Ganymede, Day One

There may come a time when I call this my home—this place of stale, recycled air, of methane rain beating weakly on envirosuits—but until then, I find myself in a place so disgustingly foreign I can barely begin to describe it. Nevertheless, I begin my exile, my penance.

My lodging is over three kilometers from the dropship pad, but with my bags, I’m heavy enough to walk. The door to the aluminium cylinder—the contractors call it an apartment building—groans open, lets me in. I pack my possessions into the tenement’s drawers, but the place remains empty.

Ganymede itself has proven to be a stark world, but the Chapel, yes, the Chapel is a work of art. Small in reality, but to the soul it seems a cathedral. Walking down the carpeted aisles as dim light filters through the stained glass facsimiles reminds me of my former home, gives me hope. The people created this shrine, from scrap and trash, and made a holy place in the most barren of wastelands. They don’t need my sermons, but I’ll gladly give them.

This story has no comments.