I write to you from the cold wastes of Earth on the first day of the New Year, 2023, the third year of war, and so close to your own child’s decanting date that it pains me to think on thee. The machines have been unkind to this planet and I hope you are well situated on Mars where it is safe. The men in the platoon — Dutch, Brooklyn, Dandy and French — all send a cheerful “Hello.” I think they are jealous that you are human.
I must tell you something, dearest Martha, as I feel I’ve been remiss in maintaining our marriage smart contract. I met here a machine, an Autoblow A.I., with which I had the briefest of dalliances. The robot, made by humans in the last century, approached me in a time of great pain. Zimmerman had just been destroyed by an ion cannon and I saw his flesh burn and his lungs become a meaty particulate. I could still taste him when the Autoblow offered me a night of solace and, Martha, I’m sorry to say I took it.
It was more human than human, Martha, but my shame will never end. The product, which cost $129 in original Earth dollars, came with two sleeves that simulated different parts of human anatomy. The robot had a unique system that grasped and pulled at my turgidity in ways that simulated real human contact. My body wracked with fear, pain and guilt, I let it stroke me to issue with its A.I.-powered smarts. Then, face burning, I escaped back to the barracks and slept fitfully, exhausted and morally broken.
And so I pray, Martha, that you will forgive me. I know that the robots killed your parents and that your hatred for them knows no bounds. But Martha, dear, understand that in that moment, on the streets of Old Singapore where the lights flicker with each cannon blast and the radiation rises like steam from the old sewers, I did not think of anything but my own loss and the deep sadness I feel for having left you and our embryo. This war will be over soon and we will soon return to each other’s arms. I will forget this scandalous experience and I hope you will be able to, as well. Until then, Martha, look to this far blue star and think of me as I was before this disgusting behavior. I dream of the happiness we will share. The Autoblow meant nothing to me and you mean everything.
Your husband, Miso Kale Post Malone