Beneath his feet lay the warm wood of the walkways. Mosquitoes buzzed around the yellow swamp flowers and spindly birch trees. The hills, overgrown with ancient pines, obscured the lake where Michael went, following a path strewn with fallen needles and gnarled roots.
After swimming, he settled in the shade with one or another book picked from the sanatorium's library. Assuming that, besides him, some other space pilots also resided in the old huts around the swamp, Michael did not expect any meetings with colleagues.
“Or former colleagues,” he paused by a blooming corn lily, “because they don't let the insane into space.”
His condition was officially considered a top-tier psychological trauma.
“Which has led to deep depression," the doctor said, "but don't worry because you’ll get better.”
The amiable doctor had made Michael’s depression somewhat cozy. The wicker basket of berries, appearing on his doorstep every day, and the dog with a doughnut-curled tail, visiting him after lunch, also emanated coziness. The dog would lie on its back next to the chair where Michael read another detective novel, wagging its legs. Michael tickled its warm belly, and the dog smiled.
Robotics had now reached unprecedented heights, and scientists could build any creature, from a dog to a mosquito.
“But not a human,” a chill ran down Michael’s spine, “such research is prohibited.”
He reached out to the lily, but a cool voice slipped into his ear.
“Please be careful,” said the robot, “this plant is poisonous.”
Michael injected his reply with the right dose of venom.
“I know, and I wasn't going to touch it. Although, even if I chewed all the leaves of this bush, I would be saved. The medicine of the twenty-fourth century can reassemble people atom by atom, never mind stomach pumping.”
“Are you considering suicide?” the robot inquired, and Michael rolled his eyes.
“Of course not. It's a joke. Humor. Look up what humor is in the thesaurus.”
His assistant, or, as Michael thought of it, the overseer, kept silent for a moment.
“A humor is a work or statement intended to entertain listeners and improve their mood,” the robot sounded puzzled. “However, I do not have moods and...”
“And take a break, buddy,” Michael pressed the button on his bracelet. “Here comes my legitimate freedom.”
The robot would shut down at night, but during the day, Michael also enjoyed a couple of hours without the intrusive presence of the invisible companion.
Michael did not mind the cameras in the hut and the device monitoring his sleep, which was now almost free from nightmares, thanks to the pills prescribed by the jovial doctor.
During the evacuation from Mars, waking at night, Michael groped around the narrow bunk in the depths of the spaceship. Finding the bed empty, he collapsed back onto the crumpled pillow.
Tonia was gone, and no force could change that. Even after writing a dozen detailed reports about the tragedy, Michael kept thinking about a frosty Martian morning when he and Tonia set out on a reconnaissance mission.
“What’s the temperature on the street?” Michael asked, pouring artificial maple syrup over fake pancakes.
“Outside,” Tonia corrected him. “However, eventually we’ll build streets here. It’s minus sixty for now, but by noon the forecast promises plus fifteen.”
“Practically summer,” Michael winked at her. “Do you think the guys stumbled upon a natural anomaly?”
Tonia scratched her short, sleep-tousled blond hair.
“I need to see everything myself,” she replied. “Scouts are not geologists and could be mistaken.”
Michael's scouts had taken photos of what appeared to be signs of artificial origin, and after checking them, Tonia insisted on a trip to the caves.
“Then let’s get ready,” Michael said, starting on his coffee. “It’s an hour’s journey one way.”
His hour of freedom was also coming to an end, and Michael turned on the bracelet.
“I hope you had a good rest,” the robot said.
Michael smiled.
“Couldn't be better. By the way, we’re almost at the lake.”
Swinging the wicker basket, he stopped on the sand. A swimmer’s head bobbed over the sparkling waves. Pulling out a collapsible lounge chair, Michael plopped down on the cool canvas. He had never encountered strangers here before.
“What are you reading?” a gentle voice asked, and Michael looked up.
Drops of water glistened on her pale face. The woman was breathing heavily. Michael showed her the cover.
“I prefer ancient books,” he explained.
“Are you an archaeologist?”
Sitting down on a nearby rock, she tousled her raven hair and Michael winced. Her gesture seemed familiar.
“I am a space pilot,” he replied. “And you?”
“I’m also an astronaut,” she said, propping her sharp chin on her fist. “Only a doctor. My name is Elle.”
Michael cautiously touched her long fingers, but Elle's hand, extended to him according to the old custom, was firm.
“I’m here on a work visit,” she added. “Are you in rehabilitation?”
