic and shoes, now wearing only his socks, trousers, knee-huggers, and tank-top. Christopher began to sob under his breath, but stopped just as quickly. He wondered, was being a refugee on Earth really any better than dying at the hand of that weird man with his twisted logic? There had to be something on this planet worth living for, but at that moment, Christopher couldn’t imagine any. Everything was so bizarre here, so debauched, so tumultuous, so excessive. Would he, could he, ever feel comfortable in such an environment? Could he get used to it?\n\nChristopher’s brain slowly turned a blank and his breath calmed. He didn’t move for several minutes. Axis and Decibel looked at each other, looked down, and began walking toward the door of Christopher’s studio. As it slid open, Christopher rolled over.\n\n“Wait,” he said.\n\nAxis and Decibel turned back.\n\n“I’m sorry,” Christopher said. “I know you were just trying to be nice.”\n\n“We still want to help,” Decibel said.\n\n“Is there anything you might want?” Axis asked. “But you should probably cognize about it before you ask, because I don’t want the diner and the brothel to happen again. Maybe something Earth and Mars have in common?”\n\nSomething Earth and Mars have in common? Christopher had trouble imagining what. There had to be something. Perhaps? Yes! They had to have that in common.\n\n“Do they play sports here on Earth?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Of course!” Axis answered.\n\n“What kind?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Mostly fighting,” Axis answered.\n\nChristopher sat upright, cross-legged, with a sneer. “Fighting? How’s that a sport?”\n\nAxis shrugged. “Well, there’s arenas, judges, rules, safety equipment—”\n\n“Oh, you mean dueling!” Christopher interrupted.\n\nThe 3 children spent some time looking back and forth between each other, and simultaneously let out a single laugh. They all knew what had happened. Apparently, the American and Cimmerian words for ‘fight’ had slightly different connotations.\n\nChristopher bit his lip and looked down, squeezing the gelatinous pillow harder against his body. He remembered the weekly duels on the holo back home. They were family affairs. Everyone sat on the floor with the lights off, a feast made by his mother splayed out in silver bowls in front of them, everyone reaching their hands to grab food. The family room would be a mess by the time it was over. He sat on his father’s lap and received a ruffling of his hair whenever the old man’s duelist scored, and a gentle slap to the knee whenever the other duelist scored. His mother and father handed cash back and forth as they bet on the duel. The smells of the polymers wafted into his nose as the bills passed by him. And the duels themselves! The Duelists would dress in the most elaborate leather vestments and leather helms, with iron bracers and greaves etched into fantastic motifs: eagles or spiders or motor engines or volcanoes, among others. And they flew through the air, spinning and somersaulting into each other. After 3 times failing to land on one’s feet, the round was over. The best of ten rounds emerged victorious.\n\nIf Earth and Mars shared anything, it had to be the majesty of sport.\n\nBefore Christopher could ask, Decibel already held a finger to her goggles. “Looks like there’s a pretty good local fight this evening at the Docks Arena. Pilcrow vs Cinnabar. Seats are only half-full, so the tickets shouldn’t be expensive. I’ll take us all out to watch!”\n\n[center]—7—[/center]\nThe crowd was rowdier than what Christopher remembered on Mars, but given what he’d experienced so far, he had expected that. The seats were large and cushy, upholstered in the softest pink suede he’d ever felt. Christopher couldn’t help but try to bounce on his at least once. 3 rows back from the circular ring enclosed in glass, he had a great view as well. The audience around him jumped up and down, ignoring their seats and screaming the names of Pilcrow and Cinnabar at the top of their lungs. The red curtains wrapping around the small, circular arena faded from sight as all lights faded save the ones illuminating the ring. The crowd’s screams suddenly turned to cheers, and soon after, everyone silenced and fell to their seats.\n\nAxis walked in front of Christopher and Decibel, Mocha once again sitting on his shoulders. He sat down and dropped the four huge old-timey glass fizzy bottles he carried onto his lap, filled with the Docks Arena's own house coca-cola recipe. He passed them around with bottlecap openers and then sat Mocha on his lap, giving the strepsil his own bottle.\n\nThe crowd cheered again as a mechanical arm from the ceiling lowered a small, saucer like platform ringed with red stanchion rope. A man in bright red robes stood on the platform. He hovered just above the ring. A trap door raised a pitch black skinned man with shaggy brown curls into the ring. Christopher gazed in curiosity at what the man wore: a thin, red, scalpless boxing helmet, a thick blue muscle shirt with a turtleneck that only covered his chest, a pair of blue shorts, and black compression wraps on his hands, feet, elbows, and knees.\n\n“What’s he wearing?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Sheer thickening armor,” Decibel answered. “Just enough to keep him from getting killed.”\n\n“Killed?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Nobody’s going to get killed,” Axis answered, scratching Mocha’s chest with his free hand.\n\nChristopher then noticed the duelist’s muscles. He wondered how the man could move with that kind of bulk. With his brawn, he could probably snap a Martian’s arm in one hand. But his skin was still soft. Given blades, he would be filleted, while the Martian would only suffer flesh wounds. But that would be a fight, not a duel.\n\n“In the blue corner,” shouted the announcer atop his platform. “Standing one point nine three meters and weighing in at one hundred and thirteen kilos, Pilcrow!”\n\nThe crowd cheered. Another trap door raised a fair man with frizzy black hair into the opposite corner. He wore the same outfit in red.\n\n“In the red corner,” shouted the announcer. “Standing two point oh-three meters tall, and weighing in at one hundred and eight kilos, Cinnabar!”\n\nThe crowd cheered.\n\n“This fight will last until one contestant either submits, or loses consciousness,” the announcer shouted.\n\n“What?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Ready? Begin!” The announcer shouted.\n\nThe crowd cheered as Pilcrow and Cinnabar raised their fists and skipped toward each other. They danced around each other for a minute, throwing mock punches and kicks to gauge each others’ attitudes. Then a blinding roundhouse kick to the side sent Pilcrow hunching over, clutching his kidney. Another kick connected, but Pilcrow caught it in one arm. He swung an open hand downward, but Cinnabar swung his head back to avoid it. Pilcrow still saved his swipe, cutting bleeding scratches into Cinnabar’s abs. Cinnabar brought an elbow down onto Pilcrow’s caught leg. Pilcrow ignored the pain, but a subsequent uppercut to the head knocked him onto his back. Cinnabar leaped atop Pilcrow but miscalculated, taking 3 kicks to the face. Blood streamed from his nose when he finally scrambled back.\n\nThe crowd cheered for each vicious attack, including Axis, Decibel, and Mocha, who trilled and flapped his tail across Axis’s chest. Christopher’s gut lifted into his chest and he cringed watching the blood and injury befall the 2 duelists.\n\nPilcrow and Cinnabar both scrambled to their feet and continued dancing around each other, throwing mock blows until a sloppy step back allowed Pilcrow to tackle Cinnabar, wrapping his arms around Cinnabar’s legs and trying to trip him. Cinnabar brought elbows down onto Pilcrow’s back until he finally fell backward with Pilcrow atop him. Pilcrow came down with his knee into Cinnabar’s groin, and began repeatedly punching Cinnabar in the side while Cinnabar tried to wrestle control of Pilcrow’s body. Eventually, he succeeded. He grabbed Pilcrow behind the head and swung his body into a fetal position, slamming his knee against Pilcrow’s face.\n\nThe crowd cheered. Christopher curled up in his seat, clenched his teeth, and wriggled his fingers.\n\nPilcrow scrambled back and struggled to stand as Cinnabar raked nails across his scalp. His face bled even more. He caught himself on his fingertips against the glass. Cinnabar had by then got up onto his feet with one hand clutching his groin. He threw his other down in a knifehand against Pilcrow’s supporting fingers, breaking all 4 of them.\n\nThe crowd cheered. Christopher wailed in terror and clutched his hair.\n\nPilcrow shrieked in pain, but continued to fight. The knifehand momentarily threw Cinnabar off balance, allowing Pilcrow to grab his opponent's neck with his still good hand. Their armors only hardened on impact, allowing Pilcrow to still strangle his opponent. Pilcrow staggered backwards, dragging Cinnabar with him. Pilcrow let go and leaped into the air with a rising knee, striking Cinnabar in the nose. They stood back from each other, blood now streaming from both of their faces.\n\nThe crowd cheered. Christopher got up from his seat and ran, hunched over and covering his head, as fast as he could out of the arena. If that was what Earthlings called a duel, it was no wonder Mars had lost [i]both[/i] wars.\n\n[center]—7—[/center]\n“How are they supposed to live lives after that?!” Christopher screamed.\n\n\"Live... lives?\" Decibel asked. \"What does religion have to do with this?\"\n\n\"What?\" Christopher asked back. \"I was talking about doing things. You know... that require hands.\"\n\n“Oh! Well, Pilcrow will get his fingers replaced,” Decibel said. “And Cinnabar will get his testicles replaced if he needs to. And they’ll both get nose replacements and cell transplants, so they’ll heal up in no time like nothing ever happened.”\n\nIt took a moment for Christopher to believe what he just heard. “And they can afford that?”\n\n“What do you mean afford?” Decibel said. “It’s free.”\n\n“Free?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Yeah. All medical expenses are subsidized. You only have to pay for cosmetics,” Decibel answered.\n\n“All of them?” Christopher asked. “How does Earth get enough surgeons for that?”\n\n“Surgeons?” Decibel said. “Earth barely has any surgeons. Almost everyone uses robot surgeons here.”