Destination Europa: Chapter 4

The Farm

May 24, 2024

Previously, Tark showed Quill some calculations that showed an apparent imbalance of oxygen consumption and production aboard the Leifr. Quill assured her that everything was within normal tolerances, but it’s since been nagging at him.

Dear friends,

As always, thank you for your prayers over the past month. I’m sorry this letter is slightly late. I’ve been struggling a little bit with the isolation in my current place of assignment. However, the Lord does not let us be tested beyond what we can bear (1 Cor. 10:13) and I’m thankful that he has led me into a better state in the last few days.

Quill twirled the secure stylus in his fingers. The words were flowing freely today. He looked up at the pictures taped to the wall above the tiny desk in his cabin. His brother Archie posing with his boys outside Café Wells, back in Ransom. Quill hoped they would send a new video soon. Cal and Marty were growing so fast. One thousand, nine hundred and fourteen days till I see them again, more or less. 1914. One and nine is ten, one and four is five. There’s a kind of symmetry there. A better number than 1915.

His gaze flicked to the picture of his parents. They were in Central Park, where half the amateur artists and musicians in Ransom City gathered at weekends to practice or display their art. His father stood in a faded red t-shirt with UPHOLD THE REFERENDUM: KEEP MARS MARTIAN blazoned across the front, the shirt Quill’s mother had been trying to recycle for at least ten years. She was in her favourite casual cheongsam, the poppy-patterned one Quill had brought back from his second assignment.

Today, bolstered by the Fiducezol he’d taken two days earlier, he could look at the third photo too, the one he had made himself stick there because he needed to prove to himself he was OK. It was their team in Tromsø: Rob and Kristy; Chris and Finn and their little girls; Silent; Priska; and himself. They were standing above the fjord with the city below them, on a glorious clear day with snow on the ground, all in their warm coats and hats. They all looked happy, laughing with mouths and eyes. It was just before he and Priska had fallen in love.

Focus. Quill turned back to his letter. It would be easier if he could just dictate the thing, but he couldn’t risk the ai overhearing.

I do have some exciting news to share this time. I learned from “Otter” that there is another brother in this place! I haven’t met him properly yet, but

He stopped and deleted the last half-sentence he had written. May as well wait until after lunch and tell them how it actually went.

He found himself humming as he headed towards the Blue Ring; one of the worship songs he had spent a long time listening to the previous day, Sunday. It had been good to take some time out, to regain a little perspective, but now his heart beat faster as he approached the mess. Tark had wasted no time in arranging for him to meet Jörg.

They had agreed to meet near the serving hatch on the other side of the Ring from where Quill and the other Martians usually ate. Quill made his way through the islets and reefs of tables, nodding at one or two people he knew. It was still early for lunch, still relatively quiet. Tark and Jörg had found a table near the viewport in the floor on that side, and had picked up their lunches, though they hadn’t yet opened the trays. Quill waved, grabbed a serving of gong bao huang chong, and joined them.

It thrilled his heart, after their initial greetings, to see Jörg quietly bow his head in a prayer of thanks before opening his tray of food. Quill felt a little guilty at the same time. He had often neglected to say grace before his own meals.

“So, uh, you work in Personnel?” said Quill in the silence after they’d started eating.

“Yeah,” said Jörg, his mouth full of noodles. “FSS Personnel. So I don’t have the inside info on you SymbioNor guys.” He gave a kind of wink, and a gurgling half-laugh, so Quill knew he meant it as a joke and smiled weakly in response.

“Probably just as well,” said Tark, with a light-hearted tone and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Quill could tell she was making an effort for his sake.

“What’s that like, then?” asked Quill after the silence threatened to become awkward, summoning his Alliance training. Remember what Rob said that time. People spend most of their time working, but they don’t usually get many people who are genuinely curious about what they do. Ask real, interested questions about what someone does in their work, and you will soon make genuine connections and openings. “Working in Personnel, I mean. What does it involve, actually? These admin kind of roles are always a bit of a mystery to me, to be honest. I’ve always been focused on what happens after a ship lands.”

“Oh, it’s pretty boring really,” said Jörg, giving him a sideways look. He hadn’t yet looked Quill in the face; in fact, Quill noticed that his gaze was constantly flittering left and right across the room.

“Really? I’d have thought you’d have plenty to handle with all the dramas you get aboard ship. Conflicts and things, you know.”

Jörg gave him a sharp look, his intense blue eyes meeting Quill’s for the first time then skittering away again like marbles across a hard floor.

“Not really. I mean, of course we get some interpersonal issues from time to time, but usually nothing major.”

Quill took a bite of carrot and rice and chewed slowly. Does he know somehow about Demas’ plans to dispute our pay? Is that why he’s looking at me funny?

“So you’ve spent a while in the Norselands?” asked Jörg, changing the subject. “I notice you’re speaking directly in Norsk. Most of your folk use the translator.”

