Dust and Dreams on Proxima B

By Gensher Kissinger

My last day on Oort Cloud Main Station felt strangely quiet. The usual controlled chaos of the docks, the constant low thrum of station machinery, the distant chatter of a thousand different conversations – it was all still there, but somehow muted, as if the station itself was holding its breath. The unexpected buzz of Geen Grissom’s return years before, the surge of energy that had crackled through the media streams about the Voyager’s success and the audacious idea of FTL news – that had faded into history, a memory that still resonated but no longer dominated the present moment. The normal rhythm of the station had resumed, but for me, a strange, anticipatory stillness had settled in its wake. I finished packing the few things I was taking with me. A few changes of clothes, worn comfortable from years of station life. My battered, reliable recorder, its data chips wiped clean and ready for a new world’s stories. A stack of blank data chips, more than I thought I’d need, a small act of faith in the future. And the precious, smudged note from Kraken and Missy, carried across 4.2 light-years by the fastest ship humanity had ever built, a tangible link to the dream that was pulling me across the void.

In the years since Geen Grissom’s return, I had watched other FTL ships come and go from OCMS. I had seen another FTL ship leave, a smaller vessel pushing the boundaries of speed, a silent test of the new frontier. I had even witnessed the majestic, if distant, passage of the first FTL colony ship, launched from Charon, as it arced through the outer solar system on its way to a distant star, a silent promise of humanity’s relentless expansion. Each departure fueled the idea that had sparked during my interview with Geen – the potential for news, for connection, to travel faster than light.

My ticket was for the “Smithsonian-Aproximation स्मिथसोनियन सन्निकटन”, a first-generation FTL freight ship bound for Proxima B. She wasn’t the sleek, experimental dart Geen flew, designed for speed and pushing boundaries. The Approximation was a workhorse, built for capacity above all else. Her purpose was singular and vital: to haul the tonnes of equipment, the prefabricated habitat modules, and the sheer raw materials – metals, polymers, complex machinery – needed to turn a dusty, reddish-brown planet orbiting a distant red star into something humanity could call home. She was a lifeline, a metal artery connecting the solar system to the nascent colony.

Life aboard the Aproximation was a different kind of rhythm than the steady, predictable routines of OCMS. It wasn’t luxurious by any stretch of the imagination. The cabins were small, functional boxes. The recycled air carried the faint, persistent scent of ozone and machinery. But it was comfortable in its utilitarian way, a space designed for purpose, not pleasure. The ship was run by a ship-family, the Smiths from Ventura Smith, a tight-knit unit who had been plying the solar-plane routes for generations before the FTL era had even been a theoretical possibility for cargo transport. They were a microcosm of the self-reliant communities that thrived in the void, their lives dictated by jump windows, cargo manifests, and the intricate needs of their vessel. They had become Varna-Station’s first ship-family, their decades of reliable service, their deep understanding of ship logistics, and their adaptability making them the natural choice to anchor the orbital hub above Proxima B. Their ship, the Aproximation, was an extension of their family, a vessel they knew intimately, from the reinforced hull plates to the subtle quirks of the ITT buffer.

I wasn’t just a passenger on this voyage; I’d traded passage for my skills, such as they were. My unexpected past as a “tea-plant-assistant” during my first journey up from Earth, a brief, almost comical detour in my life, had somehow stuck. Now, I found myself serving as a sort of “tea-master” for the crew and the few other settlers aboard. It was a simple task, brewing tea from the limited, precious supply of Earth-grown leaves we carried, but it became a ritual, a moment of shared comfort and connection in the vast, isolating dark. It was a small, intimate group aboard, just the Smith-Ventura family, myself, and a handful of other settlers, each with their own dreams and reasons for making this leap. The bonds formed quickly in the shared isolation of the void, a sense of camaraderie born of mutual reliance and the knowledge that we were all heading towards the unknown together.

