Christmas Eve Eve

The other night, on Mastodon, I reminded myself of tummo meditation. Tummo, per Wikipedia, is a tantric practice for harnessing one's inner heat. The article continues with "Scientific studies have explored the effects of tummo, demonstrating notable increases in body temperature, metabolism, and thermal power output among expert meditators. While the practice's effects on body temperature have been investigated, its primary purpose within Tibetan Buddhism remains focused on spiritual development, combining visualization, breath, and meditation to harness the inner fire and achieve profound states of enlightenment."

Why not a tantric school of meditation where people meditate so they can survive in alien environments? So I spitballed this stillborn yarn.

The rhythm of Hong's scrubber had a soporific effect on her. The Hu-Li crashed clicks away, most supplies lost, and trapped in a hostile alien environment. She needed the sleep after two Earth days of hiking to find the human base announcing itself to visitors. Every sixteen hours the suit would put her to sleep and continue walking for eight hours except this caused discomfort for extended periods. What also causes discomfort, but for shorter periods, are chlorine-oxygen atmospheres, 50°C temperatures at night, and laboring through this rock's 1.5 gs meant she burned oxygen too fast for the scrubber to keep pace. Hong relished the ten hours, per the suit's clock, laying on the spongy litter of the understory of this alien forest.

"Tianlong, how far now to the human outpost?"
"Not too far, lieutenant." was the atonal response of the secondhand American language learning model.
Hong sighed. Even if she slowed her pace, oxygen would run out before her goal was in sight.
"Wŏmen zŏu ba!" she growled. Might as well die trying than give up.
"Please translate, Lieutenant."
Eyes rolled. American technology is just as ignorant as Americans. "Let's go!"

Half a click later there was an unusual sight. A female human with a shaved head sitting in the lotus position wearing only a loose saffron robe.
She approached cautiously but before she could announce her presence the monk opened her eyes and said something.
"What! What did she say?"
Tianlong played back a recording. The woman in the recording had a thick Irish accent, "We have been waiting for you."
The monk spoke again but this time Tianlong turned on the external mic, "You won't survive out of your suit. But it is because of you that I am not so encumbered."
"Who are you?"
"Jikai O'Flaherty. You taught me the Graha Vākara technique and told me you would return to finish teaching me." As Jikai spoke, each word was emphasized by a mudra with her hands.
"I don't even know you."
"You will." A beat later, "Come with me if you want to live" and turned to walk through the strange brush.
A human. Almost naked. Alive and comfortable than dead of heat stroke and acid eating her lungs. Hong had nothing to lose following this madwoman.

Jikai's pace was measured and Tianlong matched each step discovering this would preserve the scrubbers 'til they reached the monastery. Several times Hong tried to engage Jikai but only saw the monk's back.

Outside the monastery were androgynous androids performing complex prayers.

Kneeling.

Clapping.

Crawling.

All the while reciting sutras and prayers. They unfailingly completed the circuit in a day, ensuring the monastery's continued prosperity. Unthinking robots praying were hardly a revolutionary idea, especially for Buddhists. Ancient prayer wheels and flags sent prayers to the heavens long before Zero-One achieved consciousness, so why would an android not be a tool for faith as well?

Every monk was exposed to the harsh elements, yet still lived much to Hong's suprise. Many regarded her. Some waved in a friendly fashion. Only a few ignored her. A few turns later withing the monastery's labyrinth she faced a welcome sight. An American survival module. Still pure white and well-lit and, she presumed, full of clean, cool dry air. As the fantasy left her mind, she imagined how ripe the suit must be now.

I wasn't invested in the idea. Perhaps a bit daunted trying to reconcile relativistic travel with reincarnation for Jikai's teacher returning after death. A neat trick if I could pull it off but not at this time. Something for the future, maybe?

On Friday I started anew with the idea but set it on Mars, since Mars is more familiar, and liked the direction the story took when I just let the words flow rather than actually trying to write a story. I think this is part of what Bukowski meant with Don't Try.

The buggy crapped out kilometers ago and Bradbury in Noctis was just as far away now. Feedback was optimistic on reaching the colony but Hank wasn't. Already the horizon was turning blue with the sunset over the low ruddy hills. Heater units would kick in, use up energy from the scrubbers, and then survival would be a crapshoot. Hank activated his transponder hoping the areosynchronous sats would detect him and dispatch a bubble for the night at the very least.

Soten Tembo counted the rosary while monitoring the latest feedback from high orbit observers. The monastery earned their keep volunteering as monitors and found their dedication to their mission put the monks in high demand. So far no one has been lost long, or died, when Taktsang monastery was on call. This would be Henry Benson's luckiest day.
The channel opened, "We have a straggler. 25 clicks from Bradbury" The prayer beads clattered to the floor as Soten used the mic. "Vitals strong but he's not going to make it. Drop a bubble, bearing 270° at 17° azimuth. Taktsang out."
"That's a negatory. We're fresh out after those stuck climbers on Tharsis and EarthGov is starving us because they reckon our raw materials are their property even though they didn't get redlung churning it out of the regolith themselves. This blood is on their hands not yours, Taktsang monastery."
Soten bowed his head but bot in despair but to crunch numbers. This Henry would be shy of a kilometer before passing out from a lack of oxygen. New Daongchen would be able to help. He opened a new channel.
"We have a straggler. No bubbles to send. Are there any new arrivals from Earth there?"
"Correct. Several."
"Trained in Graha Vākara?"
"Affirmative."
"On my mark, kick them into the cold and tell them they can't come back alone."

