Crop

Elza patted down the dirt around the radishes fondly, with a trace of wistfulness. Not because she loved radishes. On the contrary, she found them rather rude on the whole, what with their constant need to sunbathe and short shelf life. But the little ruby roots were the pride of her grandmother's last days and the heart of Elza's favorite fairy tale, so she'd nurtured these samples for as long as possible under the only biodome set aside for non-hydroponic farming. With the right combination of hydration and nutrient additions, the red clay of Mars could be bullied into giving radishes a chance.

But the plains of Tannis, mankind's newest extraterrestrial conquest, were not so forgiving. Humanity had learned to make proverbial bricks without straw on dead worlds like Mars, starting from scratch and recreating Earth. Tannis presented a new problem: it was very much alive, in a primordial sense. Seas of highly acidic water frothed against ice caps and chemical islands, and the one continent still shook with volcanic fury. Experts believed this second Pangea would break up soon, creating relatively stable patches of habitable land by the time the first wave of colonists arrived.

It would take twenty standard years as measured by Earth's rotation to reach this new home. Elza would begin the journey as a young person fresh from final exams, and finish it as a middle-aged leader, possibly a wife and a mother. That was the ideal timetable, of course: once their ship took off, there was no telling what might befall the voyagers. She would be on the first manned vessel to reach Tannis, guided only by records and beacons left behind by robotic pioneers.

As a nutritional scientist with personal experience in cultivating new forms of food for a non-Earth population, Elza easily qualified for placement. She was excited, nervous of course, but also itching to dig deep into what a virginal world could offer. After a careful survey of the Tannis soil composition she began a careful study of what to bring with her from the family greenhouse. A species of mushrooms she'd bred to withstand acidic soils proved an easy first choice, followed by her prize-winning squash. Elza held little fondness for corporate SoyGru beans; they weren't adaptable by both design and legal patents, and they tasted like the paste they actually were. But they were able to grow in just about anything with no change to nutritional value. Virtually indestructible, they required little care, and could make up for any deficiencies caused by a lack of this or that food group. She'd reluncantly accepted their evil neccesity.

Her modest ship space allowed only two more selections, and she'd agonized over them. Asparagus or Brussels sprouts? Cucumbers or chilies? What of the age-old tomato controversy?

Two days ago she'd settled on a strain of bamboo that could serve a variety of purposes, from textiles to garnish, which led to her kneeling at the sight of her radish beds. Try as she might, she could find no way to accommodate these little buds into her new life. They were too stubborn, too prone to wilting under pressure. After all, if they could survive in a different environment, they wouldn't need such an artificially constructed home.

"I'll remember you," she whispered, fingering their leaves. "But I'm not risking my future over a plant."

Elza stood and surveyed the rest of the greenhouse, breathing in the scent of her life up to this point one last time. Without another glance back she headed for the door, and was nearly gone when she caught sight of a lovely little pumpkin flower.

Pumpkins were difficult, notoriously so. Flavorful and nutritious, they still took far too much space for too little output. They were considered wasteful. People wanted to look at them rather than eat them. They couldn't be turned into anything else. They were messy, smelly, big annoyances, and had no place on a long-term space voyage.

Elza stepped closer, reaching out to cup the blossom in her palm. The soft petals gelded her fingers with their nectar. She brought them to her nose and sniffed the faint perfume. Pumpkins might be nuisances, but for that they exhibited no shyness for settling into new homes. Pumpkin pie was served native style on Earth's Moon long before grains or legumes took root, and the Marsborn always felt a special fondness for jack-o-lanterns. Halloween wasn't complete without a stroll through any Martian city, every window bedecked in organic green and orange.

Radishes were fighters, grasping to keep hold of who they were even as each generation choked more and more on the changing worlds of man and vegetation. Pumpkins, in contrast, were lovers, free souls who didn't much care where they hung their hats or who they shared a good meal with. Rapunzel's family wept at what the entrenched, inhospitable sorcery of radishes wrought in their lives. The magic of the pumpkin opened new worlds, whisking Cinderella away from drudgery into a realm of novel possibilities.

In a moment of rash impetuosity, Elza clipped a sampling from the pumpkin plant, marking it to be prepped for transport.

Twenty years wouldn't be quite so gloomy with a few jack-o-lanterns amidst the stars.