\n\nChristopher finally calmed. He looked down. How many robot surgeons would Earth need to meet that kind of demand? There’d have to be 10s or even 100s in every major city, over a 1,000 in the biggest! Christopher knew that Earth was a much wealthier world than Mars, but that was hard to imagine.\n\nDecibel approached Christopher and held out a transdermal patch in her palm. “If you want it, this should make you feel just a tiny bit better.”\n\n“What is it?” Christopher asked.\n\n“Visco,” Decibel answered.\n\nChristopher suddenly gasped and swatted the patch out of Decibel’s hand. “You’re giving me drugs?!”\n\nDecibel stepped back.\n\n“I’m sorry,” Christopher said. “I just want to be alone for a while. I want to... I want to be someplace alone, where I can just do alone type stuff.”\n\nDecibel nodded. “Well, transit drones are free, so wherever you want to go, as long as you come back by school schedule.”\n\nChristopher nodded in turn. Axis and Decibel turned and slowly walked out of Christopher’s studio. Back in just his supports and trousers, Christopher collapsed backwards onto his bed. He grabbed a gelatinous pillow, but then placed it back. He rolled onto his belly and scooted toward the crystal end table. His pump-action crossbow leaned against it. He took it in his hands and rolled onto his back, cocking the pump repeatedly, ejecting bolts onto the floor until the crossbow was empty. If transit drones were free, he would take one into the wilderness where no one else would bother him. He would do what he wanted, the way he wanted. He would hunt. That was always a great stress reliever.\n\nChristopher laid the crossbow on his chest and put a finger to his goggles. It was time he learned how to translate the local network from American.\n\n[center]—8—[/center]\nThe stalks of thistle dropped spiny pods with their spiny pink flowers as Christopher ran through the hilly meadow toward the redwood forest ahead. An earthling would bleed badly after jaunting through thistle, but he did so without a care in only khaki shorts and his chitinous supports. He stopped and knelt down, gazing at the bends in the grass and thistle, trying to regain the trail he'd lost in the starry night. He found it again.\n\nChristopher stood, cocked his crossbow, and continued running. He looked for the telltale bends and scratches on the grass and thistle, and found them. The trail headed left at a crevice between two hills, toward the redwood forest. The boy put the crossbow to his shoulder as he saw rustling in the grass and thistle. Coming closer, he saw flashes of steel gray fur and fired, using the rustles as his guide.\n\nThe rustles stopped. Christopher slung his crossbow and lanked over to his prize, a fat male hare. The bolt had pierced the back of its skull, and he smiled at his prowess. Christopher was sure that the intense gravity would ruin his aim, but his shot was perfect. A wave of warmth and relief washed over Christopher as he fell to his knees and sobbed up at the stars for some time. After exhausting his tears, Christopher stood, picked up the hare, and draped it around his neck. The animal was smaller than the nutria in Cimmeria, but was still heavier on Earth. Christopher didn't mind, not with the relief he felt. He wasn't a terrible cook. He was nothing compared to his mother, but he could still turn the hare into something decent at his studio kitchenette.\n\nChristopher began walking, but soon knelt and laid down on his back in the grass and thistle. He laid his head on the slain hare as a pillow, and decided to sleep in the wild that night.\n\n[center]—9—[/center]\nThe other 11 children ran about in their loose, flowing alloy silk clothes in the yard of their dorm. 4 had love-pets. One boy sat on the back of his black loptor, briefly talking to two other children before motioning his head toward the fabric playground. The loptor took off, the boy riding her, until they reached a bright yellow cloth tunnel. The boy hopped off his pet and crawled inside, the loptor following. A girl lay on her side atop the green and white striped awning above a fabric bridge in the playground, her arms wrapped around a bright golden mustel, far larger than even the giant river otter it was based on, lips and muzzle locked. A boy sat under the shade of an awning in front of the door to his studio, his bright green dragon sitting up on her haunches. They silently played pattycake faster and faster until the boy slipped, shoving a hand into his dragon’s snout, who chortled at him.\n\nAxis and Decibel chased each other round and round the playground with stiff foam halberds, beating each other, hooking each other around the legs and necks, tripping each other with the hafts and their own feet. Decibel had a black eye and Axis a bloody nose. They both laughed the entire time. Mocha waited in the rocking chair by Axis’s studio.\n\nOther children played with each other in various other ways until a boxy blue shape with its four glowing, swivel-mounted repulsor rings began to descend into the yard. The transit drone touched down and its side door slid open. Christopher stepped out in just his khaki shorts and chitinous supports. The transit drone’s door closed and the vehicle took back off into the air.\n\nChristopher unslung and dropped his crossbow to the ground. He held up his prized hare in both hands and grinned, catching the eye of Axis and Decibel.\n\n“Check out what I just bagged!” Christopher shouted.\n\nChristopher’s smile slowly turned into a glower as he realized that the other children were slowly stopping everything they were doing to stare at him morbidly. Some retreated into their studios. Axis and Decibel dropped their foam halberds and backed away.\n\nChristopher’s foster in his pink nightgown, flanked by his 2 equally disfashionable assistants, marched forward toward Christopher. He stepped back against the fence and lowered his hare as Bassoon and the co-fosters crowded him. His expression mimicked the look of horror the foster gave.\n\n“Christopher,” Bassoon said. “What have you done?”\n\n[center]—9—[/center]\nChristopher sat in the big black desk chair, hugging his knees to his chest with his wrists and ankles wrapped in fabric shackles. The blue ceramic walls and ceiling of the tiny room made it seem like a box closing in on him. He shivered. His eyes were bloodshot from being stretched so wide for so long. He gasped as the door to the room slid open. A clean-shaven, head-shaven man in a mandarin coat and cargo pants in glimmering silver, a black utility belt, and white slip-on boots, walked past the white coffee table and sat in the chair across from him.\n\n“Please don’t be afraid Christopher,” the man said.\n\n“Why are you punishing me?” Christopher asked.\n\nThe man shook his head and shushed Christopher repeatedly. “No, no, no. Nobody’s punishing you. You’ve just been placed under behavioral quarantine, that’s all.”\n\n“Quarantine?” Christopher asked. “So you’re sending me to prison?”\n\n“No!” the man said. “There are no prisons on Earth. And you’re not going to be confined in a quarantine center either. You’re still free. Your level of behavioral quarantine just means we can track your location intermittently if we have probable cause, and you can’t call transit drones without permission. But nobody is going to confine you.”\n\n“Then why am I here?” Christopher asked.\n\n“We just need to know if you’re dangerous or not,” the man said.\n\n“Why would I be dangerous?” Christopher asked.\n\n“You killed a wild animal solely for leisure,” the man said. “And not something like a bug or a little fish. It was a middle-mammal. People who do that can sometimes be capable of hurting other people.”\n\n“I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone,” Christopher said. “I used to hunt nutria all the time at my family’s farm. But I’d never hurt a person.”\n\n“We just have to know for sure,” the man said. “All it means is that we’re going to give you a couple of brain scans. That’s all. And the results will probably even suggest we lower your quarantine level. My name is Officer Hadron. I brought something for you. Your foster said you like them.”\n\nOfficer Hadron brought a clear plastic box out from under the table. Inside was a giant Belgian waffle covered in jams in red, blue, and yellow, and a mound of whipped green delight.\n\nChristopher turned his head. “I’m not in the mood for sweets right now.”\n\n“I see,” Officer Hadron whispered. “Is there something you do want?”\n\n“Maybe,” Christopher whispered back.\n\nChristopher unhooked his arms from his legs, which he set down on the floor, and touched a finger to his goggles. With his dozen disembodied fingertips, he asked the network what he could do to simply end it all. The network answered. Christopher lowered his hands.\n\n“Could I have permission to call a transit drone once the scans are over?” Christopher asked.\n\nOfficer Hadron nodded. “Of course.”\n\n[center]—8—[/center]\nA lonely Martian refugee walked inside as the door to the suicide center slid open. The young boy stared up at the display film covered ceiling, showing panoramas of stunning natural vistas: fog forests, island jungles, coral reefs, waterfalls, and snowcapped mountains. He wore a gold-colored alloy-silk robe over a silver tunic and palazzo pants, seeming to have finally lost his aversion to Earthling fashion, though his gloves were wrist length and fingerless.\n\nOthers had splayed out over puffy lounge chairs or bag-chairs or other similar seating, all upholstered in the smoothest cultured leather, or even across the carpet so thick that feet would sink into it. Others stood gazing at the giant torus shaped coral aquarium in the center of the great circular room. Still others curled up beneath the giant leaves of potted tropical plants large enough to shade them. A plain white buffet table offered free mini-confections along with coffees, teas, milks, juices, and fizzies. The suicide center was to be as comfortable as possible, and could be shut down if it wasn't.\n\nChristopher approached and flopped down on a great blue bean bag chair, and stared at the ceiling panoramas. He knew he wouldn't use the center's services, not this time at least. But how many times would he wind up coming here whenever he felt down? It would almost become a tradition for him, as it no doubt had for many others.", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "
Premise


