The Unwinding House and Other Stories

by Jared Millet

  He never touched his drums. Was I not getting through? To me it was clear as starlight that underneath Punk’s drunken bar-fight mentality there was a joy unmatched by anything else. Or had I lost my mind once and for all?

  “Hmph,” he said. “It won’t work with just the two of us. We’ll need more people if we’re serious this time.”

  For a moment I didn’t follow.

  “Serious about what?”

  He grinned the slowest grin ever.

  “The band, stupid.”

  I tossed my guitar, jumped him, and planted the sloppiest kiss on his lips. The rest, as they say, is history.

  It didn’t take long to find other conspirators. Izzy knew Johnny from drama class and thought he had the right kind of presence to be our front man. Anton had never located a bass, so we put an ad on SolNet for a keyboard player to back us up Doors-style. Several people responded, but since Amber was the only one who’d even heard of the Doors she was a shoo-in.

  We practiced in secret, and once we felt we were halfway decent we decided to stream an anonymous audio onto the Net. We’d never settled on a name. I wanted us to be the Kosmonauts, but Johnny christened us “The Popes” as soon as we went live.

  When the performance was done – three songs in nine minutes – we shut off the mikes and watched the chat-lines to see if anyone had heard us. There were a few peeps of “What the hell was that?” from the few poor souls who must have accidentally tuned in, then nothing.

  The next morning, Izzy called before school and told me to turn on the news. I did and our own recording blared back, along with the stunned grimace of the morning anchor. Someone had forwarded our performance to their friends, and their friends, ad infinitum. The newscast had dug up some old professor and was trying to get him to explain, artistically, why music so awful should also be so catchy.

  Papa, of course, knew exactly who was to blame, but I begged him not to tell. I kept my mouth shut all through school, even when friends who knew I played guitar asked me about it. I shrugged and said it sounded like crap. Then they would scowl at me and play the recording again.

  Our second show was better than the first. We wanted video as well as audio this time, so Johnny got one of his drama class friends to record us. We played the brief concert in an abandoned habitube. To preserve our anonymity, Amber wrote an app to replace our faces with those of the Lunar Council.

  We opened with “Blitzkrieg Bop,” followed by a quick medley of Pariah Complex songs from the 2030’s, then finished with an improvised, high-speed parody of “Little Wing.” When Johnny belted “butterflies and zebras” in a belligerent slur, I almost lost it right there. We screeched to a cataclysmic halt, then Amber switched our outgoing feed to stock footage of old ladies clapping. We collapsed on the floor in hysterics.

  ~

  I hear people laugh in the hall outside, muffled at first, then loud when they pass the door. There’s a hush, then someone mutters “oh, sorry” in a tone of false contrition. They walk away, snickering quietly at some private joke. I open my eyes to see Johnny mouth the word “assholes.”

  He’s turned off the news and my friends stand around me in silent vigil. Amber holds my hand while Izzy’s fingers curl gently over my shoulder.

  “Well,” says Johnny, “I guess that’s it.”

  “I’ll send everyone home,” says Izzy. “Amber, can you stay with—”

  “Wait,” I tell them.

  Izzy sighs. “There’s not going to be a show.”

  “No, I know, it’s just... I should be the one to tell them. I need to explain why. I need to hear it from my own mouth.”

  “Vee, baby,” says Amber.

  “I need this.” The last word comes out as a choke. “Let me do this much. After that, I promise I’ll fall apart and you guys can baby me all you want.”

  Izzy and Amber say nothing. “Okay,” says Johnny, “but we’re going on stage with you.”

  I nod. “Thanks. Help me to the door?”

  Amber and Izzy lead me out. I can walk on my own, but I’m shaking. The hallway to the auditorium is cold and dark. Ahead, the door to the stage is open. I can’t see the crowd but I hear them. They don’t sound like an audience, but like mourners at a wake.

  “Miss Popov!” The auditorium manager runs up behind us. “I was trying to find you. There’s a call from the rescue team.”

  I stare at his phone. Whatever the person on the other end has to say, I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it. I bite my lip and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Venerochka?”

  I feel myself scream. The world tilts on its axis and my knees hit the floor. I catch the wall with the palm of one hand and press the phone to my face with the other.

  “Papa!”

  “Venerochka?” His voice is barely a whisper. “Can you hear me?”

  “Papa!” I shout again. I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he says. I can tell he’s straining to speak. “I hid in Orphy’s water tank. The water blocked most of the radiation, but I’ve been stuck in there for days.”

  “Papa.” Tears stream from my eyes in slow rivulets. “I can’t... Don’t ever... I love you so much.”

