But Then, Why Mars Really?

...but then, why Mars really?

T. E. Mark

Text © TE Mark – 2016

http://temarkauthor.wordpress.com

Cover Image © NASA

Cover Design © Manoj Kumar Jalutharia 2016

First published in the United States in 2016

TE Mark LTD

Create Space

http://temarkauthor.wordpress.com

mthomasmark101@gmail.com

United States

Mark Thomas has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1998 to be the author of this work.

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Manoj Kumar Jalutharia

www.fiverr.com/mkumarji

mkumarji@outlook.com

The paper used in this CreateSpace book is made from wood grown in sustainable forests.

Copyright © 2016 T.E. Mark

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1541224018

ISBN: 1541224019

FOR DAPHNE AND AARON

Contents

(1)   Stinking EXPATS

(2)   The Plight of the Immigrant

(3)   More Blasted Benarlings

(4)   Big Decisions

(5)   A Ministerial Plan

(6)   Destination Lil

(7)   The Minister’s Offer

(8)   The Important Parts

(9)   Ehninbhruk

(10)   A New Shade of Reality

(11)   Zorgs in Plaid

(12)   A Very Close, Close Encounter

(13)   The Damn, Bloody Zorgs… Again!

(14)   Zorgs in Space

(15)   Trevor’s New Lease on Life

(16)   Miss Inty Goes Benarling

(17)   Spacing Out With the Zorgs

(18)   Time to Rein in the Zorgs

(19)   The Decline and Fall of Trevor Hardly

(20)   What? Hide in the Kuiper Belt?

(21)   A Battlefield in Deep Space

(22)   Penny’s Prayer from Ehninbhruk

(23)   The Enolch Soron Connection

(24)   Damage Control

(25)   Into the Cloud of Oort

(26)   The Perfect Plan

(27)   The Restoration

(28)   A Close Encounter in Ehninbhruk

(29)   The Final Frontier

(30)   The Last Bit Before the Beginning

(31)   The Beginning

Acknowledgements

(1)

Stinking EXPATS

There are reasons to know nothing and to believe in nothing, wrote Arphmodrel the great Zorgan poet when asked to comment on the Peace of 30,242.

His other treasures of wisdom are unfortunately less detailed, thus really not worth quoting or thinking about.

But, it was this one golden gem of philosophy that not only shaped my life, but possessed me to write the following:

***

Drifting through space somewhat aimlessly on its way to nowhere in particular, as circular orbits, even if they’re quite rather elliptical tend to be that way, closer to Earth than it is to Jupiter, but sort of on the way, lies a rocky, hazy, murky, vaguely reddish, but really more brownish coloured ball called Lil by its native inhabitants. Mars by just about everyone else in the known universe.

Mars, being a planet, similar in many respects to Earth, except for the tawny brown sky, exceptionally high tariffs on breathable air, and the sand and rock filled oceans making a day at the beach an unreasonable proposition, is quite a fashionable place for those seeking a peaceful, ordinary life, a general lack of rainfall, and what some have termed: adventuresome diversity.

Mars, by the way, is the name ascribed to the fourth planet out from the great star called Sol by the indigenous humanoid creatures of Earth, the third planet in the Sol system, after an ancient Roman Deity who quite liked war.

This has led to many ill-feelings over the years between the planets, as the Lilians are, and always have been, according to their many colourful brochures, a peaceful people prone to indiscriminate peacefulness.

It may be of interest to note here that the Lilian, or Martian, name for the third planet in the Sol system, the fancy-ish, somewhat gaudy one that goes about kind of heavy on the greens and blues, is Benar, which roughly translates to: vile demon worshipers who must be destroyed with any and all violent methods available.

Thus, because of the cosmic closeness, and the fact that Mars has always maintained a vibrant economy, free government funded healthcare, and lower taxes on everything but imported popcorn, somewhere about 1999, many people, actually more like waves of many people, from Earth began seeing Mars as the ideal place for immigration.

They boarded great tall silver and white rockets made in a place called, for some unknown reason, America, carrying with them nothing but their 75kg weight limit of checked baggage, and two carry-ons per person at an additional fee of $2,965 each.

This has led to further problems, as along with Benar-lings finding Mars an ideal place for immigration, so have those from the many inhabited moons of the planet Gorg, (Jupiter to those on the third planet) Ipsaleon, (Saturn) Zircon, (Venus) and Uranus (Uranus).

Much debate, over the years, has gone into the subject of how the Martians, with their 254 character alphabet, and the humanoid inhabitants of Earth with their measly 26 character alphabet, oddly landed on the same name for the seventh planet of the Sol system.

As of the current date, 24 July 2016, the general consensus is that the universe is as miraculous as it is vast, diverse as it is monotonous, and profound as it is ridiculous. The subcommittee of the Ipsaleon Astronomical Society, assigned the task of settling this debate back in 1993, (Earth), is presently on recess for one Ipsaleon year, and set to reconvene 1st April 2023 at 10:05 GMT, with a full buffet lunch planned from 12 noon until 6PM.