For entertainment, many have written of futures with truly bizarre moral foundations. But for this story, I ask you to consider the possibility that this world may in fact be the future of ours!

How utterly alien are the ethics of today to the people of long past? How utterly alien would the ethics of the foreboding future be to the people of today? If you knew, would you damn your own future?

I do not judge this world of alien ethics as better or worse than ours. It is you who are meant to judge this strange world, for I ask you to consider its possibility.

The Foreboding Future

The Lonely Martian Refugee

—1—

The stalks of lalit dropped ruby red grains as the boy ran in and out of the trails chewed through them. The grains, the size of pea-pods, stuck out like quills from the thumb-thin cobs. An Earthling would bleed badly after jaunting through lalit, but the boy did so without a care in only khaki shorts. He stopped and leaned back against the metal walls of an agri-tower and pulled a grain of lalit to chew on. It was mildly sweet, woody, nutty, and even citrusy. He shook the white hair out of his face. He was albino; most Martians were.

The agri-towers were hexagonal pillars 200 meters across and 600 tall, with only 10 meter gaps between them. They sported 150 floors, most of them growing aeroponic lalit under artificial light. The circle 5 towers in diameter stretched for over a kilometer. The boy looked up and saw a trace of pink cloud through the gaps. A sandstorm blew in the distance, but judging by the cloud’s hue, it wouldn’t arrive for about an hour, enough time to finish the hunt.

The boy cocked his pump-action crossbow. He looked for the telltale bends and scratches on the lalit stalks, found the trail again, and ran. The trail headed left at a junction between three towers. The boy put the crossbow to his shoulder as he saw rustling in the lalit. Coming closer, he saw flashes of brown fur and fired, using the rustles as his guide.

The rustles stopped. The boy slung his crossbow and lanked over to his prize, a fat male nutria. The bolt had pierced the back of its skull, and the boy smiled at his prowess. It was ironic that Cimmeria was the only place in the solar system where Nutria seemed welcome, as they kept the lalit that fell from the towers from growing too tall, even if just barely. Nutria were much cheaper, though much less effective, than machines. Most Cimmerians didn’t mind. The nutria that grazed on lalit were immensely more delicious than any found on Earth.

Just before lifting his prize, the boy heard gunfire. His family didn’t own any guns. The boy’s gut lifted into his chest, and his hard skin suddenly felt awfully sensitive. He spat out the lalit seed, left the Nutria, and ran again.

The boy reached another junction a few minutes later where the lalit had been mowed down to the nub. The entrance to his home was in that central tower.

The boy saw men in mirage ponchos, their torsos invisible. But their limbs and heads sported gray armor. They pointed pulse rifles at his mother and father, who sat on their knees with their hands behind their heads. His brother and sister lay dead in the ground, the lalit nubs beneath them stained red. The pain, and there would be plenty, would come later. At that moment, the boy operated on survival instinct. He ducked into a patch of uncut lalit, pressing his body against a tower wall.

One of the men had no helmet, and held the wheel and striated tube shapes of a particle gun. An actual particle gun, made on Earth! He was clearly their leader.

The leader approached the boy’s father. “Worthless, inhuman, Objectivist fucks,” he grumbled.

Why did the man say that? It made no sense to associate such insults with Objectivism. As far as the boy knew, an Objectivist was nothing more than a person from Cimmeria.

The leader pointed the particle gun at the boy’s father, making the boy’s lungs freeze-up. “I’ll give you 3 chances to enlighten yourself. Repeat after me. 2 plus 2 is in the eye of the beholder.”

The boy’s father looked up at the leader with a wince and clenched teeth. “2 plus 2 is 4,” he whispered.

The leader raised his particle gun and fired. The boy perceived nothing but a flash and hiss from the barrel. But his father fell onto his back screaming in pain. A puff of black smoke rose from the palm sized piece of char on the father’s chest where his tee shirt and skin once were.

“2nd chance,” the leader said. “Repeat after me. I am only who others believe me to be.”

Through his cries, the boy’s father managed to growl, “No one can take away my identity!”

The leader fired again, turning another palm sized hunk of skin into smoke and char, this time on the father’s stomach. He screamed louder, clutching his burns and writhing in pain. By then, the mother was also sobbing and screaming, and the boy shivered in hiding.

“Last chance,” the leader said. “Repeat after me. Truth is nothing but the rapist and murderer of individuality.”

‘Pretend to agree!’, the boy thought. Why couldn’t his father just pretend to agree with the leader’s words, however insane they were?

Through his growls, the father barely choked out the words, “fact is absolute, final, universal, and eternal!”

“Wrong answer!” the leader said.

The leader turned a dial on his particle gun and fired again. The father’s body erupted into billows of black smoke with white flashes of particle arcs inside. Only his desiccated, blackened corpse remained. The mother screamed louder.

The leader held the barrel of the particle gun to the mother’s chest, who finally hushed. “Would you like to tell me any so-called facts? Would you like to tell me just how wrong Postmodernism is?”

As he wept, the boy wondered again. Why did this man associate such ideas with such titles? As far as he knew, a Postmodernist was nothing more than a person from Tharsis.