“Yeah, I like to keep it up,” said Quill, wincing inwardly at your folk, not only because it was true that most Martians working with the FSS and its allies didn’t bother learning Norsk, but because of the assumption that all Martians were alike. “Yeah, I, uh, I spent a few years in Tromsø. I was in Scotland before that, though of course that’s not the same as the central FSS.”

“What did you think of our Norselands then?”

“Beautiful,” Quill replied. It was his stock answer to curious Norskers. Stick to things that are true, that you can say with genuine conviction. “The oceans, the air, all that green… you can’t imagine what that’s like to someone who grew up on Mars.”

Jörg made a noncommital sound. Then, still chewing, he leaned in closer. “But nothing like the kingdom to come, huh?” He spoke in a low voice, with his mouth still half-full so that the words were slurred with noodles and Quill could smell the garlic.

Quill glanced at Tark. She had dropped out of the conversation, her eyes skimming as she read messages or something on her display.

“Indeed,” Quill replied carefully, also in a low voice. Jörg wasn’t quite what he’d expected, and there was a thread of repulsion weaving into his excitement. Don’t be judgemental. Who am I to quibble over the speck in my brother’s eye?

“Tark told me you are also a Christ-follower,” Jörg went on. He had swallowed his mouthful.

“Yes,” said Quill. “Yes. You too, I gather?”

“I became a believer my final year of college,” said Jörg, shoving another twist of noodles into his mouth and slurping the sauce. A tiny droplet flicked off the end of a noodle and arced across the table, landing wetly on Quill’s cheek. Quill forced himself to keep his hands down, waiting until he took a forkful of his own food before casually brushing the spot of sauce off his cheek.

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “Uh, was that in the FSS?”

Jörg nodded, his eyes flicking to left and right again. “Lund.”

“Wow.” Quill thought about what to say next. The background hum and buzz of the mess was getting louder, and the tables around them were filling up. He wasn’t sure how much Jörg would want to say in such a public place. “Uh, I’d love to hear more of that story, but maybe somewhere quieter?”

“I agree. In fact, I have a suggestion.”

“Go on,” said Quill.

“I’m sure that you, like me, have suffered from the lack of fellowship aboard. Iron sharpens iron. I would like to suggest that we meet for a regular study of the Word. Perhaps once per week?”

“That’d be great,” agreed Quill. He leaned back a little and took a drink of water. “Um, where and when? Any ideas?”

“I can book one of the small meeting-rooms,” said Jörg. “Without saying what it’s for, obviously. What about, say, Wednesday evening?”

Quill shook his head. Wednesday was their regular gaming session. “Can’t do Wednesday. Thursday?”

They agreed on Thursday, and Quill saw Jörg’s eyes blink as he accessed his display.

“Done,” said Jörg. “Deck 5, Yellow Ring, Room C-13. Yellow Ring rooms are in less demand. Should be quiet there.”

Quill nodded. Gravity was lowest in the Yellow Ring, nearest the ship’s axis of rotation. He instinctively wished Jörg had chosen one of the lower decks, though. Five was not just Earther territory, it was Admin territory. Get over yourself. There’s nothing wrong with Admin.

“Tark, will you join us?” asked Jörg.

Tark’s eyes snapped back into focus. “Huh? Someone say my name?”

“We’re going to study the Bible together,” said Jörg, glancing from side to side again, a small gleam of triumph in his eyes. “On Thursday evening. Will you join us?”

Tark looked confused. “Uh, I dunno. I’ll think about it.”

“Wonderful!” Jörg stood up and detached his tray from the table. “I’m afraid I have to get back to my post. Duty calls! I’ll see you, I hope, on Thursday.”

“What was that?” asked Tark after Jörg was out of earshot. Quill finished his yoghurt.

“I’m going to meet up with Jörg to, uh, discuss the Bible together. It’s something a lot of Christians do to, uh, encourage each other and help each other understand our faith better.”

“Must be a complicated kind of faith,” said Tark, one eyebrow raised.

“Sometimes it is,” said Quill. Priska used to raise her eyebrow like that. “Sometimes it is. But the basics aren’t, not really.” He could tell the Fiducezol had taken effect, because although his own questions and doubts were still there, they were deep down like a reef at high tide, while he floated fathoms above, so far above that he could no longer see even the shape of the rocks below.

The potent tang of tomato plants enveloped Quill as the airlock between the corridor and the farm closed behind him. He stood and let his senses adjust: his eyes, to the soft purple-pink of the grow lights; his ears, to the quiet gurgle of water and hiss of gas in the thread-thin piping; his skin, to the warm soft moisture of the air. In a way, the farm was the womb of the ship. The place of new life and growth.

He wandered through the tomato section, admiring the bushy leaves and the swelling fruit, different trays at different degrees of ripeness. A couple of the ship’s bees were busy working one set of flowering plants. Quill stopped to watch them for a moment, their tiny furry bodies and their legs heavy with pollen. He’d have liked to stroke one — they were stingless — but didn’t want to disturb them.

