Neptune - Part 5

Part 5 – Company Coming

Letter To Jupiter From Neptune, 05/02/2075

Dear Jupiter,
This letter might not reach you, but I hope that it does. I have been thinking of all of you lately. Some, I know our fates. Yours is still obscured. Mercury will know where to find you, if anyone will, so I am including this with her letter. Are you even alive? It's a strange question, and if you are reading this, I can assume the answer. Unfortunately, I do not think I will ever be around to get a response from you so it will be a mystery to me.
I only know that you were taken by the Bio-Tech facilities back when we were children. I am sorry. I have been saying and writing that a lot lately, but I remain sincere. I was young, irresponsible. I did my best for you, but I failed. I do not know if it could have gone differently or what I might have changed. I could get emotional in my text, but I fear that you would fail to understand it.
I still extend to you my thanks every day. If it wasn't for you, we would have frozen to death or been killed countless times. You were a valuable ally and I wish we could all be together again. I hope that this letter finds you someday.
Sincerely,
Neptune

***

I arrive at my door at the same time as my darling wife swings it open, her bags packed. "Cheryl, what are you doing?" I demand. If there were more packed bags, I would think she's leaving me. I am not sure if I would find that wonderful or irritating.
"I'm going to go visit my sister, since you seem to have opened our home up like a hotel to any drifter who cries for your help," says Cheryl, lifting her suitcases off of the floor. I snort at that, and she looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "What?"
"You can't go to your sister's house. Once you're in Martian jurisdiction, they'll skin you alive."
"I didn't say I was going to her house, genius." She throws her bag over her shoulder and says, "I've said goodbye to Natasha and Paris already. They're excited to see 'Aunt Tam'." She scowls at that and shifts the bag slightly. "I'll be back in a few days. Don't miss me too much."
Cheryl is considered a criminal on Martian soil. As well she should be. She's leaked important Martian government information in the past and she fled to Luna to avoid capture. Because she is not a Lunarian citizen, she was going to be deported until I took her to be my lawfully wedded wife with all the benefits that entails for her. Out of this, I received the children I've always wanted as well as the ability to get her to get me in touch with her underground contacts. From a PR perspective, our marriage was also useful: her information leak and my handling of the situation back in my second two-year term led to an aversion of economic collapse and hostilities brought about by the actions of Martian industry. We are still seen as a power couple, fighting in synch for the well-being of the Lunarian citizens. It's too bad that we hate each other.
"Don't worry. I won't. Take your time," I say. I see Samara walking towards us. She is carrying her usual messenger bag, but also two pieces of luggage, carefully balanced in her hands. I jog out to meet her and say, "Do you need help with your bags?" She nods slowly, knowing that I will be careful.
I pull my sleeves up a bit further around my wrist and grip one of the bags with the fabric, pressing the rest of the case against my chest, just to keep my bare skin and fur from contacting her property. We walk up, back to where Cheryl is standing. I walk past the canine recom back into my house, but I hear the conversation passing between her and Samara.
"I am so sorry for your loss, Tamara. It was a tragedy.  And you're so young! If there is anything I can do..."
"Don't worry about it."
"I'm sorry I won't be staying, I've had this trip planned for months, but please make yourself at home. Goodbye, and remember that we're your friends. You can always count on us when you're in need." I put the case down next to one of our coffee tables. Cheryl finishes offering her empty pleasantries to Sam, picks up her bags and walks towards the vehicle. Samara places her bag onto the foundation I've already laid out for it.
She glances around, alert but tired eyes surveying the premises and comments after a moment's pause, "She's a sack of shit."
"Mmhmm." Cheryl puts on the air of outgoingness despite being truly cold, which apparently bothers Sam, who puts on the appearance of frigidity but still possesses a heart. They are both deceptive in their own ways, and I am not sure what kind of deception I prefer. I only know which deceivers I prefer to keep as friends. "I've already arranged the guest room for you, but I am sure you will make further adjustments."
"Thanks. Really, Errol. Thanks a lot."
"Think nothing of it." I start arranging some of the items in the room. I find Sam's obsessive compulsive behaviour irritating, just like most other people do. However, in my understanding, she has been very resistant to therapy. I suspect it is due to the engineered nature of her disorder: Bio-Tech labs engineered certain flaws into the Sol Series to keep them in line. Most recoms created in the time period were genetically programmed to be only three things: subservient, stupid and industrious. The Sol Series were one of the two recom series created at their time that was designed with intelligence in mind, so fail-safes were added into their genetic structure. As a first-generation Sol recom, Samara couldn't help but be overcome by her anxieties. I understand what it is like to an extent. Like my ancestor, Neptune, I have an irrational fear of submersion.