The mother shook her head. “There’s nothing in this region but agri-towers. We live on subsistence. This land is worthless!”

“Well, here in eastern Cimmeria, yes,” the leader answered. “But your neighbors at the Sea of Hellas? Those mines are just waiting for more rational owners. Just think of your farm as stepping stone on the path to the enlightenment of Cimmeria, courtesy of your Postmodern Tharsian neighbors.”

“You don’t represent Tharsis!” the mother shouted.

“We will,” the leader replied calmly.

Something snapped in the boys gut. He stood, drawing the attention of the armed men. He cocked his crossbow and fired, but the bolt bounced off the leader's leg armor. It took only long enough for the leader to turn to Christopher for one of his followers to smack him in the face with the butt of a pulse rifle, knocking the boy out cold onto the ground.

“Leave Christopher out of this!” the mother screamed.

The leader turned toward her. “Why? Do you have something to offer me?”

“Half a kilo of pure 440 kelvin superconductor,” the mother answered. “I keep it for hard times.”

“What do we do?” one of the armed men asked their leader.

“I’m a trusting guy,” the leader answered. He turned back to the mother. “I’ll have him sent to Earth as a refugee. No need for payment up front. Just be warned. If you don’t have that superconductor, you’ll spend a very, very, very long time wishing you were dead.”

—2—

Christopher lay curled up in bed, squeezing a gelatinous pillow against his body. He still wore his khaki shorts, uncomfortable with the cold, slick alloy silks given to him. He would almost swear that some lubricating liquid coated said silk if not for the fact that nothing ever rubbed off on his skin from it. He had thrown the tie-dye motif blankets and sheets on the teal carpet, since they too were made of the substance.

Before coming to Earth, Christopher had never lain on such a soft and plush, or large, bed. He had never seen a 6 meter wall covered entirely in display film. He had tried to watch videos on it, but its sheer size gave him vertigo. He had seen Earthlings, so short and squat, like dwarf bodybuilders, but he had never seen so many at once. He had never felt such aches in his knees and back just from walking, or the feeling of his face sagging toward the floor. Most of all, he had never felt such an odd form of despair that left him expressionless and able to observe himself with disinterest, as if he were an outsider peering into someone else’s brain.

The studio door slid open and in walked a dark skinned man with silver hair tied in a ponytail. He wore what looked like a pink nightgown, making Christopher tense in discomfort. A grown man in a dress who wasn’t trying to stand out in any way? This man, and his 2 equally disfashionable assistants, was supposed to take care of him from now on? From what Christopher saw out the window, all of his new supposed siblings also wore such clothes.

The man approached the bed and sat down next to Christopher, making him curl up tighter against his pillows. “Leave me alone, Bassoon.” That was one of the American phrases Christopher had memorized during his week on Earth.

Bassoon shook his head even though Christopher couldn’t see it. He laid a hand on Christopher’s back, making him curl up tighter.

“Put on your goggles,” Bassoon replied.

That was another phrase Christopher had memorized. He believed he would have no trouble speaking American, as both it and Cimmerian descended from Transitional English. But he didn’t know that only American grammar was purely English, while most of its vocabulary was anglified from the now extinct Spanish. American also had nearly twice as many determiners and prepositions as Cimmerian, enough to make his head spin. How the language managed that with 4 fewer letters than Cimmerian and no diacritics was beyond Christopher.

Christopher swiped a pair of goggles from a green crystal end table and put them on. They would automatically display the Cimmerian translations of over 300 languages, even though one could converse with well over 99 percent of Earth using only 7.

“You’ve barely moved from your bed this whole week,” Bassoon said.

“Leave me alone, Bassoon,” Christopher repeated, this time in Cimmerian, his words translated by Bassoon’s goggles.

“I cognize your parents would’ve wanted you to find a new reason to go on,” Bassoon said. “I brought you some back and knee braces so standing up won’t be such a hassle. Although you’ll still need prosthetics eventually.”

“Standing up means I have to go outside,” Christopher replied. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“What is it that scares you?” Bassoon asked.

“I don’t know,” Christopher grumbled.

“What if it makes you happy?” Bassoon asked.

“I don’t want to be happy,” Christopher answered.

“I cognize that’s what your family would’ve wanted,” Bassoon said.

Bassoon lifted his hand from Christopher’s back and stood. He dropped a tiny red backpack slung over one shoulder onto the bed and exited Christopher’s studio. Christopher waited several minutes before rolling over and opening the backpack. Inside he found a blue squeeze-bottle filled with icy milk and a clear plastic box containing a giant Belgian waffle covered in jams of red, blue, and yellow, and a mound of whipped green delight.

Christopher rolled onto his belly, situated his food, and began taking small bites. To him, a waffle was a soft flatbread with pockets on only one side in which to spread spicy meat paste, and then rolled up and eaten as a wrap. When he first asked for one, the results both shocked and delighted him. He was also quite put off to learn that his eggs, dairy, and meat were all synthesized in industrial laboratories rather than harvested from live animals, but he quickly got over that.

After a time, Christopher shook his head, closed the containers, and placed them on the end table. He looked in the backpack again, finding chitinous black clothing, a tank-top and a pair of knee-huggers, as he called them on Mars. He picked up the backpack and tossed it to the floor.

“Computer? Turn off the lights,” Christopher said.

The lights dimmed and Christopher looked at the stars from out the window. Earthlings had the most insatiable sweet toothes. Even his synthesized milk tasted like it was mixed with caramel. Much as he loved it at first, he quickly became sick of it. They also couldn’t mind their own damn business if their lives depended on it, always wanting to butt in on what other people were thinking, or cognizing as they insisted on calling it. They also insisted there was a difference, but whatever that difference was eluded him. They looked so outgoing, so extroverted, and so utterly brusque and tactless. Haven’t these people ever heard of manners?

Christopher decided he shouldn’t judge all of Earth like this. Maybe it was different outside of Ӿālïfornyū, or however they spelled the name of this town in American. After about an hour of watching the stars, Christopher fell asleep.

—3—

The next morning, Christopher finally stepped foot outside his studio, wearing a red alloy silk tunic and trousers no less, mostly to cover up the chitinous tank-top and knee-huggers that would have made him even more self-conscious than he already was. He had tinted his goggles, as the sun’s brightness hurt his pink eyes, and gave himself a sunscreen injection before stepping outside. He still felt heavy and sluggish, and his face still felt like it was sagging. But at least with his new supports, his back and knees were finally painless.

Yellow patches and weeds littered the unkempt grass in the dorm's yard. A prefab. playground of stiff fabrics that would bend and sway under weight stood in the center. He didn’t want to touch that. It didn't look safe.

Christopher didn’t know what time it was. It would take him a long while to adjust to Earth’s bizarre clock. He did know it was a school day, and that most of the children were away. 2 still remained, a fair skinned boy with slick black hair and a girl whose skin and hair were both red. They both wore nightgowns! How were they supposed to tell who was supposed to act like the girl? Maybe they didn’t care. It looked like it, from the way they chased each other with stiff foam halberds, beating each other, hooking each other around the legs and necks, tripping each other with the hafts and their own feet, and laughing the whole time. It made Christopher tense.

He waited until they succumbed to pain and sought shelter beneath the awnings of the blue painted U-Shaped dorm. The boy bled from his nose, and the girl from her mouth. How could any so-called foster allow this?

An animal waited on a rocking chair for the boy, what looked like a red and black blotched lemur except for that it was much too big and walked upright, though it was shorter than even the boy. The animal leaped out of its plastic rocking chair into the boy’s arms, licking the blood from his face. He and the girl sat in adjacent rocking chairs and talked. The boy scratched the animal’s throat, who leaned back and trilled in response.

Christopher approached, but stopped and reared back, blinking rapidly, when he saw the boy stop scratching the animal, and the animal respond by shoving its muzzle against his lips. Christopher cringed he saw the boy accept the animal’s tongue in his mouth.

