mechapostalservice

[mechapostalservice]

Arlen P. Hobbes, Lieutenant

Bunker 23

Curiosity Basin, Western Front

West Mars

+23° 18’ 15”

Hi Pa!             I’m writin to you because Ma says we can’t afford transmission right now with the shore-tij, but she said the mail is free for soldiers!

            I’m sad you weren’t here for my birthday. I’m 8 now! Though Ma says where you are I’m only 4. That doesn’t seem right, is she tellin the truth? I asked for my favorite, strawberry cake, but Ma said we couldn’t get strawberrys right now. But ya know what? She surprised me with a strawberry cake anyway! She says it’s a secret where she got it, but I saw ol’ miss Mayweather giving her them in exchange for the laundry. I didn’t tell her cuz I’m good at secrets, but I can tell you Pa.

            When are you coming home? You missed two of my birthdays now. Ma says what your’e doing is important, protecting us, but I don’t really get it. How are you protecting us from so far away?

            Some of those men in suits came by yesterday, they told ma and me that things are going well, and they gave me a picture of the big robot you get to drive! I put it up on the wall above my bed and I look at it before I go to sleep. I think it looks kinda silly, the head is so flat and the body is so big, but since its your robot I know it must be super awesome!

            If you write back, can you tell me about what you’ve been doing? I miss you. I hope you can make it back for the next birthday.

Love,

Cherry

Postal worker 931, Callsign: Transversal, finished reading the transcribed message out loud over the speakers before climbing down out of her Postal Service Standard Issue Delivery Mech. The cool, red dirt kicked up around her feet as she took in a deep breath of the terraformed atmosphere. Everything about the Mars terraformed biosphere was perfect: ideal oxygen to nitrogen ratio in the air, perfectly organized biomes maintained like gardens by automated drones, and even organized fields for skirmishes and battles. Perfectly ordered, perfectly crafted, and perfectly boring.

It was on one of these perfectly organized battlefields, just outside a blast crater, that she now stood. The sharp scent of an aether engine leak tinged the otherwise filtered air, and there was an underlying smell of transmission fluid as well. At the center of the crater there was another mech, this one a Mars Polytechnic Manufacturing Corporation Soldier Model, a Mark One even, which was rare in this day and age to find outside of scrap parts to refurbish other models. It was still distinguishable by the flat head unit, reminiscent of a 20th century newsie cap, though it was missing an arm and half a leg, and the boosters on the back were little more than smoking remnants.

The bulk of the damage however was to the chassis, where something dangerously kinetic had been driven through the back and out the front to leave a gaping hole. At the edge of the hole there was a torso, this one human, hanging from the jagged protrusion from the back of its jacket. The arms and legs were still perfectly intact, but the head was missing, the neck where it was supposed to be sat charred black, instantly cauterized.

Transversal pulled out a clove and mint cigarette and lit the tip off a nearby rock still smoldering with blue aether engine fire. She took a long drag before speaking out the Postal service mandated messages.             “Your letter has now been delivered. Thank you for using the Postal Service. Would you like me to wait for you to pen a reply?” She was met with dissonant silence, even the last sputters of the other mechs engine had given out. “I figured.”

Climbing down into the crater, 931 stumbled a bit before reaching the edge of the ruined mechs foot. It took some effort to clamber up the leg until she could reach the torso, but when she finally did, she tucked the handwritten letter into the jacket pocket of the dead man, just beneath the stitched-on nametag reading ‘Lt. Hobbes’.

“Rest in Peace, fella.” She sighed, before jumping back down to the ground and slowly making her way out of the crater.

As she pulled herself back into the Delivery Unit, Nickle Bringer was what she had named it, since that’s what letters typically cost, the sub-light radio began to crackle.

“This is 931, copy?”

“Finished your delivery, Tran?” The familiar gruff tone of the Post Master General flowed out the radio like a bad tuba.

“Done and finished, Boss.”

“Good, got a long haul for ya next.”

“Another already? Where to?”

“How do you feel about Alpha Centauri?”