Read Online A Toaster on Mars by Darrell Pitt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Darrell Pitt
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home. Wasn’t she?
Astrid stared gloomily out her living room window. They lived on the 600th level on the north side in a nice apartment. It had a view of a park, which was pleasant, as far as high-rise parks go, with trees, shrubs, flowers and a grassy lawn. They were all synthetic, but so was everything these days.
A bubbling stream, lined by benches, ran through the park. On one of the benches was a plaque that paid tribute to the ancient indigenous people who had once lived in the region, albeit several hundred feet below.
Zeeb says:
Sadly, there is little else to mark the end of their grand civilisation. If archaeologists were to dig under Astrid’s building, they would find stone tips from their arrows and markings on a cave wall. Under that layer of civilisation they would find a plastic rhino from a 21st-century time-travel experiment, and twenty feet below that a crashed spaceship from the planet Xanthros.
I’ve got to ring Blake again , Astrid thought. He knows people, and can make things happen.
It had been strange speaking to him yesterday. Unlike Lisa, she bore him no ill will. What was done was done, and they all had to get on with their lives.
What would he think of the apartment? The carpet was different, decorated with a print of Yuri Gagarin’s helmeted head. A television screen covered the whole westside of the living room, with family picture vids on the other side. They made the place seem like a typical family home, even though one member was conspicuously absent.
Books—ones made from paper—covered another wall. As a literature professor for the 99th Block University, Astrid had been teaching for years. The students were always amazed when she pulled an antique book from her bag. Most of them had never seen one.
Astrid glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was still black, her curves more or less intact, and her eyes still olive, unlike most people these days who were getting their irises changed monthly.
The front door sneezed. The sneezing door was not her idea. It had come fitted with a variety of sound effects: sneezing, farting, wheezing, screaming, laughing, crying, giggling. Astrid was an old-fashioned girl. A simple ding-dong would have sufficed, but kids always wanted the latest and greatest.
‘Ah-choo!’
She hurried to the door, expecting to find her daughter wearing a sheepish expression. Instead, she found her ex-husband and a rather attractive-looking golden robot.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Zeeb says:
No, her heart did not really leap into her throat. That’s just a cliché, which is a way for a writer to avoid being original.
Interestingly, a weapon on Diondrax Major was actually designed to make your heart leap into your throat, which is a rather nasty thing to do to someone. One minute you’re racing across a battlefield, the next instant your anatomy has been rearranged so that one of your vital organs is blocking your windpipe.
As methods of dying go, this is one of the more gruesome, and it makes me wonder why people can’t do more worthwhile things with their time. Painting, for example, or stamp-collecting.
‘No,’ she muttered. ‘Is it…?’
Suddenly the strength went from Astrid’s legs and she fell against the doorframe.
‘Lisa is okay,’ Blake said, grabbing her arm. ‘At least, for now. Can we come in?’
They followed Astrid into the living room, where she folded her arms and glared at them. The robot’s blue eyes were disconcerting, as if something were alive in there other than chips and circuits.
‘What the hell is going on, Blake?’
He explained about Badde and his theft of the Super-EMP, and then Lisa’s kidnapping. Astrid listened in silence. She did not interrupt. She did not yell. She did not dredge up their past.
She did, however, punch Blake in the face.
Before she could do it again, Nicki forced her down onto the lounge. ‘I can understand you wanting to killhim,’ she said, ‘and I’ve only known him
Astrid stared gloomily out her living room window. They lived on the 600th level on the north side in a nice apartment. It had a view of a park, which was pleasant, as far as high-rise parks go, with trees, shrubs, flowers and a grassy lawn. They were all synthetic, but so was everything these days.
A bubbling stream, lined by benches, ran through the park. On one of the benches was a plaque that paid tribute to the ancient indigenous people who had once lived in the region, albeit several hundred feet below.
Zeeb says:
Sadly, there is little else to mark the end of their grand civilisation. If archaeologists were to dig under Astrid’s building, they would find stone tips from their arrows and markings on a cave wall. Under that layer of civilisation they would find a plastic rhino from a 21st-century time-travel experiment, and twenty feet below that a crashed spaceship from the planet Xanthros.
I’ve got to ring Blake again , Astrid thought. He knows people, and can make things happen.
It had been strange speaking to him yesterday. Unlike Lisa, she bore him no ill will. What was done was done, and they all had to get on with their lives.
What would he think of the apartment? The carpet was different, decorated with a print of Yuri Gagarin’s helmeted head. A television screen covered the whole westside of the living room, with family picture vids on the other side. They made the place seem like a typical family home, even though one member was conspicuously absent.
Books—ones made from paper—covered another wall. As a literature professor for the 99th Block University, Astrid had been teaching for years. The students were always amazed when she pulled an antique book from her bag. Most of them had never seen one.
Astrid glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was still black, her curves more or less intact, and her eyes still olive, unlike most people these days who were getting their irises changed monthly.
The front door sneezed. The sneezing door was not her idea. It had come fitted with a variety of sound effects: sneezing, farting, wheezing, screaming, laughing, crying, giggling. Astrid was an old-fashioned girl. A simple ding-dong would have sufficed, but kids always wanted the latest and greatest.
‘Ah-choo!’
She hurried to the door, expecting to find her daughter wearing a sheepish expression. Instead, she found her ex-husband and a rather attractive-looking golden robot.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Zeeb says:
No, her heart did not really leap into her throat. That’s just a cliché, which is a way for a writer to avoid being original.
Interestingly, a weapon on Diondrax Major was actually designed to make your heart leap into your throat, which is a rather nasty thing to do to someone. One minute you’re racing across a battlefield, the next instant your anatomy has been rearranged so that one of your vital organs is blocking your windpipe.
As methods of dying go, this is one of the more gruesome, and it makes me wonder why people can’t do more worthwhile things with their time. Painting, for example, or stamp-collecting.
‘No,’ she muttered. ‘Is it…?’
Suddenly the strength went from Astrid’s legs and she fell against the doorframe.
‘Lisa is okay,’ Blake said, grabbing her arm. ‘At least, for now. Can we come in?’
They followed Astrid into the living room, where she folded her arms and glared at them. The robot’s blue eyes were disconcerting, as if something were alive in there other than chips and circuits.
‘What the hell is going on, Blake?’
He explained about Badde and his theft of the Super-EMP, and then Lisa’s kidnapping. Astrid listened in silence. She did not interrupt. She did not yell. She did not dredge up their past.
She did, however, punch Blake in the face.
Before she could do it again, Nicki forced her down onto the lounge. ‘I can understand you wanting to killhim,’ she said, ‘and I’ve only known him
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