The animal noticed when the boy opened his eyes and stopped moving. The animal broke the kiss and turned to look at Christopher.

Seeing the Martian boy standing before them, the boy and girl wiped their blood on their sleeves and reached into their pockets for their goggles to put on.

“Christopher?” the boy asked. “Christopher Brown? That is your name, right?”

Christopher nodded.

“Is there something wrong?” the boy asked.

“That was disgusting,” Christopher answered.

“What?” the boy asked.

“Tongue-kissing a monkey!” Christopher shouted.

The boy suddenly sat up straighter and wrapped his arms around the animal. “He’s not a monkey! He’s a strepsil!”

The strepsil looked back and forth between his human and Christopher. From his lover’s words, he pieced together that this strange thin boy had just called him a monkey. The strepsil barked at Christopher, making him step back.

“That’s a he?!” Christopher shouted.

The boy nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

That fact alone normally wouldn’t have bothered Christopher. Martians rarely had prejudices toward gender attractions. But combined with the other facts, it became too much.

The girl turned to the boy and shrugged. “Everybody’s got to find something gross.” She turned to Christopher. “I’m Decibel, and this is Axis, and that’s Mocha.”

The Strepsil, Mocha, nodded and chirped.

Decibel stood and approached Christopher. She clasped her hands together and hesitated to talk. She looked away from him and her voice took on a somber tone. The children were all told what had happened to Christopher. “Is there... anything I can do for you?”

Christopher didn’t expect that question, and hesitated in turn to respond. “I... um... don’t.... um... know. Maybe... maybe the food here is too sweet. Maybe... maybe I’d like something a little more savory. Maybe... maybe some lalit ale soup?”

Lalit ale soup? His mother had made that for the family damn near 3 days a week back on Mars! He had grown to despise the monotony. There were times when he swore out loud that he’d sooner kill himself than eat the stuff again. But after mentioning it, a vacuum filled Christopher’s torso, a vacuum that only lalit ale soup could fill.

“I’ll find a place that serves it,” Decibel said. “I’ll find the place where all the Martians eat.”

Christopher furrowed his brow. All the Martians? Only Cimmerians ate true lalit ale soup. It was an ethnic food in Tharsis, and Tharsians could never get it just perfect. Most Noachisis hated it. And that cold, white salsa they made in Elysium? Calling that crap lalit ale soup was an insult to the dish! Christopher clenched his fists but quickly calmed. He remembered how shocking Earth still was to him. These children likely knew just as little about Mars.

Something then distracted Christopher. Decibel held a finger to the side of her goggles. He recognized the telltale twitches in her face.

“You have a neural interface in those goggles?” Christopher asked.

“Yeah,” Decibel answered.

“Is this dorm rich?” Christopher asked.

Decibel laughed. “All dorms are given the same number of credits per child.”

“Then how could you afford one of your own?” Christopher asked. “I only ever used them at school, and at storefronts.”

“Well... I don’t know how the economics of neural interfaces work on Mars. But here on Earth, they’re cheaper than air,” Decibel said. “Everybody’s got at least two. Your own goggles have one!”

“They do?” Christopher asked. He put a finger to the side of his goggles and concentrated. Suddenly, he was accessing Earth’s network with his brain. He felt a dozen tiny disembodied fingertips in front of him with which he could surf. “They do!”

Christopher quickly closed the network and lowered his hand. Everything was written in American, and he didn’t yet know how to command the goggles to translate text from the network.

“I’ve got it!” Decibel said. “A hole-in-the-wall called Momma Claire’s. I’ll call a transit drone to fly us there.”

Christopher furrowed his brow again. Transit drone fare wasn’t cheap, at least as far as he remembered. “Are transit drone rides cheaper than air here too?”

Decibel lowered her hand and looked at Christopher. “Cheaper than that even. They’re free.”

—3—

Christopher felt comfortable for the very first time on Earth. The floors were bamboo and the walls square tile with cracking taupe glaze, decorated with neon tube hiroglyphs and aluminum pots of pygmy bamboo looking like masses of fingers. The hole-in-the-wall felt Martian all the way down to the Martians, who made up half the customers. And they were even speaking Cimmerian, although they had adopted Earthling clothes.

But something was off. The strepsil had his own seat at the bar, next to Axis. The waitress came by and even set down 4 bowls of lalit ale soup, 4 bottles of basil fizzies, and 4 napkins with spoons. She served the animal alongside the humans. Why?

“What’s Mocha doing sitting up here?” Christopher asked. ‘Mouxū’, he tried spelling in his brain.

“Eating,” Axis replied.

“But he’s just a pet,” Christopher said.

“He's my love-pet!,” Axis said. “He's my boyfriend and he's smarter than any ape. I cognize that makes him entitled.”

Axis wrapped an arm around Mocha and mouthed the strepsil’s ear. Mocha stared beady eyed at Christopher, wondering, from Axis’s words, what the strange thin boy had just said about him. The glare put a knot in Christopher’s throat, and he turned back to his bowl.

“Why not get a human... um... boyfriend?” Christopher asked.

Decibel looked over and decided to speak up, Axis being too busy chewing on Mocha’s ear. “Because equality-based romances just don’t work! They're doomed from the start.Only a nurture-based relationship can ever really last. Even the words contradict each other... equality and romance?"

The sentiment made Christopher tense and sent itches running down his back. Is that what Earthlings really believed? Then what about his mother and father? Christopher decided not to respond and forced the idea from his brain. He inhaled the lalit ale soup. There was something different about its smell, but he disregarded that and took a taste. But instead of filling the void inside him, it only made him even more empty. Even Tharsians made better lalit ale soup than this.

“What’s the matter?” Axis asked, his arm still around Mocha’s shoulder.

Christopher shook his head. “This stuff’s too weak.”

“What do you mean?” Axis asked.

“There wasn’t enough gruit in the ale,” Christopher answered.

“Gruit?” Decibel asked.

“Gruit. It’s fermented beef paste and tsuraittake, hops, capers, caraway, and yarrow,” Christopher said. “There wasn’t enough gruit in the ale. I don’t even think they smoked it.”

“You’re not going to find real lalit ale soup anywhere on Earth.”

The voice spoke in Cimmerian. Christopher turned to see the waitress leaning over the counter on her forearms, looking at him. “Or at least... nowhere I know of,” she continued. “Not unless you make your own ale for it. All these Cimmerians? They come here for the bulbins.”

Bulbins were a quasi-dessert of chunky meats flavored with coffee and sweetened with honey, baked in the center of a hard, crusty baguette. Christopher was in no mood for a bulbin. He’d had his fill of sweets days ago. He pushed the bowl back, Clasped his hands on the counter, and rested his chin in them. The waitress went back to serving other customers. Mocha, Axis, and Decibel all stared at Christopher, who glanced at them.

“Is there anything else you want to do?” Decibel asked.

“I don’t know,” Christopher sighed, shrugging. “I want to go somewhere where I can... forget everything?”

“I cognize the Cat’s Parish would be perfect for you,” Axis said. His actual words were ‘la Karato da Kato’, but the rhyme was lost in translation.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to go there myself,” Decibel added.

—4—

They had just walked through the ancient revolving door, and already The Cat’s Parish had one of the oddest ambiances Chistopher had ever seen. Gothic gold embossing on red carpets gave way to purple velvet covered walls. Green lamps dimly lit the foyer. The furniture was florally shaped porcelain. Christopher likened the place to stereotypical descriptions of brothels, but that was just ridiculous.

An old woman waddled the creaky staircase, tightly gripping its handrail. She had grayed hair tied back in a bun, wearing a flowing tigerstripe toga. Something was terribly wrong with her. After only a second, Christopher blinked and shook his head, realizing what. Fur covered the woman, orange tabby fur that hid her fine lines, exposing only her deep wrinkles. Her ears stuck out like large triangles. Her nose and mouth were like a cat’s, and whiskers twitched beneath said nose. Oddly, she had no tail. If not for her goggles, he would have even seen slitted irises.

