Dear diary. Day #364
Dear diary. Today is the 364th day of my captivity. Almost a year ago, I am reminded of the way the pirates seized my vessel, bound me in shackles, and sold me off the port of Morocco. Almost a year later, it has taken me farther than I believed possible.
I find myself on Mars. I have been here for 74 Earth days. I have failed to acclimate to the longer days here because of my circadian rhythm. I understand from the other slaves that the adjustment is not possible, based on human biology, and that when people tried changing days and weeks during the Industrial Revolution on Earth, it did not end well there either.
Despite near-universal condemnation of slavery on Earth, Mars and the outlying colonies still use it. As far as I can tell, Mars has been built on the backs of slaves. For the first 50 years, it was only scientists, governments, and the super wealthy who made trips here. Then the land grab began. The Wild West, they called it, based off a similar land grab in the Federal States of America. Once space travel became more accessible to the common man, efforts to terraform the planet and make its atmosphere habitable ramped up. A host of people were brought for various service professions, including for work that requires human ingenuity like engineers to fix the machines. And when people brought other people against their will, well, here we are.
Upon my arrival to Mars, I was put through a black market and sold to someone in the family that invented Martian concrete. Or so I’ve come to believe, since I uncovered that the Mardares family has ties to Carleston Construction Corporation. Several of the family members aren’t in the matriarch’s good graces (she is a trillionaire?!) and I work for one of those family members that has been cut off from the inheritance.
How did a solitary sailor on Earth come to be on this rocky, desert, waterless, god-forsaken planet? The dust storms are nothing like the tempests of earth. My understanding of wind energy and skill in harnessing it for profit has given me some freedoms in the Mardares estate, but I am still watched and monitored and forced to wear this stupid ankle tracker. It’s not like I’m going to run away. 125 years of attempts to terraform the planet, and still, no success. With all the Earth’s inhabitants learned from its global warming, one would think we’d know how to pollute Mars to make its atmosphere thicker and denser. And yes, Mars is a big planet, but it still feels like a small world sometimes, because of the class systems, wars, and feuds among landholders. People know people. Escaping Astyropolis is unlikely and being found and then returned to the Mardares would mean things could get a lot worse for me than they already are. Ahh, complacency is the opiate of the masses. Or whatever Marx said. Was it Marx? I don’t remember any more. It’s been a year since I could access the Internet, read a book, or get news other than the snatches I get from other slaves or the news media when a screen gets left on.
The one hope I have is that the Spanish government here on Mars starts to enforce the new laws around slavery. I doubt it though. It’s in their best interest to just turn a blind eye and to keep their wealthy citizens happy, and to keep accepting the inflow of money they generate to keep the balance of power against the hostile Russian territory to our South. I don’t know. Politics bore me, unless they mean I can get back to Earth. I have already lost a fair amount of my muscle tone and I’m sure my bones will not like Earth’s gravity if I make it back.
What am I saying? I am not going to get back to Earth. They are going to find this diary and hang me, or I’m going to get caught out in one of the dust storms while repairing the turbines and die before I can find my way back. I hate this planet. If I’m still here by 2222, I’m going to go crazy. I have four more months till then. Perhaps I should just end it all. But why? That doesn’t help me and it sure doesn’t help Margo. I don’t know why I even write about Margo. Slaves can’t be in relationships without permission, and even then, its so restrictive that life together is not even a dream. It’s hard to believe I found someone like her, who was conscripted into slavery like me and if anything, resists it harder than I do. I just want to see her again. She is my sanity out here. I can’t believe we were not split up and sold to separate groups after the trip to Mars. She has been my one bright spot in the last year. Meeting her is what has kept me going during these last two and a half grueling months. Never mind that long, nerve-wracking space journey, being crammed with several other slaves into a couple of metal containers the size of a studio apartment.
Okay, I need to sign off before Ben comes in. He can’t see me writing again. He’s too curious for his own good and it’s going to get him killed. And me with him. *sigh*
[Log off? Yes.]
