By Patrick M. Fitzgerald
“Oxygen’s a little over 17 percent.” Naomi checked her watch. “That means one hour of outside time, Lydia.”
“Yes, mama!” Lydia kicked off her shoes and ran to the recreation fields.
Naomi settled in under the willowy arms of a veilbranch tree, watching her daughter collect wildflowers in the evening light of Eridani’s golden sun. A cluster of children kicked around a ball on the other side of the field.
A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye drew Naomi’s attention. Her heart leaped at the fluttering of lavender wings of a twiligale. She held her breath and stared.
The delicate little bird returned her gaze with a glistening black eye. Its head tilted slowly, knowingly.
“Please,” Naomi whispered.
The bird opened its beak for a tantalizing moment, but let out only an emaciated croak. It twisted its head to see her with its other eye and stared expectantly.
“I’m so sorry,” Naomi whispered.
She closed her eyes. The native birds were used to lower oxygen levels, but ecologists had assured the colonists that the twiligales could survive as oxygen increased.
At least they weren’t wrong.
Her daughter’s laughter brought her back to the moment. Lydia ran to her with a garland of pink daisies and curtsied with all the formality of a seven-year-old at play. “For you, my queen!”
Naomi laughed as she adorned herself with the makeshift crown. “Thank you, my princess! And just in time. Our hour is almost done.” She smiled sadly at the watching bird. “And thank you for that.”
Lydia looked at her mom quizzically. “Why are you talking to the bird? They never say anything.”
Naomi took her daughter’s hand. “They used to,” she murmured. “They gave up their voices so we could join them outside.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a fairy tale.”
“I guess it does.” Naomi glanced at the muted bird. What does that make us?
Naomi sighed as they followed the worn path back to the habitat. “You know, we could only spend twenty minutes outside when I was your age.”
Lydia gasped and looked up into her mother’s eyes. “That’s not even enough time to do anything.”
Naomi laughed. “When my grandparents landed here, there was only 15 percent oxygen, and they couldn’t go outside at all without a mask. Back on Earth, they had 21 percent.”
Lydia raised her eyebrows and nodded slowly.
“Your grandparents helped set up those big hydrolysis plants at the seashore to extract oxygen from the water. You know, the ones that go vrrm-pah, vrrm-pah.” Naomi squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. “All to make this a better world for you and your friends.”
Lydia looked up at the glistening plastic surface of the habitat, then turned back wistfully to the flowery fields. “It’s not fair, Mama.”
“You’re right.” Naomi glanced at the neglected birdhouses by the windows. “It isn’t.”
Naomi squinted as her eyes adjusted to the harsh blue light inside. She kept a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, maneuvering them through the narrow plastic hallways. The stale air was pungent with the smell of everyone’s recent exercise.
Three boys shoved past her, laughing and yelping like they were still outside. Naomi pushed off the wall and opened her mouth to shout, when the boys turned the corner and slammed into an older woman.
“Boys! Behave yourselves.” Naomi reached the scene as the kids were picking themselves up. “Mrs. Castor, are you all right?”
The lady reached for Naomi’s hand and chuckled. “Never better, my dear!” She ruffled one of the rascals’ curls, using him as a cane in the process. “Haven’t been in a good old-fashioned scrum in years!”
“You kids know better than to run in the habitat.” Naomi glared at the lot of them, trying to make eye contact with all at once. “You do not want your sunlight privileges suspended… do you?”
Their eyes widened as though the thought hadn’t occurred to them. They exchanged glances and shook their heads in unison.
Lydia giggled, watching them slink off down the hallway. Naomi turned. Lydia sounded breathless—almost hysterical.
Naomi took her daughter’s arm gently and checked the vitals on her watch. Oxygen was a bit low, but not too bad. “Let’s get you to your room, honey. It’s been a long day.”
As she tucked her daughter in, Naomi hummed an old melody that tugged at her heartstrings.
“Did your mama sing that to you?”
Naomi stroked Lydia’s hair. “No, dear. The twiligales used to sing it.”
“It’s a nice song.”
“When I was a little girl, they used to sit right there”—Naomi pointed to the window—“and sing us to sleep.”
Lydia smiled as her eyes fluttered closed. “That was nice of them.”
“It was,” Naomi said as she kissed her daughter on the forehead.
She touched the empty windowsill and blinked away a tear. “It was such gentle music.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Such a bittersweet story. Well done!
Thank you, Arlan!
the sequel is that Lydia grows up and creates a large biosphere with 15% O2 so the native plants and animals can live more normally…
^_^
That’s actually very close to what I had in mind.
I’m glad we’re on the same page, as it were.
Thanks as always for reading!
Such a simple yet rich story! The setting so vivid I could see myself there.
Thank you, Zachary!
I had such a vivid vision of it in my head, It’s good to know that I was able to share it with you!
Aw, the poor birds. This had some great world-building, nice work! I hope that the birds can one day find their voices again.
I do feel bad for them. :(
I’m sure they will sing again one day, though!
Thank you for reading, and for your hope!
Sweet story with a tinge of sadness and an ominous look at the future.
Thank you as always for reading!
I’m glad it moved you.
Maybe they can find a way to lower the oxygen level outside at a time when people are not outside, so the birds can sing.
It is a great story.
Keep the wonderful stories coming.
Perhaps so!
With sufficient innovation, I’m sure the birds will find their voice again, and they can live in harmony.
Thank you as always for reading!