Bowen was waiting for him in the cucumber and squash section, snipping dead leaves from the vines.

“Hey,” said Quill as he approached.

“Hi,” said Bowen stiffly, glancing at Quill then turning back to his vines.

Quill cleared his throat then stood in silence for a minute. Bowen’s secateurs snipped another yellowed stem. Several more bees buzzed past. Further round the Ring, almost out of earshot, the low murmur of voices, perhaps a couple of junior botanists at work.

“Look,” said Quill, unsure how to begin.

“What do you want?” said Bowen, closing his secateurs and turning to face Quill.

Quill sighed. “One, we can’t go on like this. Bowen, you need to realise something.”

“What?”

“I’m not interested in Safira, OK?”

Bowen unclipped and re-clipped the secateurs, looking at the floor.

“I’ve seen the way she looks at you,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, that’s between you and her,” said Quill. “I am 100% not interested in her, nothing has ever happened between us, and it’s not going to.” Keep it cool. Don’t raise your voice.

“OK…” Bowen looked up again. “OK, whatever. She’s her own woman, anyway.” There was a bitter note in his voice. “OK. So is that it? Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Part of it. But are we good now?”

Bowen let out a long breath, and tucked the secateurs into the breast pocket of his overalls. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good now. If you’re.. But about the shrooms, that night..”

“Yeah?”

Bowen shuffled awkwardly. “I, uh, I was kind of mad with you that night. And maybe I wasn’t very careful with the measurement. I’m sorry.”

Quill hesitated an instant, then held out his hand. “Apology accepted.”

They shook hands, and Bowen’s round face cracked into a smile.

“So the other thing,” Quill went on. He lowered his voice and glanced around to double-check there was no-one within earshot. “Bowen, about the shrooms. Well, not those ones, but all the shrooms. The shrooms in general. “

“What about them?”

“Bowen, how much is there? Like, are you growing so many mushrooms it might affect the oxygen balance?”

“I’m not following,” said Bowen.

“There seems to be a small imbalance in the production of oxygen versus consumption. I’m trying to find out if it’s significant or not. It’s probably not. But one of my students — Tark, you know her — is trying to work it out, trying to itemize all the consumption and production a bit more accurately. I wouldn’t want her digging, pardon the pun, to find anything that shouldn’t be there.” It’s crazy that I’m even having this conversation. Why am I even involved in something that has to stay hidden like this?

Bowen shook his head. “Not a problem. Overall net O₂ production from the farm is actually slightly above target this trip. And the particular mushrooms you’re talking about will have no significant effect. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Quill had never been in the Yellow Ring level of the farm, where the fungi were grown. The curve of floor and ceiling in the Yellow Ring was more noticeable than elsewhere in the ship, and in the dim purplish light, with the fungi on every wall and on thick columns between floor and ceiling, the effect was something like being inside a cave baroquely crowded with stalagmites and stalagtites. Quill brushed his hand over a flight of fluted oyster mushrooms, their curves like carved marble, their flesh cool and solid as corpses. A little further round were sets of shiitake mushrooms, then chestnut mushrooms next to huge Portobellos.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, almost involuntarily.

“It is,” said Bowen, with a sudden grin of fellow-feeling. He led Quill round and through a door into a sealed-off section marked RESEARCH. “In here.”

The Research section had the same blue-red grow-lights as the rest of the farm, and the same racks of plant trays and pipes of water, but there was a much greater variety of plants and fungi packed into the small space.

“Look,” said Bowen. He pulled out a planter at the bottom of a rack of several varieties of mushroom. Quill recognised the elf-like features of the psilocybin mushrooms. “See? There’s just this tray, and that one, and another one over there,” Bowen continued. “And this is the Research section, so even if anyone does come poking around, I’ll say it’s part of a research project. Which it could be.”

Quill nodded, his mind a little more at ease, though his conscience still admonished him for being even tangentially involved in something this greyly illegitimate. I’ll not take any more. Prescription only, from now on.

Bowen was much chattier on their way back, pointing out a new variety of spinach they were trialling in the Green Ring, then walking Quill through the “orchard” in Sector B of the Blue Ring. There were many more bees at work there, and the scent of lemon and orange and apple blossoms from the dwarf trees was intoxicating.

“I should come here more often,” said Quill.

“Here, come and try a strawberry,” said Bowen. “We’ve got a batch just about ready for the galley.”

He walked over to the racks of strawberry plants next to the apple trees.

“What the—”

“What’s up?” asked Quill, following a few steps behind, inhaling the scent from a lemon flower he had picked off the floor.

Bowen was staring at a tray of plants with an expression of disbelief. Quill saw clusters of unripe berries, pale pink in the light, poking among the leaves. It took him a second longer to see the broken-off ends of stems where other berries had been.

“I can’t believe this!” said Bowen. “Someone’s • raided my fruit!”

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