Moving ever-so-slowly, Carlos carefully fitted the triangle of glass into its frame. Not that he was afraid of breaking it. The thick, blue tinted glass could stand up to vacuum, reentry, freezing cold and just about anything else God had come up with. If it drifted away in microgravity, however, he would lose precious minutes chasing it down and jetting it back into place. If he didn’t get it matched up perfectly, he might end up with a pinhole leak, and the garden would die.

The garden. The garden was just a dream. Carlos had never seen a real garden. He didn’t think the hydroponics on Level Two of Colony counted. He twisted his head slightly, so he could see the bulk of the wheel spinning behind him. Colony had been his home for 23 years. Earth was not even a memory, not since the verdict had been pronounced shortly after his birth. One word had sent the infant Carlos on the next shuttle to Colony. Carrier. No one who had the Ubervirus in their system was allowed to remain on Earth. Intellectually, Carlos understood that. He’d seen people dying around him all his life. He knew what the Ubervirus did to the human body. He’d watched them waste away, bleeding from the nose first, then the ears, and finally, weeping tears of blood. He himself was asymptomatic. There was a theory that contacting it in the womb had spared him the worst, though it had robbed him of his vocal chords. Carlos himself wasn’t so sure. He’d seen other infants brought to Colony, and seen them die, sometimes within weeks.

They were well cared for, the residents of Colony. The healthy all had their work assignments, even spending money, provided they had something to spend it on. The exiles wanted for nothing.

Except home.

Twisting a little more, Carlos rotated almost upside-down in relation to his previous position to get a look a the big, blue sphere that had birthed them all and cast them out. Initially, he’d wanted -- the irrational dream of a seventeen-year-old -- to place his garden with a view of Earth. Physics had defeated him. When he completed his dome -- six tilted geodesics supporting a seventh, with spaces in between filled with steel -- it would be attached to the inner surface of wheel. When visitors looked up, they would see not their old home, but their new one, arcing overhead.

Quickly, Carlos pulled himself back to his work. The panel of glass had shifted, and needed to be reseated. He did so, then carefully ran his laser-welder along the edge between the glass and the frame, melting the two together in a smooth polymer. As he worked, he whistled along to the music playing through his earbud, "Rite of Spring."

Carlos left the airlock, jetting to the area where his project was tethered. It had been over a month since he’d had time to work on it. In that time, three more friends had died without ever walking in a garden again. At twenty-five, Carlos was a competent environmental systems engineer. Most of his time was spent keeping the air and water recycling systems on Colony running smoothly. There was little left over to work on what even the kindest of Colony’s residents referred to as "Carlos’ Folly."

He examined the two completed domes and the half-finished one carefully. He couldn’t detect any fractures or pinholes. The real test, of course, would not come until it was time to move the seven-dome structure into place. That, Carlos knew, was years away yet. Even if he could work on it steadily, he had to wait for supply drop-offs to bring more of the blue-tinged glass in. Then he had to jet out to pick it up himself. He couldn’t ask the supply-sled crew to make an extra trip out to the drop-off point just for him. Money was an issue, too. Each piece of glass represented a month’s salary for Carlos. Not that he had anything else to spend it on, Carlos reflected as he fitted one of the new panes into place. 

As he worked, he whistled "Impossible Dream."

When Carlos was twenty-seven, the unthinkable happened. The Earth-based committee in charge of managing Colony somehow heard about his project and ordered a halt to it. Carlos, they maintained, was not qualified to build a superstructure suitable for human habitation. The garden, they said, would be a safety hazard.

Carlos dutifully wrapped the four completed domes in cargo netting, along with his latest shipment of supplies (which ironically had arrived on the same day as the ultimatum.) As he worked, he whistled, "Night on Bald Mountain."

For nearly a year, Carlos was sunk in a depression so deep he barely noticed the others as he went about his work. Fifteen residents of Colony died. Seventeen arrived. It was the arrival of one of these that snapped Carlos out of his depression. Anna, a sixteen-year-old former high school senior, asked, "Why don’t you get qualified?"

It took two more years to locate a school that would accept a Colony Resident. They gave him credit for the training he’d already had in environmental management. Seven years later, Carlos had an advanced degree in Astrophysics. As he responded to his name via satellite link to the graduation ceremony, Carlos was humming "Pomp and Circumstance" to himself. When Carlos returned to his project, the work proceeded slowly at first, as he relearned the tools and motions he’d been absent from so long. Once he hit his stride, however, work went more quickly than it had before. He now understood what he was doing. Along the way, he made minor corrections to his original plans. He improved it. Carlos began to feel better about himself. He wished that Anna had lived long enough to see the dome take shape.

On Carlos’ 38th birthday, a dozen of the healthiest Colony residents joined him to lower the completed dome into place. As he watched the blue bubble drift down towards the skin of Colony, Carlos couldn’t help whistling "Ride of the Valkyries." 

Once the dome was sealed into place, and a counterweight was put opposite, Carlos realized his dream far from a reality. What he had now was a dome over an airlock. The airlock’s cycle had been set to manual operation, so the dome had atmosphere. It didn’t leak. 

