The Last Harvest of Tessera

The condensation dripping from the copper heat exchanger tasted of copper and recycled sweat. Inside the galley's four-meter footprint, the roar of the recirculator vents barely masked the whistling draft of the sixth Martian winter scouring the outer hull. You skimmed a gray film of brewer's yeast off the iron vat, letting the vapor scald your face; it was all that masked the sour, wet-cardboard stink of the reconstituted algae paste that was supposed to keep forty-one souls upright through the freeze. The pneumatic seal to the hydroponics annex hissed open, carrying a stench that instantly curdled the kitchen air—the greasy, sweet stench of dying vegetation. Jonas slipped through, trembling so violently his boot heels clattered against the diamond-plate deck. His dirt-stained green canvas apron was blackened at the chest with foul, liquefied pulp, his unruly sandy blond hair plastered to his forehead. Without a word, the young botanist set a plastic tray on your stainless-steel prep counter. Upon it lay three russet tubers, their skins sloughing off in dark, foul mucus. Commander Vance stepped out from the pantry shadows, his seamless, charcoal-gray wool vest rigid across his br…