The stars are out tonight. Their opalescent glow bathes the rusted, basaltic soil, which must have been yearning for the light's return. It's been awhile. I look up at them through the helmet lens of my pressure suit, and think about crying. No, I'm not a particularly emotional person, prone to outbursts of tears at the slightest glance of nature's beauty. Not that. To understand my tears, you'd have to know the pain of my story, our story. And the aftershocks of said pain, which have been rippling for too long. These aftershocks of the trauma have blotted out the sky and left us in years of haze. Like being in a well-lit womb. War, when big enough, does terrible things to a planet. But the Time of the Red is coming to an end.
I look now upon a moisture harvester, standing tall and proud in the night, whirring away faithfully. These things were only meant to last a decade or so. Not for 300 years. But we Martians have a penchant for preserving, maintaining. It's in our blood. Beaten into us by our cruel and loving Father. The moisture harvester in front of me has little sparkling strips of plastic, adorned with sacred writings, stamped by their ends into place by round, opaque red seals of habitat sealing glue. They cover the thing, perhaps one for every decade or so. We Martians bless our most vital equipment, and those blessings are often the only things keeping them running. Supplies come at a steep price, if at all.
A moisture harvester is a tall and unsightly thing. Skinny like an antenna, getting wider as it goes down to the base, and the catch tank. Solar panels top the spire on two sides, and crowning it, there stands a spiral windmill. Various grated intake ducts line the 9 foot structure all the way down. The whole thing turns to always meet the prevailing wind. Its titanium surface is pitted and dusty from centuries of battering from sandstorms and feels like well-rusted metal to the touch. The blessing seals beautify the patinaed ancient thing, half of them older than anyone can remember.
Looking at this harvester ignites a deep pride in my chest. My father's fathers, going back centures, have tended to this holy machine. A machine that allows us to preserve the great treasure we brought here with us, from Mother Earth. With no small amount of awe, for the first time as a man of my clan, I kneel before it and reverently uncap the oil reservoir, filling it with a new batch of blessed anointment. "Red Father, remind us of the Way and aid us in guarding the treasure of the Mother..." -Unknown Martian of the Star Seer Clan, 2493