Kanshin McCoy was large for an earthborn. Two meters tall and nearly as wide at the shoulders. Despite his southern American bearing, Kanshin radiated compassion and humility even though in an earlier time he would have wrestled a bear for a beer, and won.
Probably eat it too.
"Sibling Kanshin." Jikai Nakamura bowed to him. "We need your assistance."
Kanshin bowed in return, "I want to assist in any way."
He smiled as she explained his mission.

Air roared from the airlock, urging Kanshin to follow its lead but he waited 'til he stood in near-perfect silence. The surface's bitter embrace stung at first but he remained resolute with his mindset. The regolith was cold on his soles. Dust and sand unpolished by running water for aeons cut into his feet, but discomfort was temporary. Holding up the transponder, Kanshin took long bounding strides in the direction making the transponder blink faster. Towards his goal. The only other tech he carried was a spare tank on his back. This Henry Benson would not be conscious when found.
But still alive.

Hank felt himself getting weak. He already was hearing voices of dead family and friends. Their shadows flicked at the periphery of his vision, some stepping in front of him to beckon him to cross over. Death was close, it had to be, since now he spotted a bald linebacker wearing only a robe red as Olympus Mons in the morning bounding towards him. Please let death come quick.
Kanshin caught Hank just as he keeled forward, avoiding a rock once destined to crush a faceplate. Two minutes later the spare tank was affixed and hopefully resuscitating the suit's inhabitant. A moment later there was a high-pitched crack and all of Kanshin's breath escaped in a cloud of ice crystals.

A slim silhouette with a Terran's build holstered her electromagnetic slugthrower, "Look at that, a twofer."
It wasn't malice, just a job. Her job was public relations and Earth desperately needed a reminder that Mars needs Earth more than Earth needs Mars. The free raw materials were nice but they wouldn't be free if Mars was too. Sure as shit can't have any independence sympathizers gain traction with Earth's current spate of democracy. Doesn't anyone remember how life was better when America dabbled with fascism in the 21^st century?
The looney wearing only a robe had to be dead. Probably half-dead already when he came here only to be shot in the back. She ran her RFID reader and learned Henry Benson of Bigtown University's archaeology department was the one dressed for the occasion.
Mary gave a slight kick to the suited figure and jumped back. "What the hell does Bigtown need an archaeology department on Mars anyway?"
Hank didn't move, he was aware of the kick, he could breathe again, but his nuts were freezing the fuck off.
Now rolled on his back, Hank saw a shadow standing darker against the martian night framed by stars. He did his best not to flinch nor betray any signs of life. The figure pressed their faceplate against his, "Nothing personnel."
Hank grabbed her shoulder and yanked.
Hard.
He was superman in the ⅓g of Mars gravity. But this bitch was also from Krypton.
"Fuck"
He was on his feet while she was still finding hers. It's the little things in life that one appreciates. Her suit was not meant for survival, but she had greater mobility especially with her Earth muscle. Backing away, he almost tripped on Kanshin's body.
The assassin bumrushed him, knocking him over, using the monk's body to knock him off balance. Hank knew she wasn't used to Mars gravity and assumed he'd have the same disadvantage. Instead Hank flipped over, held put his hands and arrested his fall with a push-up before hitting regolith. She leapt like she was in a beat-em-up to execute a coup de grâce but missing by 1.61 kilometers.
After minutes of desperate wrestling, punching,and futile attempts to tear away each others's life support, Hank found himself pyrrically victorious. Her faceplate had cracked on a sharp piece of basalt ensuring his win.

In the distance he could see the lights of Bradbury and the tank's meters showed there was enough to make the journey in style. He looked back at the two unfortunates, one clad in a black suit and the other exposed to unforgiving Mars, then Hank noticed something.
The linebacker's finger was still moving.

Red emergency lights spun in the airlock as he dropped the giant monk to the floor. From a whisper to a hiss to a full throated howl, oxygen rushed into the lock along with the emergency team. Nobody could hear over the klaxons and Henry just pointed at the big fella, begging off any assistance. A sprained wrist was nothing compared to what he went through. The crew was astonished an unprotected human survived that long on the surface, not to mention taking a round in the shoulder.

Days later, Hank wandered down the hospital tube following the scent of incense. The monastery sent the big American monk out on a desperate suicide mission to save him. Yet when Hank got mad that they took advantage of the guy, they remained serene and told Hank to pay him a visit. This Kanshin guy probably would be surprised to know Hank wound up saving him.
But that'd be nothing compared to what he found on Utopia Planitia They deserve to know about that before everyone else.