“Is that another love-pet?” Christopher asked.

Axis and Decibel both stared awkwardly at Christopher, who suddenly gained a new knot in his throat. At least Mocha wasn’t glaring at him this time. The strepsil sat on Axis’s shoulders, blinking softly at the Martian.

“I happen to be entirely human, young master,” the old lady said. “I’ve just had a great deal of mods.”

“Is everyone here like you?” Christopher asked.

“Well, this is the Cat’s Parish, after all,” the woman answered. She turned to the others. “I haven’t seen you two in a couple months. Who’s your new friend?”

“He’s a... refugee,” Decibel said. “He’s um... had quite a hard time. We’re just trying to make him feel better.”

“We’ll pay for whatever he wants,” Axis added. He looked at Christopher and waved at the old lady. “This is Madam Corona. She’ll get you anything you want. She’s a real pro; she’s been running this place for almost a hundred years.”

Christopher turned to Axis with a furrow and cocked head. He recognized the word 'hundred,' but his goggles translated that as 256. Christoper didn't have time to think about it before Madam Corona stepped upon the carpet, approached, and stiffly bowed to him. Christopher stared dumbfounded at the woman.

“May I have the pleasure of your name?” Madam Corona asked.

“Christopher Brown,” he answered.

“And what would you like today, master Brown?” Madam Corona asked.

Christopher had no idea what was happening. “What do you have?”

Madam Corona walked away, spinning in circles with her arms outstretched. “Males, females, shemales, and cuntboys. Tell me what you like and I’ll line them up for you.”

Now Christopher was even more confused. His goggles told his that 'shemale' and 'cuntboy' were only rough translations of more proper terms that didn't exist in Cimmerian, but he still felt as if in free-fall. If not for the absurdity of the idea, he'd have been certain then that these children had just taken him, another child, to a brothel. He shook his head.

“I... uh... I don’t know,” Christpher answered.

“Oh, well that just won’t do,” Madam Corona replied.

“Well, it is his first time, so I cognize something a bit ordinary would be best. One female for Christopher here?” Decibel said. “How about Zircon? I cognize she speaks Cimmerian.”

Axis looked, up, prompting Mocha to look down at him. “How about you? You want a couple of males for the afternoon?”

Mocha’s tail puffed and fluttered in excitement. He nodded his head excitedly and squealed a great warble in response. He then pointed back and forth between Axis’s chest and his own.

“What? Me too?” Axis asked.

Mocha nodded and squealed again. Axis turned to Madam Corona. “How about Oloid, Boreal, and I all be Mocha’s subs today?”

Mocha gave yet another squeal and fluttered his tail harder at the proposal.

“I’ll take my usual,” Decibel said, raising her hand.

“Your usual?” Madam Corona asked. “More like your always.”

"Hey!" Decibel shouted. "I'm paying twenty credits for it, aren't I?"

Christopher sharply turned toward Decibel with a squint and a glower. This was the 2nd time that had happened. He recognized the word twenty, but his goggles translated it as 32. There was no time to ponder this. Madam Corona began walking up the stairs.

“Right this way, everyone,” she said.

—5—

The Cat’s Parish got stranger and stranger the deeper Christopher ventured inside. Madam Corona had ushered him into what looked like a hotel room. It had the same carpets and walls and green lamps and porcelain furniture. But why would a hotel room this small have such a huge bed and huge whirlpool tub? And why would said tub, and the bathroom walls, both be made of glass? The red velvet spread over the bed he sat on felt much better against his skin than alloy silk. Christopher ran his hand and across it. He looked at the calico girl sitting on the edge of the bed, orange hair cut short, breasts almost spilling out of her tigerstripe toga. His goggles rested on the bed, so he could see her in acute detail. Zircon was burlier than most Martian males, but her curves still made Christopher blush.

Zircon fluttered her eyes and smiled. “So what should I do?”

“I don’t know,” Christopher answered. “I guess whatever you suppose you should.”

Zircon’s eyes narrowed and her smile widened. She got on her hands and knees and slinked over to Christopher. She sat up on her knees and pulled open the top of her toga, exposing her breasts to him. Christopher blinked. But when she leaned over and planted her lips on his, the truth Christopher had scoffed at suddenly became undeniable. He shoved against her, but only succeeded in throwing himself onto his back. He crawled to the back of the bed, shaking his head.

“Fuck! Get the fuck away!” Christopher shouted.

She had to obey. In a blur of motion, Zircon hopped off the bed, rewrapped her breasts, and backed into the far wall with her hands up and her gaze averted.

—6—

“I just cognized that—”

“You thought wrong!” Christopher interrupted Axis. “Or cognized! Whatever! You took me to a whorehouse? And not just that. That woman had to be almost middle aged. I’m only 7!”

Axis and Decibel’s goggles translated 7 into thirteen, Martian years being longer than Earth years.

“I don’t understand,” Decibel said, shaking her head. “What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong?!” Christopher began to weep silently. “Isn’t that... child molesting?!”

Axis and Decibel looked at each other with quizzical expressions, and then back at Christopher.

“Only if she has authority in the matter, or tries to fool you,” Axis answered. “But the whole brothel could get shut down if she ever lied. And she didn’t have any authority. You had all it all. Zircon was your servant.”

“Sh-sh-shut the hell up!” Christopher shouted.

Christopher leaped onto his bed and grabbed a gelatinous pillow to squeeze against his body, his back toward Axis and Decibel. He had taken off his tunic and shoes, now wearing only his socks, trousers, knee-huggers, and tank-top. Christopher began to sob under his breath, but stopped just as quickly. He wondered, was being a refugee on Earth really any better than dying at the hand of that weird man with his twisted logic? There had to be something on this planet worth living for, but at that moment, Christopher couldn’t imagine any. Everything was so bizarre here, so debauched, so tumultuous, so excessive. Would he, could he, ever feel comfortable in such an environment? Could he get used to it?

Christopher’s brain slowly turned a blank and his breath calmed. He didn’t move for several minutes. Axis and Decibel looked at each other, looked down, and began walking toward the door of Christopher’s studio. As it slid open, Christopher rolled over.

“Wait,” he said.

Axis and Decibel turned back.

“I’m sorry,” Christopher said. “I know you were just trying to be nice.”

“We still want to help,” Decibel said.

“Is there anything you might want?” Axis asked. “But you should probably cognize about it before you ask, because I don’t want the diner and the brothel to happen again. Maybe something Earth and Mars have in common?”

Something Earth and Mars have in common? Christopher had trouble imagining what. There had to be something. Perhaps? Yes! They had to have that in common.

“Do they play sports here on Earth?” Christopher asked.

“Of course!” Axis answered.

“What kind?” Christopher asked.

“Mostly fighting,” Axis answered.

Christopher sat upright, cross-legged, with a sneer. “Fighting? How’s that a sport?”

Axis shrugged. “Well, there’s arenas, judges, rules, safety equipment—”

“Oh, you mean dueling!” Christopher interrupted.

The 3 children spent some time looking back and forth between each other, and simultaneously let out a single laugh. They all knew what had happened. Apparently, the American and Cimmerian words for ‘fight’ had slightly different connotations.

Christopher bit his lip and looked down, squeezing the gelatinous pillow harder against his body. He remembered the weekly duels on the holo back home. They were family affairs. Everyone sat on the floor with the lights off, a feast made by his mother splayed out in silver bowls in front of them, everyone reaching their hands to grab food. The family room would be a mess by the time it was over. He sat on his father’s lap and received a ruffling of his hair whenever the old man’s duelist scored, and a gentle slap to the knee whenever the other duelist scored. His mother and father handed cash back and forth as they bet on the duel. The smells of the polymers wafted into his nose as the bills passed by him. And the duels themselves! The Duelists would dress in the most elaborate leather vestments and leather helms, with iron bracers and greaves etched into fantastic motifs: eagles or spiders or motor engines or volcanoes, among others. And they flew through the air, spinning and somersaulting into each other. After 3 times failing to land on one’s feet, the round was over. The best of ten rounds emerged victorious.

