Fast times. My next book, How to Dodge a Cannonball, made this week a blur. But I’m never too busy for you, sci-fi, or making myself laugh. Here’s some Martian mail.
Dig it? Share it. Hate it? Don’t suffer alone.
Like many innovators, Richard Thompson II was a father to his team. The second-generation self-starter brought classic management technique to new spaces. His early-career letters reflect the power of an open door, shared mission, and merit-based structure. For the first time, they’re available outside of a courtroom. Aspiring leaders should take note.
My King,
Thank you for our portion, which keeps us strong. Our work, which keeps us proud. And your land, which keeps us alive. You are our light.
The sky has a crack.
The dome, technically. I’m not a builder, but the hairline above us widens every day. I used to compare it to a penny. Now I need a quarter.
The foreman says its nothing, and I wish I believed him. I don’t know what the crack means. But it keeps me awake.
Your Faithful Servant,
Ron Porter
Proud Miner
Son of Heaven,
I have no request. Thank you for entertaining the masses’ rambling, it keeps the dregs manageable. The Golden Quarter remain your humble servants. Along with my family. I hope that you, like your father, remember your friends.
Eternally Yours,
Viola Cartwright
Duchess, Shareholder
Sir,
Setup’s going well. Thanks for the break from playing defense.
Humbly,
Ser Rodan
Specialist
Lord Above Lords,
Your generosity awes and inspires. This signed plaque makes my son’s passing easier to bear. It currently hangs above an empty kitchen’s empty shelves. Could you send food as well? I’m too hungry to grieve.
Joining the builders was Theodore’s dream, and he poured his soul into each brick. His results speak for themselves. The Fall Palace dwarfs the Winter Palace, which put the Summer Palace to shame. The new Royal Hunting Grounds are beautiful, along with strange, majestic, and edible animals that roam them. I’m sure my son would’ve traded his life for theirs. Given the choice.
I’m aware that many other builders passed in the dome breach. But I have nowhere else to turn. His brother is only six harvests old, and his sister abandoned us for banditry. I can’t mine after the accident (another breach), and fear starvation. I hope our service is worth a little protein dust.
Your Servant,
Jamie Hughes
Former Father, Miner, and Husband
Sir,
Small issue.
The Martial Quarter’s low on both legumes and synthetic beef. While the enlisted men have acclimated, the officers have turned to other protein sources. Long pig. White meat. People. I suggest suspending noble criminal immunity, before we run out of enlisted men. Bandits won’t hang themselves.
Humbly,
Ser Rodan
Your Royal Highness,
It’s Bobo, your favorite jester! Or former favorite, after his mistake. Consider Bobo’s lesson learned: no slandering the royal manhood. It is the long, firm shadow under which we take shelter. Bobo can only dream of such heft!
Now, it’s been two weeks in the mines. While Common Quarter workers are the salt of the earth, we’re far from Earth. The salt of the earth steals meals from Bobo. They find it funny, unlike Bobo’s wit.
Bobo fears for his life. When Bobo complains, he is beaten. When Bobo gives in, he starves. When Bobo fights back, they burn Bobo with mining lances. Bobo was not born to mine. Bobo was born to rhyme! No one laughs in the mines.
Please forgive Bobo.
Yours Forever,
Bobo
Maestro of Mirth
Son of Heaven,
Another beautiful red dawn. Thanks to Royal Quarter leadership, Martial Quarter vigilance, and Golden Quarter patience. Excess patience, of late. Bandits move freely, while my son faces charges for exploring new cuisine. I almost believed that you’d forgotten your friends.
Then I noticed a divine coincidence: I’m blessed with three daughters, and you remain brideless. As breach expenses rise, I can’t help but see the symmetry.
My oldest, Carta, is an artist worthy of the old planet. Glowing company in a difficult time. My middle daughter, Wendy, could outfight any knight alive. Invaluable, as the rabble get antsier. My youngest, Gert, is the youngest. I know how kings are.
Consider your options! There are three.
Eagerly Awaiting Your Response,
Viola Cartwright
Duchess, Cartwright Family Director
Sir,
The next event’s ready, at the location requested. I’ll work my way down the rest of the list.
Ser Rodan
Shield of the People,
Thank you for being so thankable. I have, alongside my thanks, a minor note.