Michael reluctantly nodded. He didn’t want to talk about the past.
“You could say that,” he agreed, “but actually, I’m a wood sprite, living in these swamps.”
Tilting her head to the side, Elle assessed his bushy beard.
“You do look the part,” she said. “Then lead me into the depths of the swamps, esteemed sprite.”
She threw on a light dress, and Michael chuckled.
“The mosquitoes will eat you alive. Here they're the size of spaceships. I'm used to them, but your attire won't stop the bites.”
Elle assured him, “I'll take the risk.”
Walking behind her on the wooden path, amid bubbling peat bogs and black mirrors of stagnant water, Michael couldn't shake off a strange feeling. The woman's mannerisms seemed familiar to him.
“What nonsense!” he sighed. “Tonia was nothing like her.”
Remembering the blonde hair and azure eyes of his wife, Michael looked away from Elle's slender neck. The woman calmly walked ahead of him. She had tied her black hair into a knot, but an escaped lock tickled her delicate ear.
“Here dwells the hermit,” Michael pointed to his hut. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
The little black dog, not paying any attention to Elle, was dozing in the tall grass.
“The mosquitoes really didn’t touch you,” Michael seated his guest in a wicker chair on the terrace. “Would you like some tea?”
Elle stretched out her long legs.
“I’ve read they only bite people with a certain blood type,” she replied. “We've reached Jupiter and Saturn, yet we still don’t know what drives a mosquito in its flight.”
“Hunger,” Michael smiled. “Would you like some honeycomb?”
Elle nodded.
“Of course. For some reason, I feel like you also have wild raspberry jam, thyme tea, and a samovar.”
“You are very perceptive,” Michael agreed.
Stoking the samovar with pine cones, he again remembered how Tonia used to wrinkle her nose when she was about to laugh and tied her hair the same way at the nape of her neck.
Michael told himself to calm down.
“No talk of space,” he set the samovar on the round table. “Today we talk only about Earth.”
“Because we all miss it,” Elle accepted the cup, “even the mosquitoes.”
The coppery sun was already sinking towards the horizon and forest pigeons cooed in the pine branches. He and Elle talked about forest herbs, the nearby seaside, and ancient Earth cities now turned into museums.
The guest did not ask him about Mars, which Michael was only too happy about. When the greenish-gold of sunset painted the sky and frogs began to croak in the swamp, Elle rose.
“I must go,” she hesitated, “thank you for a wonderful time.”
“I've rested better than I have all of last year,” Michael replied. “Until tomorrow, and good night.”
“Good night to you too,” Elle smiled.
Fog settled over the swamp. Standing on the porch, Michael watched her slender figure. Elle’s head dissolved into the whitish mist, and he sighed for some reason.
That night, Michael barely slept. The wind howled outside, and he kept tossing and turning, throwing the crumpled pillow to the floor and sprawling under the blanket.
The Martian day was also windy, and Tonia checked the sensor on the control panel of their vehicle.
“This mist will last at least another two hours,” she said. “It's a shame to wait almost at the target. You said the cave entrance is somewhere nearby?”
Michael forced himself to say, “Yes, it’s very close. We can risk it and run there.”
He knew that Tonia, with her impatience, would agree.
“I also knew that even if her body was found, the injuries would be attributed to the sandstorm,” Michael sprang up in bed. “I hit her on the head with a rock and threw her out of the cave we had managed to reach...”
He barely caught his breath when a cold voice floated into his ear.
“Why did you kill your wife?”
Tears dripped between Michael’s fingers, falling onto the sheet.
“Tonia was cheating on me,” his voice faded. “It was only a matter of time before she left me, but I didn't want to and couldn't let her go.”
“Do you plead guilty?” the voice asked, and Michael whispered, “Yes.”
"You are to remain on the premises," the door clicked and Michael flinched. “In the morning, you will be handed over to the Disciplinary Commission of the Space Fleet, which will determine your fate.”
The voice went silent, and Michael burst into tears.
“Tonia, Tonia, please forgive me.”
**Report**
To the Medical Department of the Space Fleet
From the Chief Physician of the Rehabilitation Sanatorium “Suo”
During the experimental testing of the new android model H418 (“Elle”), the latter demonstrated excellent performance. We recommend further use of “Elle” for the psychological rehabilitation of astronauts.
The End
Nelly Shulman has published numerous short stories in literary magazines and anthologies and authored two collections of short stories titled “The Voice” and “The Drought.” She is a reader for Uncharted magazine and the Mud Season Review.