Among the crew was Wilbur Leffié, a quiet, sharp ship engineer with hands that seemed capable of coaxing life out of any piece of machinery, no matter how temperamental. He had the calm, focused intensity of someone who understood the universe on a fundamental level, not through abstract theory, but through the practical application of physics and engineering. Wilbur was more than just a ship’s engineer; he was a visionary who would go on to found his own company in the Centauri region, building the first solar-plane ships designed specifically for travel within this new star system, establishing his own shipyard and dock right here in the Proxima system. Wilbur played a key role in establishing the technical infrastructure on Varna-Station, overseeing the complex docking facilities, ensuring the power grids were stable, and preparing the orbital hub for the increasing traffic he knew would come. He spoke with quiet passion about the future, not just of FTL travel, but of the infrastructure needed to support it – about building P-sun-plane ships, vessels designed to operate within the gravitational pull of a star, and probes, even mining vessels destined for the Alpha Centauri stars once the Proxima system was more established. His technical dreams were as vital to this expansion, as foundational to humanity’s future among the stars, as the settlers’ hopes for fertile soil and breathable air on a new world. His presence, and that of the Smith-Ventura family, underscored that this wasn’t just a journey for settlers; it was a journey for the infrastructure, the logistics, the very fabric of the new interstellar society.

We didn’t land on Proxima B, of course. FTL ships like the Smithsonian-Aproximation are built for the void, for the precise, energy-intensive calculations of jump transitions and the delicate manoeuvres of orbital docking. They are not designed for atmospheric entry or planetary gravity. Our destination was Proxima’s Varna-Station in orbit, a nascent but growing hub above the planet, named, fittingly, for Amara Varna, the visionary whose work had made this all possible. The final descent to the surface was via a standard shuttle, a controlled drop through an atmosphere that seemed determined to keep us out, a jarring transition from the silent void to the turbulent embrace of a planetary atmosphere.

Stepping out onto the surface of Proxima B – or “Amara,” as the settlers are already affectionately calling it, a fitting tribute to the woman who made this leap possible – is an experience words struggle to capture. The sky is a perpetual twilight, painted in deep hues of red, orange-red, and shifting violets, particularly around the star itself. Proxima Centauri’s disc appears significantly larger in the sky than our own sun appeared from Earth, a constant, reddish presence that dominates the vista. Sometimes, if the dust isn’t too thick, if the atmospheric conditions are just right, you can even make out the distant points of light that are Alpha Centauri A and B, a reminder of the neighbouring stars that are also part of this system, this new neighbourhood. The air, thin and still requiring environmental suits outside the domes, carries a faint, metallic tang of regolith, the gritty, mineral scent of the alien soil. It’s mixed with the earthy, sometimes pungent, smell of the native fungai and the subtle, persistent presence of airborne spores. And the dust… the dust gets everywhere, a fine, reddish-brown powder that coats everything, clinging to suits, finding its way into every crevice, a constant, tangible reminder of the planet’s raw, untamed nature, particularly prevalent during the long dry season.

Frankly, after my time on Oort Cloud Main Station and the controlled, predictable environment of the Smithsonian-Aproximation, I find myself deeply uncomfortable with planetary life. The sheer openness is unsettling, the vast, unbroken expanse of the sky and the land stretching out to a horizon that feels too far away. The pull of gravity, even at Proxima B’s slightly lower than Earth standard, is a constant, heavy reminder that you’re anchored to something vast and unpredictable, a colossal body of rock and metal with its own internal rhythms and external threats. I prefer the controlled environments of stations, the predictable cycles of artificial day and night, the reassuring hum of machinery that tells you everything is functioning as it should, that the environment is a product of human design and maintenance, not the chaotic forces of nature. That’s why, after those initial few trips down to the surface to get my bearings and begin my work, I made my way back up to Proxima’s Varna-Station in orbit. It’s here, looking down at the planet from the observation decks, at the expanding domes and the dusty plains, that I feel most at ease, and where I can best observe the changes happening below, detached but not disconnected.

I arrived a few years after the initial FTL experimental flights, like the Chop Hop Voyager’s pioneering journey, proved the route viable, and after the first waves of settlers, like the Pepelinos family, made the long, arduous sub-FTL journey aboard ships like the Amara Homework. I had sought out Kraken and Missy on OCMS years ago, drawn by their audacious dream of planting tea on a distant world. Meeting them, seeing their quiet determination, their blend of practicality and boundless hope, and later receiving their note carried by the Voyager, a message that had travelled across 4.2 light-years, solidified a connection that went beyond a journalist and his subjects. Their story, their hope for Zac’s future on a new world, a future where he could plant tea in fruitful soil and remember Earth’s rains, became one of my deepest motivations for coming here, alongside the journalistic drive to witness and report on this new frontier, this unfolding chapter of human history. The Aproximation, docking with the nascent orbital station, was a symbol of the new era – the regular, reliable connection that would turn a daring expedition into a sustainable colony. Watching her cargo being shuttled down, piece by piece, felt like watching the future being assembled before my eyes, a future I was now a small part of.

