CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories J. Posthumus (ereader that reads to you TXT) 📖

CHICKENS LAND ON MARS

The Martian wind howled outside the octagonal habitation-turned-agricultural module, rattling the specially fabricated panels that made up the whole of Harmony. The compound was nestled in a low spot between two ridges. On a clear day, he could sometimes make out the volcano Olympus Mons to the North. Valles Marineris, the great canyon system, stretched out to the south and east.

Next year, after the second scheduled wave of astronauts arrived, four members of their crew would be sent to scout Hellas Planitia. He’d been there six months, but Mission Control hadn’t yet notified those crewmen that would be included in the exploratory expedition. He hoped he was one of those selected. He liked change.

He leaned on his composite pitchfork. A small shed rested at the back of the room, far too big for the few tools he had, but NASA liked to plan ahead. Sallie kept two shovels and two pitchforks. Someday, they’d have a whole string of agricultural modules, and they’d grow enough dirt to change the surface of the Martian world.

In the middle of the space, beneath the low hanging grow lights, a metal rectangle made up his workspace. If needed, the table would be easy to sterilize, if they wound up with a broody hen and a subsequent excess of roosters. Off to one side, a mobile chicken coop waited. It resembled a square box, resting on all-terrain tires. Instead of solid, closed-in sides, the walls were made out of a plastic mesh that he’d helped design a handful of years ago. Ventilation was important to roosting poultry, and the birds were important to building long-term viability and self-reliance in the test colony.

The intercom double beeped.

“Sallie?” Cynthia Port’s voice came over the speaker. As the Martian Module Commander, Cynthia kept the new Martian civilization in order.

“Go for Sallie.”

“Have you seen Aashi?”

Sallie glanced at the monitor over the sliding doors, but instead of displaying the time, his album Best of Van Morrison played softly from the speakers, the image bouncing from one corner to the other. That and one disc of classic show reruns were all the personal items he’d been allowed to pack. He hadn’t seen anything but shit glitter—dehydrated compost.

“No,” he said. “Something wrong?”

Cynthia sighed. “She hasn’t checked in, and I can’t raise her on comms.”

Aashi Das, Educator Mission Specialist, didn’t forget to check-in. If she was stuck outside the module… She wouldn’t have much time.

Concern pricked along Sallie’s skin. “That’s not like her. Next steps?”

“Assemble in the commons.”

Doing his best to hide his concern, Sallie jogged toward the common area, but the empty space confused him. Nobody was there. What had happened? He turned, certain he’d missed something.

A small figure leapt out from one of the stand-up cabinets. “Raaaaaaahhhhh!”

Sallie leapt backward, tripping on a chair leg, cursing and spitting. He swung his fists wildly. “What was that?”

Aashi’s face split in a grin as big as Saturn’s rings. “Gotcha.”

“Don’t do that. You coulda killed me.” Sallie crossed his arms and scowled, but he couldn’t stop his smile, and his tone held no ire.

Eighteen Hours Later

Sallie pressed the button on his wrist monitor. Connected to his smart suit, it flashed his vitals and then the time. 0530. Up before the crack. Again. The farming thing was cutting into his sleep habits. A Martian Sol might be 24.5 hours long, but maintaining his circadian rhythm was important.

He shoved the pitchfork into the soil until it hit the hard bottom of the module and flipped the mound over. He repeated the process, tilling the soil one forkful at a time. They had to keep their experiments separate from the pristine wilderness of the Martian landscape. It suited him fine. Made it harder for the inside to wind up outside and vice versa.

Sallie never figured his biological sciences degree would lead to regenerative farming on a foreign planet. He started out with the idea of teaching in a high school or maybe a college. Strange the way things came ‘round.

In keeping with his normal routine, he’d work until breakfast and stop to eat. At 1000, he’d radio the transport, get an ETA, and take his morning spin in the Rover with his helmet cam. Once the transport arrived, it would be all hands-on deck for unloading boxes, crates, and barrels into the solar-powered, pull-behind carts.

Unless something happened to the transport, the Mars colony would have poultry within twenty-five hours. NASA hadn’t released their plan to the media yet, but would once they were certain the birds survived the trip from the lunar colony. Sallie had been given permission to pull a social media stunt.

Sallie sifted the fibrous mulch into the powdery dirt, making sure the discarded potato plants dispersed evenly. Potatoes had been one of the first things they’d tried to grow. The harvest had been small and puny but a promising start in Aashi’s garden. That woman loved her veggies. She’d declared it worth a social media post. Which Sallie photo bombed.

NASA had a love/hate relationship with most of Sallie’s social media escapades. They hadn’t been crazy about his AirBnB listing for a Martian yurt with a spectacular view of Olympus Mons… He hadn’t figured someone would make the million-dollar reservation. The Administrator of NASA visited the trillionaire bidder to make a private apology and explain that they couldn’t make good on the weekend in the Yurt. Then there was the guy that hired him to Uber him around the Mariner Valley—or Valles Marineris. Mission control caught that one before it hit the digi-papers.

In Sallie’s case, rash went along with brilliant. He knew it. NASA knew it. Besides, there was no such thing as bad publicity. He liked to think of himself as their favorite bad boy.

Along with the other dozen crewmembers, he was one of the best damn problem solvers they had and they couldn’t exactly send him to his room from thirty-four million miles away. Though, they probably regretted approving his psych evals for the long-term assignment outside of their