Gardens needed water. For someone with so many years of experience in environmental management that part was easy. Getting approval for the water itself, was harder, but not as hard as he had feared. Carlos worked another year, on and off, setting up a watering system. As he worked, he whistled, "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head." When he was done, pipes bearing precious, essential water snaked across the floor, rode up the sides of the dome to the overhead sprinkler system. Carlos stood on the skin of Colony, looking up at the stars, blue-tinted through the glass. Directly overhead, the arc of Colony dominated. Inside the dome, it was a deep and shadowy blue.

He needed light. The blue glass blocked the UV radiation that would kill his plants, but there simply wasn’t enough direct light for a garden to survive. Carlos went back to his studies, whistling, "This Little Light of Mine."

The answer came more quickly than he had expected, from his old college advisor. Mirrors. It took another two years to save enough money for the six huge mirrors, though by this time, the others who had incomes were helping out. Each mirror had to be individually made to Carlos’ specifications. They had to be made out of the same prohibitively expensive glass as the dome itself. They had to be louvered, so as to give the garden a "night" cycle. And, of course, they took up a great deal of space in the supply shuttle, and that had to be paid for, too.

At last, the six great mirrors were in place, one aimed at each of the six base geodesics. Carlos and five other residents of Colony stood by the switches to the louvers. At a gesture from Carlos, everyone threw their switches. Light, almost Earthlike, flooded the dome. Carlos stood in his daylit garden, whistling, "Morning Has Broken."

Carlos ordered a ton of dirt from Earth. Another ton of ballast was put in place. When the cargo container arrived, Carlos took a day off from work, eager to spread his dirt.

Another disappointment. A ton of dirt spread over half an acre of space station skin made for half an acre of very dirty space station skin. Carlos went back to saving. He was going to need between twenty and fifty tons if he wanted to have any large plants. And he did. During the next few years, Carlos spent time poring over gardening books, finally allowing himself to dream about actually planting his garden. Every few months, another ton of dirt would arrive, and Carlos would spread it. During that time, four of his helpers died. twenty-three more arrived. And still, he didn’t have a garden for them. 

Six months after his forty-first birthday, Carlos received a wonderful surprise. Ten whole tons of dirt arrived that he hadn’t ordered. Attached to one of the cargo containers was a note, "A gift from the Manhattan Gardening Society." Apparently, his garden was making the news back on Earth. Even before he took it to his garden, Carlos sat down and sent a thank you note.

When he did start spreading the dirt, he discovered further largess inside one of the cargo containers. The Gardening Society had included a fifty-pound bag of grass seed. When he had spread the dirt, he realized that on top of the several tons he and his fellow exiles had already bought, he had enough dirt to cover the entire area -- except, of course for the area around the air lock -- to a depth of nearly six feet. He was ready to plant. Turning on the sprinkler system, Carlos walked around the dome, methodically spreading grass seed.

As he worked, he whistled, "Inch By Inch."

Carlos left the garden alone for six months. He wanted the grass to get established. Occasionally, he would visit, just to make sure things were going well. Then he ordered some flowers. Working from pictures, with no idea how things smelled, was difficult. He asked people who remembered Earth. He asked recent arrivals. He asked his old professor. He asked the Manhattan Gardening Society. He got all kinds of different answers. He decided to order the flowers that were mentioned the most often. Except when someone who lived on Colony mentioned wanting a particular flower. It was their garden, after all.

He drew plan after plan, based on the requests he got. As he was sketching a rose garden in, a drop fell on the drawing, dyeing it a deep red. Carlos raised a hand to his nose. It was bleeding. He dealt with it and went back to his plans. 

He ended up ordering pansies, marigolds, asters, morning glories, irises, four rose bushes and two lilacs. He was astounded at how cheap it was after the enormous charges he’d gotten used to for shipping the larger items. It barely cost a day’s wages. 

The roses and lilacs he had to plant right away. The instructions warned that the roots might die if he didn’t. Also, he wanted them to be ready to bloom when he opened his garden. The seeds, he did bit by bit, when he had time. The result was that some flowers were blooming as he planted other seeds. The colors were incredible. To a man who’d lived his entire life breathing recycled air, the scents were even more so. As he worked, he whistled, "Green Grow the Lilacs."

Finally, visitors could come to the garden. Some cried when they first saw it, others simply reached out and touched the flowers. One woman sank to her knees by the purple lilac bush, inhaling its fragrance. Not one visitor even considered picking one of the flowers.

Carlos grinned as he looked around him. It had taken almost thirty years for the dream he’d conceived at seventeen to become a reality. Already, plans were brewing in his mind. He could put in brick pathways, perhaps some berry bushes -- maybe even a few apple trees? Why stop there? He could build other domes, connecting corridors, a ring of domes around the inner surface of Colony!

As he planned, he felt his legs swaying. He could afford to rest a few minutes, surely? He knelt in the grass, so much softer than he had expected it to be! Carefully, he wiped a tear from his eye. Then another. He barely noticed that tears were as red as the roses.

They buried Carlos in his garden, rather than recycling him. They say the roses in that first garden in space are the reddest of all. And they say that if you are alone there, and are very, very quiet, you can hear music.
 
 

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