The scrolls promise each quarter 6.3 tons of legumes per month. A generous bounty, and we appreciate each bean. The intent is wonderfully egalitarian, and defies bandit slander. An elitist system would leave the Golden Quarter more. But there’s a quibble.
The Common Quarter has five times the population, and makes do with the same shipment. This teaches us discipline, no doubt. But the learning is getting excessive. We cannot eat pride. Austerity depresses worker output, and amplifies rickets.
Yours,
James Townsend
Mine Foreman
Leech,
Your father was a parasite. You are his parasite. I’d rather choke on red dust than bow to a tapeworm’s tapeworm.
Train more dogs. Break more domes. This still ends the same way.
See you soon,
Mina Hughes
“Bandit”
Son of Heaven,
Can words capture our love for the crown? Perhaps. I’ll leave it to the poets and jesters. Today, settle for “worship.” As your worshipers, and future in-laws, we hope you hear our plea. Immediately.
Outsiders have infiltrated the Golden Quarter, treading mine filth onto marble roads. Worse yet, they beg. It’s hideous. I know the lower orders have their problems, but they’re just that: their problems. Rules keep our colony alive. Half the subliterate dregs think this is Earth.
Culling them wouldn’t take many men. It’d be an adventure! You know how idle, armed hands like adventure. The knights can’t all chase the Hughes woman around, can they? It’s poor optics.
Your Servant,
Viola Cartwright
Duchess, Community Organizer
P.S. I’ve gone ahead and picked Wendy for you. The bandit situation seems tense.
Richie,
Isn’t it time you visited? Too much time up there isn’t healthy. All the forsooths and milords drove your father half-crazy. Take a week in the guest mansion. Our property’s beachfront now, you’ll love it!
With Love,
Matilda Thompson
Mother, Wellness Icon
First Above Equals,
My father, Bobo, has died in the mines. Naturally, I’m told. The details don’t concern me.
You need a new jester. I need the family manor. Father’s will says my sister gets it, but the bells on his hat carry more weight. The hat paid our way, while the man nearly ruined us.
Satire’s a useful messenger. Easy to forget, since father was more buffoon than clown. But a proper jester draws attention to royal weddings, and away from only difficult domes imploding. I’m that voice. I’ve written years of jokes, without saying a word.
Consider your options. You have one.
Sincerely,
Bolin Boarhill the Third, aka “Bobo Jr.”
Humor Specialist
Son of Heaven,
Should I just say son? I’ll wait. No need to overwhelm you.
I respect the knighthood. They swept the dirt out the Golden Quarter without a complaint. Most visibly enjoyed the work, a welcome change from the beggars’ whinging. I even tipped.
But could they keep the gunshots down? Or at least limit combat to decent hours? Bandits might kill us. Sleep deprivation definitely will. Nothing short of eight hours qualifies as life.
See what you can do. I’ll write to Wendy as well.
Yours,
Viola Cartwright
Duchess, Concerned Citizen
P.S. Just implode the Common Quarter. Why play with one dome at a time? It’s inefficient. And loud.
Sir,
Cornered. Outnumbered. Tired.
It’s been an honor. Apologies for all the noise.
Signing off,
Ser Rodan
Dear Director Thompson,
Congratulations—no other colony director is close to your output. You’ve sent more ore with less handholding. The others, to a man, whinge about unsustainable populations. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. I don’t need details.
Neither do the little people. Media ships have started flitted around our property, looking for fluff to spice up the feeds. A warning shot normally sends them scurrying—there isn’t much overlap between journos and combat pilots. If they stick around, remember you’re allowed to vaporize anything in your orbit. Considering team safety, some would say you’re obliged.
Keep an eye out, and your numbers up. I might bring you Earthside—the water rights division could use your magic touch. I’d love to make that duopoly a monopoly.
Later,
Reggie Branson-Gates
Chairman, Pillar Holdings
Leech,
You reek of fear. If you want to scurry home, now’s the time. I hear the air’s almost breathable. Almost.
Choose quickly.
Your Loyal Servant,
Mina Hughes
Proud Bandit
Enjoyed that? Then you’ll love my novel, coming through Holt. Peep the announcement:
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Thanks, as always, for your support. It makes all the keyboard time worthwhile.
"The learning is getting excessive" might be my new favorite example of how good understatement can be.
It's a good post when you casually blow through enough premises to fuel an entire sci-fi series