  “Shh. There now,” he says, his strength fading. “Don’t worry any more. I think I’ve had enough Earth for this lifetime.”

  I laugh and almost don’t hear what he says next.

  “So tell me. Did I miss the show?”

  ~

  We walk across the stage like the Beatles on Abbey Road. News of Papa’s rescue must have hit the crowd. They’re festive, even jubilant. Some of my friends recognize me and scream.

  Izzy ensconces himself in his drum kit and plays a quick cadence to make everyone shut up. It doesn’t work; the crowd only cheers louder. They hush when Johnny taps the microphone, but when he says, “Hey guys, we’re the Popes,” they scream again. Amber plays a Gregorian chant on her keyboard and the sampled voices of a hundred dead monks turn the crowd’s cheers into laughter.

  I cherish the weight of the guitar on my shoulder. The solidity of it is a lifeline. I cradle its neck like that of a baby, and my fingers hover over the strings, teasing them before I commit.

  We’d planned to open with “It’s the End of the World As We Know It,” but I hesitate. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel true. Izzy doesn’t count us in, so he must be feeling the same. Even thick-headed Johnny turns away from the audience and asks, “What do you want to do?”

  I think, then step up to the microphone.

  “Hi.”

  My voice reverberates off the walls and spreads out on the SolNet, all the way to the Orpheus and beyond.

  “Sorry for the delay.” I cringe as the words come out. Get to the point, Vee. I clear my throat and try again.

  “My name is Venera Igorevna Popova. My father came home today. This is his favorite song.”

  I turn and mouth two words, and the others, bless them, read my mind. Izzy taps us in and my fingers pirouette through the opening phrase. Amber picks up the bass line on her keyboard and Johnny sings.

  We’ve played “Little Wing” before, but this time we do it slow, without any cynicism or irony. Because sometimes the worst doesn’t happen. Sometimes wishes come true. Sometimes there’s room in the world for love, and life, and joy.

  And butterflies and zebras,

  And moonbeams.

  Clair de Lune

  Earth's Orphans: 3

  My name is Pagan Carter. You’ve seen me before. No, I’m not a celebrity. I was famous for fifteen seconds of video. Specifically, the chicken video. Yes, that chicken video.

  Cue it up on SolNet and scan to the spot where the chicken lands on President Milbrook’s podium. Skip the part where the shirtless college student with the protest sign knocks her off the stand. Watch for the bit where she drags herself up only to be knocked over by another shirtless student who’s diving after a chicken with his arm
s outstretched.

  Freeze it. Yeah, that’s me.

  Honestly it was all Karan’s fault. Earth may have died before my generation was born, but the aftershock still makes some of us crack. Karan surely did.

  He was one of my classmates at Copernicus U. Since we were the only ones in the culinary program we spent a lot of time together, especially once he got us internships at Clair de Lune.

  At the time, Clair de Lune was one of only three restaurants in Copernicus. I know a lot of people think Loonies go to restaurants every day, but we don’t. We live in underground habs and eat flavored yeast like everyone else. Besides, I grew up on a family-owned freighter that made the run to Titan every two years, so I know what it means to live out of a foodmat.

  Karan Dass grew up in Tycho. His dad worked the ice mines near the south pole, so Karan was raised by his mother and grandparents. They never shut up about what they missed from Earth, especially the food: korma, saag murg, tiki masala, chicken curry, basmati rice, void sucking cheeseburgers with Sriracha. The list was unending. Frankly I think it’s child abuse to raise my generation on fairy tales of things we’ll never have.

  Karan always dreamed that a degree in culinary science would let him recreate those old family dishes, or at least passable imitations. In the interest of full disclosure, I had a similar dream after eighteen years of living out of a cargo ship dispensary. Different cause, same effect.

  The wonderful thing about Clair de Lune was that it didn’t only serve yeast. There’s an ordinance on Luna that says you can’t call your eatery a restaurant unless thirty percent of your ingredients are real, organic produce. At Clair de Lune, that number was closer to sixty.

  It was heaven.

  Our taskmaster was Leon Drury, head chef and three time winner of the Epicurius Award, most recently for turning a pile of yeast into a damn good approximation of angel food cake with buttercream icing. It was still on the menu, if you didn’t mind parting with fifty credits per slice.

  The kitchen was a tunnel directly under the dining area, so we didn’t have the scenic view of the surface that customers enjoyed. Karan and I would arrive at 09:00 after morning class to prep the restaurant for lunch. At 09:30 the crates would arrive from the Hofsteader farm in Dome Seven. We never knew what we would get: radishes, turnips, beets, carrots. There were always some kind of greens as well: collards, spinach, or lettuce. Every day was Christmas and it took an act of will not to sample the goods.

