Mars Needs Women

Mars needs women. That’s what the brochure said in bold colored font.

A newly terraformed paradise, it declared in fancy script — a promised land where hordes of good men would line up to woo fair maidens. I might have paraphrased a bit, but it kinda read like a trashy romance novel. They promised to pay passage, and even a dowry upon getting hitched.

“Ya aughta go,” Pa said. “Maybe there you could snag a good man. You done pissed in the dating pool ’round here, and no man wants to swim with you.”

“Thanks, Pa,” I grumbled. “That makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

He sighed. “Mavis, let’s face it, yer a difficult woman — headstrong as a charging bull, and stubborn as an old mule. And ya don’t want to end up an old cat lady.”

“Pa, I’m only twenty-two!”

Difficult was a nicer way of putting it — been called much worse. But can I help it if I had high standards? Probably would have gone better if I had a filter between my brain and mouth. And it’s not like I can’t turn a man’s eyes. I mean, I’m a slender gal with curves in the right places, a pretty face, thick sandy-brown hair, and I clean up good.

But God, were the men pickin’s around here slim.

Any good men got snatched up by women who were, well, not difficult. And all that was left to choose from were greasy players and knuckle-dragging rednecks. ’Nuff to make you wanna gag.

And I knew what Pa wanted: to get me out of the old house so that gold-digging hussy Belinda can move in. Had to admit, though, I ain’t been very nice to her. Years ago, Ma up and left us for some slick-arse northerner. Pa was still a handsome man, and the farm was making good money, particularly with food prices going up. But like most men, the blood that filled his cock drained from his brain. I been trying to protect him from the pretty-faced leeches, and this was the thanks I got?

Fine.

Still, new scenery might be good, especially since with all the riots and stuff, Earth was heading to hell in a handbasket. But I don’t need no man to make it — tired of all that. See, I got higher aspirations, just hadn’t figured out what they were yet.

If Pa wanted me gone so him and Belinda can play hokey pokey under the sheets, then I’m going.

Mars was my ticket outa here to a new adventurous life.

The space transport Mars Sparrow, which I unofficially renamed the Chick Ship, gave me and about a hundred other gals rides to Mars. Two counter rotating habitat rings supplied artificial gravity for the boring month-long journey, but the closer we got, the more excited I got, like counting down to Christmas. Most of us had never been in space before, and we crowded the windows as it approached the Mars Transit Station.

The gals came from all over Earth with all sorts of skin colors and backgrounds. Everyone was escaping bad lives on Earth and hoping for a better future. I made new friends along the way, and they were all pumped about getting a man. But not me — I had other plans, but I kept that to myself.

When the ring spun around, Mars made a right pretty picture. The planet used to be all red, but after some two-hundred years of terraforming, it changed. Now blocks of greens and blues spread across the middle like a patchwork quilt. Views don’t get much better than that.

The Mars Transit Station reminded me of a giant Christmas tree ornament, round with pointy parts at both ends. Twinkly lights shining through the windows made it look all festive, which kinda matched the mood here.

Not far away, I made out a much larger space station with a classic donut shape. Someone told me they used robots to build it out of pieces from the former moon Phobos, and they were putting the finishing touches on it now. When it opened, it would support not only Mars traffic, but also asteroid miners and deep space missions. Pretty amazing stuff, if you asked me.

“Prepare for arrival,” said a voice over the speaker. “Return to your seats and fasten your restraints.”

Inside the space port, we all lined up, holding on to a hand bar so we didn’t drift away. We all wore pants or leggings, since skirts can get embarrassing at zero gravity. And anyone who didn’t tie their hair down — for instance, me — had it billowing out. Never been weightless before, and my gut didn’t like it none. I covered my mouth, trying to hold down the tasteless meal bars they fed us. Fairly sure it won’t be tasteless coming back up.

“Here,” said the pretty young woman behind me, handing me a sticky patch. “This will help.” With silky dark skin, long thick dark hair, and big doe-like brown eyes, she shouldn’t have much problem snagging a man. Bit skinny, though, even more than me.

