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It’s been two months since my son’s spacecraft touched down on Mars. He is a member of the third crew to permanently join Alcippe and now a citizen of a new world. I knew he would become a wanderer when he grew up, my little seedling on the breeze. I never expected him to remain planted next to me, but I never imagined he would wander quite so far.

I received his video messages every morning during the seven months while their ship was in transit, and those messages continued for the first couple weeks after they landed, but they have since gone silent. In fact, all communication has gone silent. I cannot find anyone here on Earth who will answer my questions about what is happening, nor can any of the other families. The officials tell me (and everyone else) that they have pointed their orbiting scopes at the colony and see no sign of above-ground life. But the colony has many roots underground, and they can’t say for sure that there is no life in those roots.

In the meantime, I’ve been working on something. Ecologists have long known that in forests there are “mother trees”: the great, old trees who tether themselves to myriad other species through their roots and fungal connections. They shelter their children, nurturing and sustaining them, and they send interspecies communications across vast distances. I have found the same system, but on a grander scale. A planetary scale. I didn’t think I would need to do what I’m about to do so soon, but having already begun the process, I can sense my son and know he is alive but in trouble.

They tell me that my son knew the mission was dangerous when he signed on. They tell me that they’re scrambling, but they can’t send another ship to Alcippe that will arrive sooner than another eight months from now. I’m not waiting that long. Tonight, I’m joining the Mother Tree, and I’m going to protect my child.

–Rosemary Bush

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