June 10th, 2037
Dear Earth Diary
After all this time. I’m home.
The place looks pretty much as I left it, aside from a layer of dust and some milk I rather unfortunately forgot was in the fridge before I left.
Oh, and several hundred discarded wooden crates in my front lawn. My neighbour is less than impressed.
Firstly, they’re an eyesore. Secondly, he had to sign for them as Mary had neglected to select “No signature required” when altering the addresses. And thirdly, he thought I was dead and was starting to slowly take over my backyard. He even put up a swing set.
I had a go. Quite fun.
The Marys had been installed in a fallout shelter that had remained dormant ever since nuclear war didn’t happen, which on the whole was a plus for everyone. Fairly utilitarian but then much comfier than a cloning vat or a wooden crate so I imagine it was a step up for them. They were arguing with a government social worker about trying to establish contact with the Marys on Splat. The social worker was understandably not especially versed in interstellar communication so it was a fruitless but determined argument on both sides.
I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen to them, but their optimism is infectious once you’re back on solid non-pink ground. I really hope they make it. I’ll help if I can.
Mary herself was taken away by the medical staff when we arrived. I’m told she should be alright, but that she’s lost a lot of blood and has been through a lot, so it’s anyone’s guess as to when and how she wakes up. They seemed pretty certain on the ‘if’ though which is arguably the main thing.
Mary Sixty-Seven seemed pretty set on that drink. Who knows, maybe I’ll go. I think I’ve had my fill of Marys for a little while though. I’ve got her number.
The government officials that met us at the shelter quarantined everything from off world that we had on us. I chose not to tell them about Mr Rock. His smile says he agrees with me. God, I hate that smile.
So… now what? I really don’t know what I should be doing.
That’s weird. Why is my phone ringing? Who rings a dead person at this time of night?
“Hi. It’s me.”
“No this is all just a dream.”
Mine or yours?
“I’m really hoping yours, because if I’m a figment of your imagination I won’t have to remember this conversation.”
How are you feeling?
“Like hell. Absolute hell. But I’m awake. And apparently stable, whatever that means.”
I’m really happy to hear that.
“I’m glad you’re at home. Will you come visit us tomorrow? This might sound weird but I’m kind of used to having you around.
Listen. Can you do me a favour?”
Of course! What?