There is a feeling, almost a tickle at the back of my neck, that I am being stared at. I turn towards Samara, who has seated herself on the couch already. Is the room already to her satisfaction? Or has she simply not been able to notice? She pats a place on the couch with the back of her hand, gesturing for me to sit down.
My expression doesn't change. I do not want to watch her cry again, to discuss death further, but I sit down next to her, my stance uncomfortable.
To my delight, she does not mention death for now. "Errol, I've noticed something. I... hope you aren't getting any ideas in your head about Seven. She'll break your heart, you know. That's what she does." To my horror, she instead brings up a topic that's even more uncomfortable to discuss.
"Samara, I appreciate your concern, but it really isn't any of your business what I think of Nova." Samara and Nova were childhood friends, and I am certain that they have meddled in one another's affairs plenty of times in the past, but I do not appreciate it. "We have occasional business liaisons, nothing more."
"That's quite a euphemism."
"...I probably should have given more thought to whether to give you a place to stay." I smile, though, a weak smile. I do not regret bringing her here, but I was hoping that her mourning would prevent me from coming under her scrutiny. I do precisely what I did not want to: change the subject to that of death. "Do you know if Darryl had many enemies? I'm trying to figure out where to start on my investigation, but you are much better at these things."
Her expression changes subtly. I cannot pinpoint the shifts in her features, but her unreadable stare became somehow darker, only her slight eye twitch giving the features a sense of motion. "Enemies? Of course, Errol. We all have enemies in that field. I can give you dozens, but none who actually know who he was. I have some contacts, still, some you might want to look at to help you. They're not as good as I would be," she says this with a tone of smug superiority. I am not sure if the statement is ironic or she is serious, "but they'll do just fine."
I nod and say, "Forward their contact information to my phone."
"You should really get a PDA like mine. Portable, sleek and infinitely practical. Cell phones like yours were outdated almost twenty years before the start of the war."
"It has a classic look to it. I like it." Besides, it was stylish. With the recent budding of the Nouveau Vieux cultural movement, many old styles from hundreds of years ago are returning back in vogue. I do not carry the cell to be trendy, though: I have been old-fashioned in my technological choices for long before the movement started. I like to think that recom culture is simply following in my footprints.
Samara, however, finds this movement contemptible. I hypothesize that her problem is that she is an antique in her own rights. "Classic? It's tacky, bulky and poorly designed." She scoffs, "I guess that's what they're going for. Funny how they're just selling you the same product as I have, except less useful and uglier." She pulls one of her PDAs from her messenger bag (I know that she carries two, but I'm uncertain why) to show me its infinite functionality. She brings up the screen to show me, and I placate her by pretending to be interested. Her backdrop is the first thing I notice: stars and planets, a screen shot from one of those ancient awful science fiction shows that she loves so much. The only reason I notice is because she previously kept the backdrop as a picture from her childrens' first day at pre-school. I imagine the image.
Luke looks straight on towards the camera, a bewildered expression, his mouth slightly agape as if he is mid-word, while Leia stands back a little way to make a funny face and gesture at her brother, giving an indication of what she thinks of him. Even contemplation of this image brings to me a pang of loss. Neither of these bright, wonderful children will ever knock on the door and ask to come in and play with my kids, or to tell me that Natasha was in a fight, or ask if I had helped Paris with any baking (an indirect way of asking for cookies particularly for Leia, who had a definite sweet tooth). They were not my children, but I still loved them for their small part in my life.
"...Errol?" Samara had been speaking the whole time, softly about how she can do everything a cell can do but better. Lost in thought, I processed none of it.
"Your image..."
"I had to change it. I had to, Errol, or else I'd stare at it until I can't help but be brought to tears. It's not a good way to make a call." Samara slips her PDA back into her pocket, unwilling to talk any more about it. I feel a touch of guilt at ruining her indulgence in what must be sparse moments of pleasure for her. "I... I need to rest. I'm going to pass out here if I don't sleep soon."
I nod and stand up, gesturing down the hall to our guest room before heading upstairs to let my children know I am home and retiring to my own room to read for the rest of the evening.