If Earth and Mars shared anything, it had to be the majesty of sport.

Before Christopher could ask, Decibel already held a finger to her goggles. “Looks like there’s a pretty good local fight this evening at the Docks Arena. Pilcrow vs Cinnabar. Seats are only half-full, so the tickets shouldn’t be expensive. I’ll take us all out to watch!”

—7—

The crowd was rowdier than what Christopher remembered on Mars, but given what he’d experienced so far, he had expected that. The seats were large and cushy, upholstered in the softest pink suede he’d ever felt. Christopher couldn’t help but try to bounce on his at least once. 3 rows back from the circular ring enclosed in glass, he had a great view as well. The audience around him jumped up and down, ignoring their seats and screaming the names of Pilcrow and Cinnabar at the top of their lungs. The red curtains wrapping around the small, circular arena faded from sight as all lights faded save the ones illuminating the ring. The crowd’s screams suddenly turned to cheers, and soon after, everyone silenced and fell to their seats.

Axis walked in front of Christopher and Decibel, Mocha once again sitting on his shoulders. He sat down and dropped the four huge old-timey glass fizzy bottles he carried onto his lap, filled with the Docks Arena's own house coca-cola recipe. He passed them around with bottlecap openers and then sat Mocha on his lap, giving the strepsil his own bottle.

The crowd cheered again as a mechanical arm from the ceiling lowered a small, saucer like platform ringed with red stanchion rope. A man in bright red robes stood on the platform. He hovered just above the ring. A trap door raised a pitch black skinned man with shaggy brown curls into the ring. Christopher gazed in curiosity at what the man wore: a thin, red, scalpless boxing helmet, a thick blue muscle shirt with a turtleneck that only covered his chest, a pair of blue shorts, and black compression wraps on his hands, feet, elbows, and knees.

“What’s he wearing?” Christopher asked.

“Sheer thickening armor,” Decibel answered. “Just enough to keep him from getting killed.”

“Killed?” Christopher asked.

“Nobody’s going to get killed,” Axis answered, scratching Mocha’s chest with his free hand.

Christopher then noticed the duelist’s muscles. He wondered how the man could move with that kind of bulk. With his brawn, he could probably snap a Martian’s arm in one hand. But his skin was still soft. Given blades, he would be filleted, while the Martian would only suffer flesh wounds. But that would be a fight, not a duel.

“In the blue corner,” shouted the announcer atop his platform. “Standing one point nine three meters and weighing in at one hundred and thirteen kilos, Pilcrow!”

The crowd cheered. Another trap door raised a fair man with frizzy black hair into the opposite corner. He wore the same outfit in red.

“In the red corner,” shouted the announcer. “Standing two point oh-three meters tall, and weighing in at one hundred and eight kilos, Cinnabar!”

The crowd cheered.

“This fight will last until one contestant either submits, or loses consciousness,” the announcer shouted.

“What?” Christopher asked.

“Ready? Begin!” The announcer shouted.

The crowd cheered as Pilcrow and Cinnabar raised their fists and skipped toward each other. They danced around each other for a minute, throwing mock punches and kicks to gauge each others’ attitudes. Then a blinding roundhouse kick to the side sent Pilcrow hunching over, clutching his kidney. Another kick connected, but Pilcrow caught it in one arm. He swung an open hand downward, but Cinnabar swung his head back to avoid it. Pilcrow still saved his swipe, cutting bleeding scratches into Cinnabar’s abs. Cinnabar brought an elbow down onto Pilcrow’s caught leg. Pilcrow ignored the pain, but a subsequent uppercut to the head knocked him onto his back. Cinnabar leaped atop Pilcrow but miscalculated, taking 3 kicks to the face. Blood streamed from his nose when he finally scrambled back.

The crowd cheered for each vicious attack, including Axis, Decibel, and Mocha, who trilled and flapped his tail across Axis’s chest. Christopher’s gut lifted into his chest and he cringed watching the blood and injury befall the 2 duelists.

Pilcrow and Cinnabar both scrambled to their feet and continued dancing around each other, throwing mock blows until a sloppy step back allowed Pilcrow to tackle Cinnabar, wrapping his arms around Cinnabar’s legs and trying to trip him. Cinnabar brought elbows down onto Pilcrow’s back until he finally fell backward with Pilcrow atop him. Pilcrow came down with his knee into Cinnabar’s groin, and began repeatedly punching Cinnabar in the side while Cinnabar tried to wrestle control of Pilcrow’s body. Eventually, he succeeded. He grabbed Pilcrow behind the head and swung his body into a fetal position, slamming his knee against Pilcrow’s face.

The crowd cheered. Christopher curled up in his seat, clenched his teeth, and wriggled his fingers.

Pilcrow scrambled back and struggled to stand as Cinnabar raked nails across his scalp. His face bled even more. He caught himself on his fingertips against the glass. Cinnabar had by then got up onto his feet with one hand clutching his groin. He threw his other down in a knifehand against Pilcrow’s supporting fingers, breaking all 4 of them.

The crowd cheered. Christopher wailed in terror and clutched his hair.

Pilcrow shrieked in pain, but continued to fight. The knifehand momentarily threw Cinnabar off balance, allowing Pilcrow to grab his opponent's neck with his still good hand. Their armors only hardened on impact, allowing Pilcrow to still strangle his opponent. Pilcrow staggered backwards, dragging Cinnabar with him. Pilcrow let go and leaped into the air with a rising knee, striking Cinnabar in the nose. They stood back from each other, blood now streaming from both of their faces.

The crowd cheered. Christopher got up from his seat and ran, hunched over and covering his head, as fast as he could out of the arena. If that was what Earthlings called a duel, it was no wonder Mars had lost both wars.

—7—

“How are they supposed to live lives after that?!” Christopher screamed.

"Live... lives?" Decibel asked. "What does religion have to do with this?"

"What?" Christopher asked back. "I was talking about doing things. You know... that require hands."

“Oh! Well, Pilcrow will get his fingers replaced,” Decibel said. “And Cinnabar will get his testicles replaced if he needs to. And they’ll both get nose replacements and cell transplants, so they’ll heal up in no time like nothing ever happened.”

It took a moment for Christopher to believe what he just heard. “And they can afford that?”

“What do you mean afford?” Decibel said. “It’s free.”

“Free?” Christopher asked.

“Yeah. All medical expenses are subsidized. You only have to pay for cosmetics,” Decibel answered.

“All of them?” Christopher asked. “How does Earth get enough surgeons for that?”

“Surgeons?” Decibel said. “Earth barely has any surgeons. Almost everyone uses robot surgeons here.”

Christopher finally calmed. He looked down. How many robot surgeons would Earth need to meet that kind of demand? There’d have to be 10s or even 100s in every major city, over a 1,000 in the biggest! Christopher knew that Earth was a much wealthier world than Mars, but that was hard to imagine.

Decibel approached Christopher and held out a transdermal patch in her palm. “If you want it, this should make you feel just a tiny bit better.”

“What is it?” Christopher asked.

“Visco,” Decibel answered.

Christopher suddenly gasped and swatted the patch out of Decibel’s hand. “You’re giving me drugs?!”

Decibel stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” Christopher said. “I just want to be alone for a while. I want to... I want to be someplace alone, where I can just do alone type stuff.”

Decibel nodded. “Well, transit drones are free, so wherever you want to go, as long as you come back by school schedule.”

Christopher nodded in turn. Axis and Decibel turned and slowly walked out of Christopher’s studio. Back in just his supports and trousers, Christopher collapsed backwards onto his bed. He grabbed a gelatinous pillow, but then placed it back. He rolled onto his belly and scooted toward the crystal end table. His pump-action crossbow leaned against it. He took it in his hands and rolled onto his back, cocking the pump repeatedly, ejecting bolts onto the floor until the crossbow was empty. If transit drones were free, he would take one into the wilderness where no one else would bother him. He would do what he wanted, the way he wanted. He would hunt. That was always a great stress reliever.