The decision to emigrate to Mars, for Trevor Hardly of Midsomer Norton, Somerset, England, was by no means an easy one. There was much for the generally good-natured, modestly articulate, occasionally congenial book-seller to reconsider. Uhm… consider.

Things like: What to pack. Where to live. Asking his landlady Mrs Peerless for the cleaning deposit on his two bedroom, one bath flat above the book store where Trevor maintained his artistically decorated, during the time of Chaucer, preposterously out of the way fledgling business. Breaking the news to his girlfriend Wylla, who’d been dropping him hints about going since she started getting along with his flat-mate Ben, the mandatory requirement of learning to speak Martian, and above all, passing the required psychological evaluation.

The tube into the Office of Immigration and Small Claims was a sweaty affair for Trevor, mainly due to his innate fear of examinations dating back to a perilous incident while passing from Nursery school into Year Two.

A messy affair which required calling his parents and asking them to leave work, come to the school, and bring one of Trevor’s other uniforms along with them.

Hmm, thought Trevor Hardly upon entering the posh London office. Nice glass. I wonder if it’s…

‘Eh-emm,’ said the slight receptionist with perky breasts rather condescendingly, also moderately reproachfully, also quite harshly, also wickedly venomously. ‘It’s Illusi-glass.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Illusi-glass,’ she said in an echo-ish sort of way with a definite tone.

‘Pardon?’

‘Illusi-glass!’ she repeated angrily, loud enough to set off car alarms 15 storeys below. ‘As in, illusory glass?’

Another nitwit, she thought.

Good God, thought Trevor, smiling like a nitwit. I’ll bet she thinks I’m a nitwit. Then he thought: Imagine that. Illusory glass.

He smiled, this time a bit less absurdly, and swaggered towards the high counter.

The young girl with tight lips, tight eyes and tight most everything else continued to stare at Trevor as if he were a dented fender on her newish Mini.

‘And the counter is…’ He moved to put his hand through the glass top, when vicious surprise seemed to reach out and grasp hold of his face at the crunching sound and the radically impolite feeling that he’d dislocated four of his five knuckles. ‘Real,’ he managed through grinding teeth.

‘Yes,’ she said placidly while straightening the stacks of Martian brochures. ‘You’re here to see the IP, I assume?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘IP,’ she repeated with a tone clearly indicating her surfacing indignation. ‘Immigration Psychologist?’

‘Uhm…’ he leaned on the counter. ‘Yes,’ he said in a low, intentionally gravelly voice. ‘That is… You see… I’m, you know, a bit fuzzy on that part. Is this truly necessary, love?’

Trevor missed at sounding smooth so miserably the girl’s formerly perky breasts moved several centimetres closer to her belt.

She grabbed a clear, non-Illusi-glass clipboard. It said ready, in a mechanical voice reeking of hostility. Then followed it up with, awaiting input protocol for the next snivelling expat.

She handed it to him.

‘Everyone sees the IP if they feel the need to turn their back on their country and their whole bleeding planet.’

‘I see.’

‘The questions are,’ she sniggered slightly in a thoroughly audible way, ‘quite simple.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘You can sit over there.’

She pointed.

He looked at the solitary chair set in front of a wall which could only be described as bleak and sombre. There was an imposing picture of the Prime Minister framed in gun-metal grey hanging above it, his face showing bitter disappointment, the accusatory eyes following him, burning holes into his subtle green plaid blazer. The horrid one Wylla, his girlfriend, bought him in Scotland while they were there on holiday during the off-season when rates were greatly reduced. On closer inspection, he realized, with a dismal feeling of dread setting in, that the frame was not only gun-metal grey, it was actually made of guns.

Trevor tensed.

‘There?’ he said sounding and looking increasingly agitated.

‘Yes. All, expats sit there.’

‘I see,’ said Trevor, resignedly. ‘I’ll just go then, and, uhm…’

‘Miss Jollyweather will see you in six minutes.’

Trevor most accidently broke into spontaneous laughter. The receptionist, however, did not in any way share with him his feeling of amusement. Her face transitioned from plausible disdain to intense disgust.

He regained his composure. ‘That fast, eh?’

‘There are 275 questions,’ she said with a sadistic half-grin. ‘Don’t skip any.’

‘Really?’ He said gazing incredulously into the flat, featureless five-sided glass rectangle.

‘Yes. Really!’ she said waspishly. ‘We don’t typically attempt to entertain people who’ve decided to abandon their homeland. It’s against our code of conduct.’

Trevor tried mustering a patriotic smile, then moved to claim the chair and began answering the 275, gruelling, intentionally confusing and harshly accusatory questions.

‘So,’ said the rather large woman with horn rimmed glasses, her hair in a tight bun, and a voice like a bench grinder once Trevor entered the office and set about becoming semi-comfortably seated on the rusted, backless, armless chair.

She scanned the tablet…. Briefly.

‘So, what exactly are your reasons for wishing to leave England, and in this case, the planet Earth? In other words; but then, why Mars really?’