I’ve spent a few months now observing from Varna-Station, occasionally taking a shuttle down for brief periods to get a sense of the rhythm of this place, to interview the settlers, to see the progress first-hand. It’s a rhythm dictated by hard work and harder-won optimism, cycling between the dusty dry season, where the air is thick with airborne particles and the wadis are dry channels, and the intense, though infrequent, rains that mark the wet season, transforming the landscape with temporary floods. The landscape, while appearing barren from orbit, reveals a subtle, pervasive life up close. The dominant biosphere is the “fungai” – a complex, interconnected ecosystem of fungi, mycelia, and slime molds that fills the ecological niches occupied by plants, animals, and fungi on Earth. They manifest as strange “pseudo-plants”: thick, green trunks and logs rise from the ground in some areas, their surfaces textured and alien. In others, they spread like vibrant green moss or pale lichen across the reddish soil, forming low-lying mats. There are also more dynamic fungai, including various types of “slime.” These can be “stationary slime,” rooted to a location, absorbing nutrients from the soil, or “grazing slime” that moves slowly across surfaces, consuming organic matter. More unsettling are the “hunting slime,” exhibiting predatory behaviour, a slow, deliberate creep towards smaller organisms or even unwary human technology. Underwater environments host their own forms, such as “underwater slime” clinging to submerged surfaces and “underwater mushrooms” blooming in the dim light. The largest native creature known is a ~1m long saltwater “worm,” a simple but significant inhabitant of the planet’s aquatic regions, a ripple in the water often the only sign of its presence.

Geographically, Amara features a vast Centre-Ocean, its saltwater depths largely unexplored. To the east of that, the rugged Centre-Alpines rise, a mountain range whose peaks are often shrouded in dust or cloud. Bordering the Alpines is the highly active Traps, a zone marked by significant volcanic activity, a constant source of heat and geological instability. Below the surface, a global mycelium network is believed to exist, a vast, interconnected web of fungal life that spans continents, broken only by the vast Centre-Ocean and the turbulent, hot zones of the volcanic Traps, and restricted by the frigid pole caps. This pervasive underground network is a source of both wonder and caution for the settlers. This geological instability, combined with the nature of a red dwarf, means the planet is subject to powerful sun flares – unpredictable bursts of radiation and energy from Proxima Centauri. These flares can randomly disrupt the magnet-shield and damage the ozone layer, reaching down to the surface every hundred to a thousand years – a constant, long-term threat the settlers must contend with, a reminder that even with domes and underground shelters, they are living on a world with its own powerful, potentially destructive rhythms.

The settlers, many of them veterans of the Martian terraforming efforts, we remember Kraken Pepelinos, are applying those hard-won lessons here, albeit on a grander, more challenging scale. Their expertise is crucial. Martian colonists learned to build underground homes not just for protection from a thin atmosphere and radiation, but from the pervasive dust storms that could scour the surface. These techniques are directly applicable here, providing vital shelter from Amara’s pervasive dust and the star’s radiation, and offering some protection during the rare but devastating sun flare events. Their experience with closed-loop greenhouse gardening and plantations is equally essential. Adapting Earth plants, like Missy’s tea, to alien soil enriched by fungai, managing water recycling within the sealed environments of the domes, and creating breathable air – these are skills honed on Mars that are the very foundation of survival on Proxima B. It’s clear from my observations that the fundamental systems, the “grand” implementation of things like the Credit system and basic public welfare, aren’t being built from scratch here; they’re already established, a testament to the planning and resources brought by the initial waves of settlers and the ongoing connection via FTL transport. There’s no comparison to be made with OCMS in that regard; the foundational economic and social framework is already in place on Proxima, a transplanted seed of the solar system’s evolving society.

This mix of old and new, of cutting-edge technology enabling interstellar travel and basic survival skills honed on a different world, of familiar human needs and an utterly alien environment, is shaping a new, renewed culture here. The technical prowess of engineers like Wilbur Leffié, constantly working on the infrastructure of Varna-Station and dreaming of ships to the Alpha Centauri stars, the hard-won terraforming knowledge of the Martian veterans adapting their skills to the fungai-rich soil, the enduring dreams of settlers like the Pepelinos family, planting their tea and building a future for their son, and the constant presence of the alien fungai and the unpredictable star – all these elements are blending to create something unique. It’s a culture born of necessity, resilience, and a shared commitment to making this distant, dusty world a home, a culture that values both technological advancement and the fundamental acts of cultivation and community.