Christopher laid the crossbow on his chest and put a finger to his goggles. It was time he learned how to translate the local network from American.

—8—

The stalks of thistle dropped spiny pods with their spiny pink flowers as Christopher ran through the hilly meadow toward the redwood forest ahead. An earthling would bleed badly after jaunting through thistle, but he did so without a care in only khaki shorts and his chitinous supports. He stopped and knelt down, gazing at the bends in the grass and thistle, trying to regain the trail he'd lost in the starry night. He found it again.

Christopher stood, cocked his crossbow, and continued running. He looked for the telltale bends and scratches on the grass and thistle, and found them. The trail headed left at a crevice between two hills, toward the redwood forest. The boy put the crossbow to his shoulder as he saw rustling in the grass and thistle. Coming closer, he saw flashes of steel gray fur and fired, using the rustles as his guide.

The rustles stopped. Christopher slung his crossbow and lanked over to his prize, a fat male hare. The bolt had pierced the back of its skull, and he smiled at his prowess. Christopher was sure that the intense gravity would ruin his aim, but his shot was perfect. A wave of warmth and relief washed over Christopher as he fell to his knees and sobbed up at the stars for some time. After exhausting his tears, Christopher stood, picked up the hare, and draped it around his neck. The animal was smaller than the nutria in Cimmeria, but was still heavier on Earth. Christopher didn't mind, not with the relief he felt. He wasn't a terrible cook. He was nothing compared to his mother, but he could still turn the hare into something decent at his studio kitchenette.

Christopher began walking, but soon knelt and laid down on his back in the grass and thistle. He laid his head on the slain hare as a pillow, and decided to sleep in the wild that night.

—9—

The other 11 children ran about in their loose, flowing alloy silk clothes in the yard of their dorm. 4 had love-pets. One boy sat on the back of his black loptor, briefly talking to two other children before motioning his head toward the fabric playground. The loptor took off, the boy riding her, until they reached a bright yellow cloth tunnel. The boy hopped off his pet and crawled inside, the loptor following. A girl lay on her side atop the green and white striped awning above a fabric bridge in the playground, her arms wrapped around a bright golden mustel, far larger than even the giant river otter it was based on, lips and muzzle locked. A boy sat under the shade of an awning in front of the door to his studio, his bright green dragon sitting up on her haunches. They silently played pattycake faster and faster until the boy slipped, shoving a hand into his dragon’s snout, who chortled at him.

Axis and Decibel chased each other round and round the playground with stiff foam halberds, beating each other, hooking each other around the legs and necks, tripping each other with the hafts and their own feet. Decibel had a black eye and Axis a bloody nose. They both laughed the entire time. Mocha waited in the rocking chair by Axis’s studio.

Other children played with each other in various other ways until a boxy blue shape with its four glowing, swivel-mounted repulsor rings began to descend into the yard. The transit drone touched down and its side door slid open. Christopher stepped out in just his khaki shorts and chitinous supports. The transit drone’s door closed and the vehicle took back off into the air.

Christopher unslung and dropped his crossbow to the ground. He held up his prized hare in both hands and grinned, catching the eye of Axis and Decibel.

“Check out what I just bagged!” Christopher shouted.

Christopher’s smile slowly turned into a glower as he realized that the other children were slowly stopping everything they were doing to stare at him morbidly. Some retreated into their studios. Axis and Decibel dropped their foam halberds and backed away.

Christopher’s foster in his pink nightgown, flanked by his 2 equally disfashionable assistants, marched forward toward Christopher. He stepped back against the fence and lowered his hare as Bassoon and the co-fosters crowded him. His expression mimicked the look of horror the foster gave.

“Christopher,” Bassoon said. “What have you done?”

—9—

Christopher sat in the big black desk chair, hugging his knees to his chest with his wrists and ankles wrapped in fabric shackles. The blue ceramic walls and ceiling of the tiny room made it seem like a box closing in on him. He shivered. His eyes were bloodshot from being stretched so wide for so long. He gasped as the door to the room slid open. A clean-shaven, head-shaven man in a mandarin coat and cargo pants in glimmering silver, a black utility belt, and white slip-on boots, walked past the white coffee table and sat in the chair across from him.

“Please don’t be afraid Christopher,” the man said.

“Why are you punishing me?” Christopher asked.

The man shook his head and shushed Christopher repeatedly. “No, no, no. Nobody’s punishing you. You’ve just been placed under behavioral quarantine, that’s all.”

“Quarantine?” Christopher asked. “So you’re sending me to prison?”

“No!” the man said. “There are no prisons on Earth. And you’re not going to be confined in a quarantine center either. You’re still free. Your level of behavioral quarantine just means we can track your location intermittently if we have probable cause, and you can’t call transit drones without permission. But nobody is going to confine you.”

“Then why am I here?” Christopher asked.

“We just need to know if you’re dangerous or not,” the man said.

“Why would I be dangerous?” Christopher asked.

“You killed a wild animal solely for leisure,” the man said. “And not something like a bug or a little fish. It was a middle-mammal. People who do that can sometimes be capable of hurting other people.”

“I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone,” Christopher said. “I used to hunt nutria all the time at my family’s farm. But I’d never hurt a person.”

“We just have to know for sure,” the man said. “All it means is that we’re going to give you a couple of brain scans. That’s all. And the results will probably even suggest we lower your quarantine level. My name is Officer Hadron. I brought something for you. Your foster said you like them.”

Officer Hadron brought a clear plastic box out from under the table. Inside was a giant Belgian waffle covered in jams in red, blue, and yellow, and a mound of whipped green delight.

Christopher turned his head. “I’m not in the mood for sweets right now.”

“I see,” Officer Hadron whispered. “Is there something you do want?”

“Maybe,” Christopher whispered back.

Christopher unhooked his arms from his legs, which he set down on the floor, and touched a finger to his goggles. With his dozen disembodied fingertips, he asked the network what he could do to simply end it all. The network answered. Christopher lowered his hands.

“Could I have permission to call a transit drone once the scans are over?” Christopher asked.

Officer Hadron nodded. “Of course.”

—8—

A lonely Martian refugee walked inside as the door to the suicide center slid open. The young boy stared up at the display film covered ceiling, showing panoramas of stunning natural vistas: fog forests, island jungles, coral reefs, waterfalls, and snowcapped mountains. He wore a gold-colored alloy-silk robe over a silver tunic and palazzo pants, seeming to have finally lost his aversion to Earthling fashion, though his gloves were wrist length and fingerless.

Others had splayed out over puffy lounge chairs or bag-chairs or other similar seating, all upholstered in the smoothest cultured leather, or even across the carpet so thick that feet would sink into it. Others stood gazing at the giant torus shaped coral aquarium in the center of the great circular room. Still others curled up beneath the giant leaves of potted tropical plants large enough to shade them. A plain white buffet table offered free mini-confections along with coffees, teas, milks, juices, and fizzies. The suicide center was to be as comfortable as possible, and could be shut down if it wasn't.

Christopher approached and flopped down on a great blue bean bag chair, and stared at the ceiling panoramas. He knew he wouldn't use the center's services, not this time at least. But how many times would he wind up coming here whenever he felt down? It would almost become a tradition for him, as it no doubt had for many others.", "pools_count": 0, "title": "The Foreboding Future: The Lonely Martian Refugee", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "image/png", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "1", "rating_name": "Mature", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "2", "name": "Nudity", "description": "Nonsexual nudity exposing breasts or genitals (must not show arousal)", "rating_id": "1" }, { "content_tag_id": "3", "name": "Violence", "description": "Mild violence", "rating_id": "1" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "t", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "2", "views": "203" }