Career Change

The philosopher took another sip of warm brandy, then rested his bearded chin on linked hands.  The light from Sol glinted in his eyes as it refracted through the skin of the Biodome many miles overhead.  The icy plains in the distance looked as forbidding as ever, teeming with pests which fought humanity for survival on this wretched planet.

So much was changing upon Uranus: the various civil rights groups had different words to say, but all preached from the same book.  And morality was eroding as families were split apart to man the clangorous chemical plants, or to nanny the identical ranks of GM soldiers as they tumbled blinking and lucid from the centrifuges.  Yes, there was much to understand.

But most importantly, it was cold.  And Grant Silverson (eminent philosopher-scribe) was poor.  He had had to employ ingenuity and thrift to seal his modest tungsten abode from the waves of snow snakes whose multiplication knew no end.  At that menial task he had been successful.  Much more than could be said for his written works.

As the liquor breathed new life into his bones, the philosopher's gaze shifted to the scene outside.  A well-kept garden - nothing fancy, but hosting many of the plants which would grow within the Biodome.  Silverson's eyes tracked a litter of ice-mice as they crossed the garden in convoy, their eerie glow betraying their position.

He jumped as a blizzard lizzard plopped onto the windowsill, only a nanosheet of transparent quartz between his eyes and the creature outside.

And, for the first time in forever, a broad grin spread across his face.  If he could not make coin with his pen, he would make it with his hands.  He would be a taxidermist, a taxidermist of pests!

(298 words)