My own corner on Varna-Station, a small, functional space with a window overlooking the planet, and my work down on the surface, is focused on building the “Proxima Echo.” The idea is simple, but vital: establish a fresh archive right from the start of the settlement, documenting everything – the challenges, the successes, the daily lives of the settlers, the observations of the alien environment. I’m producing a physical newspaper, printed on recycled materials, a tangible record in a world increasingly dominated by ephemeral streams. This newspaper is tacked onto public wall-“papers” in the common areas of the settlement domes and on the station – large, interactive displays where the printed pages are updated regularly. The newspaper is not instantaneous like the media-streams back home, or even the wall-papers which can display more current data, but it’s tangible, a physical object that people can hold and read. It’s accessible to everyone here and, importantly, it’s more interactive than passive streams. School kids on the station and the planet are contributing to the newspaper, learning how to report, how to write, how to create their own stories and reports, becoming the next generation of chroniclers. Commonly, people are contributing private and public stories, sharing everything from personal milestones like deaths, births, and marriages to community events like theatre performances (often streamed from Earth, with a significant time delay) and local gatherings. You often don’t know what piece of news will be most important to the community on any given day – the arrival of a crucial piece of equipment, a successful harvest in a new dome, or a personal story of resilience. News, stories, updates from the solar system (when the Smithsonian-Aproximation arrives), and most importantly, stories from here, from Amara. This information isn’t just communication; it’s becoming a trade good beyond the stars, a valuable commodity carried by the FTL ships, connecting us to the galaxy and helping the galaxy understand this new frontier, shaping its perception of this distant outpost.

On Varna-Station, we’ve also established a bionical-fungai-garden. It’s more than just a recreational space, though its vibrant greens and strange fungal forms offer a welcome contrast to the metal and dust. It’s a permanent investment into the gardening culture on Proxima B. The planet’s environment, while resilient in its own way, is fragile from a human perspective, constantly needing healing efforts unlike the more straightforward vitalization or terraforming of a planet like Mars. This garden is a living laboratory, a place where scientists and settlers work together to understand the fungai better, to experiment with integrating them into human systems, and to work towards a new bio-balance where the natural habitat profits from our presence, not just tolerates it. It’s a long-term project, a recognition that coexisting with this alien biosphere requires ongoing effort and understanding.

I’ve also found an unexpected friendship here, particularly with Zac Pepelinos. He’s grown into a thoughtful young man, still fascinated by the stars but now grounded in the soil of Amara. Our paths cross during my visits to the surface domes, and he often seeks me out on the station when he’s in orbit. He’s taken to calling me “the true tea-master,” a playful jab at my early, clumsy attempts at tea cultivation back on my first journey, but also a sign of a bond forged over shared experiences and a mutual respect for the simple act of growing something, whether it’s tea or a community. I’ve even started a small, public Teagarden on the station, a quiet space where people can gather, share stories, and connect over a cup of tea, whether it’s imported from Earth or, increasingly, the first, precious batches of Proxima tea grown by Zac and his family. It’s a small symbol of connection, a taste of home, and a place for the community to form.

What else is missing? So much. The names and stories of the other settlers, the specific challenges they face daily – the dust storms that can last for days, the unpredictable wadi floods, the constant monitoring for sun flares, the psychological toll of isolation. The political structure emerging here, the long-term plan for expansion beyond the initial domes, the deeper interactions with the native fungai beyond adapting to the soil – are there forms of communication or even consciousness within that global mycelium network? The dreams are taking root in the dust and the fungai-rich soil, but the full story is still unfolding, one dusty, rainy day, observed from orbit or experienced on the ground, at a time. Perhaps, as the years pass and the “Proxima Echo” grows, as instantaneous communication finally bridges the light-years, I’ll have the chance to reflect more deeply on the larger questions – on life in this vast, alien universe, on the fragile experiment of democracy in an expanding human civilization, and on the enduring power of news, of shared stories, to connect us all, to remind us that even light-years apart, we are still one humanity, reaching for the stars. And perhaps, in the quiet moments on the station, looking down at the red-tinged planet, with a cup of Proxima tea in my hand, I’ll find some answers, some final thoughts on what it all means. Maybe something like: “Life is the story we tell ourselves, democracy is the argument we have about it, and news is the thread that binds the narrative, however frayed by distance or time.”