Not knowing where to put the patch, I pulled up my t-shirt and stuck it on my stomach, and in no time at all, the heaves stopped. “Thank ya’ much,” I said to her.

“Riya,” she said, extending a hand.

“Mavis,” I replied with a gentle hand shake.

“Where was your home?” she asked with a thick accent and a warm smile.

“Eastern Oklahoma, in the old United States. ’Bout two stone throws away from Arkansas. You?”

“Mumbai.”

My eyes widened. I had heard on the news about seriously bad going-ons there. No wonder she wanted to get away.

“What did you do in Oklahoma?” Riya asked.

“Pa and I had a farm. Raised chickens — lots and lots of chickens. More than you could shake a stick at.” God, I was so sick of chickens.

“I see. That skill would be useful in the Mars frontier.” A faraway look came to Riya’s face. “I hope they pick a good man for me.”

Was about to ask what she meant by them picking a man, I sure wasn’t looking for one, but a gray-haired man in a white uniform standing by a small gray cabinet waved at me. “You, there. You’re next.”

“Right.” I drifted over and pressed my left thumb against a biometric scanner plate.

“Mavis Jones?” he asked.

“That’s me.”

“Roll up your sleeve.”

The pneumatic injector hissed twice, and each time, my arm stung a bit. The first was a universal vaccine booster, and the second was some sort of concoction that prevented bone and muscle loss because of lower Mars’ gravity. Figured that was a good thing.

“Next,” said the man as I floated along into the port lobby. It looked like a hotel lobby, except there were handholds everywhere, even on the floor and ceiling. Although, at zero gravity, what’s the difference between a floor and ceiling? They gave everyone a water squeezy pouch and a meal bar to tide us over until the elevator got here.

But this wasn’t no ordinary elevator, but a space elevator. It rode up and down along some sort of high-tech cable stretched between the spaceport and the ground.

Slinging my old bag over a shoulder, I filed into the elevator with everyone else, reminding me of moving cattle through a crowd pen. Everything I brought with me fit in that bag. They were real stingy about how much I could bring, but promised to give us more stuff once we got to Mars.

“Take a seat, ladies,” said a young man in blue overalls with a big grin on his face.

This was one big honkin’ elevator, round, and more than enough space for us hundred gals. Two rows of seats around the perimeter faced toward the windows so we could look out. And there were two more levels below crammed with cargo.

It was a six-hour ride, but to be honest, I snoozed most of the way down. The thump at the end woke me up. The gals let out a cheer, and I was grinning from ear to ear. Never thought this Oklahoma hick-chick would ever step foot on another world.

First thing I noticed was gravity, but not as much. They told us in orientation that Mars’ gravity was only thirty-eight percent of Earth. That sure put a spring in my step, and I couldn’t wait to see how high I could jump.

A Martian day was a half hour longer than an Earth day. They still divided a day up into twenty-four hours here, so a Martian hour was a bit longer than an Earth hour. Made sense. But a Martian year — that was a lot longer at six-hundred-and-eighty-seven Earth days. People don’t get as much birthday cake here.

When we stepped outside into an open-air plaza, I squinted and shaded my eyes. The sun was bright, but still not high-noon Oklahoma bright. A warm dry breeze ruffled my hair.

A big bear of a man with dark skin and full black beard on a rounded face motioned us to gather around. “Welcome to Mars, ladies, and your first day of a new prosperous life,” he bellowed with a wide toothy smile that seemed too big to be genuine.

The Broker, someone called him, and he was the one who organized the whole shin-dig. Not sure I liked that name — made me feel like a heifer on the way to the sale barn. The dark suit jacket and white collarless shirt must be what important people wore in these parts.

But something about his Chesire Cat grin didn’t sit right in my craw, reminding me of the sleazy hucksters that sometimes wandered by back home.

What kind of mess was I getting into?