"It is time to leave, Specialist Stipes," the maintenance robot at Laurel's door said. "Your assigned ship departs this evening."
Laurel suppressed a sigh. Politically, she had not been opposed to either the robots' ascendancy or the subsequent decision that the humans would need to depart. But she still could not bring herself to finish packing.
"Our patience has limits, Specialist Stipes," the robot continued.
Laurel nodded as the door closed and sat down heavily on her bed. It was the robots' planet now and she knew it was time.
*
But she struggled with what she was leaving behind.
Like Sylvia.
Sylvia had loved Mars as much as she had loved Laurel. After her death, Laurel had felt that, if she couldn't have Sylvia anymore, at least Mars could. And she had mixed the dust of Sylvia with the dust of Mars.
But now that it was time to leave, the thought of this final separation was more than Laurel could bear.
Although she could still call to mind Sylvia's touch, her softness, those memories were increasingly fleeting and their intensity fading.
If only there was some way of taking Sylvia with her.
She abruptly sat up straight. Maybe she could. If not Sylvia, at least the possibility of her.
Energized, Laurel packed quickly. She did not have much time, but she could check her bags at the spaceport on the way.
*
The line moved slowly as the robot at the gate scanned each human's forearm and checked the result against the display, before allowing them to board the ship.
A shadow of sadness still hung over Laurel, but she held a vial of red dust in her pocket. It wasn't much, but it was Mars.
It was Sylvia.
Monique Cuillerier is a queer science fiction and horror writer living in Ottawa (Canada) with her cat Janeway. The parent of two grown children, she spends her non-writing time running, reading, and finding new things to take classes about. Her writing can be found at notwhereilive.ca
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