  If we were very, very lucky, a shipment would arrive from the Aylward farm way out at Dome Ten. It was always delivered under armed guard, its contents more valuable than oxygen: grapes, peaches, oranges, sometimes apples. Oh my stars, the apples. I’ll plead guilty to at least one instance of theft.

  At 11:00 the restaurant opened and we interns went into overdrive. I washed and chopped vegetables while Karan whipped up sauces and spices. A third student, usually from the art school, took bricks of hot yeast and sculpted them into shapes that our customers’ primate brains would recognize as edible. Our current sculptress, Phoebe Wells, turned out to be quite the artiste. Drury supervised the final arrangement of each dish, sampling Phoebe’s shavings with the scraps of my cuttings and the leftovers from Karan’s concoctions. He did this in silence if he approved, and with a barrage of insults in French if something displeased him.

  We closed at 14:00, had the kitchen scrubbed by 15:00, then went back to school for more classes. Prep for dinner started at 18:00. Our schedule was relentless. I’d never been happier.

  ~

  Karan missed class one morning, then grabbed me as soon as I left campus. He was so shaky I thought he would bounce, a dangerous thing to do in one-sixth gee.

  “You’ve got to come to the restaurant. My god, you’ve got to come now.”

  “What is it, man? What the hell?”

  “Hurry!”

  “Ease up, I’m coming anyway.”

  When we arrived, there was a crowd in the dining area and Leon was giving an interview to someone from the news. Two guards from the security firm that protected our fruit stood on either side of the hatch to the kitchen. Karan flashed his staff I.D. and told me to fish out mine. I almost never had to use the thing.

  Once through the hatch, Karan picked his feet up and slid down the handrails like a kid. I shrugged and did the same. At the bottom, five cartons lay open on our chopping table, each with a dozen white orbs inside. Phoebe was already there, staring at the objects in silence.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “Chicken eggs,” Karan whispered. “Unfertilized chicken eggs. Real ones. To cook.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Leon’s cut a deal with the Species Preservation Center. They’re sending us eggs in exchange for additional funding. We’re going to put them on the menu.” The pitch in his voice rose as if he was going to weep. I leaned in for a better look at the eggs, afraid to get too close. If I broke one, it might cost a year’s tuition.

  “Does Leon even know what to do with them?”

  “He does not,” said the voice of our boss. “Today I’m going to experiment. The next batch will be for the public. Some V.I.P.s from the Lunar Admin Council have agreed to be my taste testers.” He glared at each of us with eyes of steel, eventually pointing at me. “Pagan, you’re in charge of the kitchen.”

  “Why him?” said Karan.

  “Because he’s the only one not drooling. I need your heads in the game. Clair de Lune is yours. Make me proud and tonight you might learn what a deviled egg tastes like.”

  Karan snapped his heels and saluted. I shook my head. The veggies would soon arrive and we had a lot of work to do.

  ~

  At the end of the dinner shift there were two deviled eggs left. Karan, Phoebe, and I cut them in half and each took a piece. The whites had been boiled, the yolks scooped out and replaced with some mustard-based concoction. They were served cold.

  I took my portion and nibbled the corner. It didn’t taste like anything at first, and the texture wasn’t far from that of yeast. I took a bigger bite, this time with some of the filling.

  Oh god, that’s good.

  I savored it slowly, then popped the remainder in my mouth. There was something right about it, something real. Was this how people on Earth ate every day? If so, I was surprised that chickens hadn’t been hunted to extinction.

  “I don’t know,” said Phoebe. “Seems a little gross when you know what it is.”

  “Seems fine to me,” I said. “Karan, what do you think?”

  Karan didn’t answer. His eyes were closed and his hand had frozen in the air before his mouth after he swallowed his slice of egg.

  “By every god of my ancestors, I could die right now and be happy.” His voice had gone husky. I think he’d just realized that all of his family’s tales had been true.

  One lonely slice of egg remained.

  “Do you want it?” I said.

  He looked at Phoebe and me.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. Phoebe shrugged. He picked up the egg and considered it for a moment.

  “Oh brave new world, that has such creatures in it.” He ate it all at once. I almost thought he would die from the shock.

  “Ooooh-kay,” said Phoebe. “Been fun, guys. I’m heading home.”

  There was an odd cast to Karan’s face, as if the meaning of his life had been revealed.

  “You okay, man?” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He rubbed his nose. “Crazy times, huh?”

  “I guess so. See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  ~

  Karan changed after that. In class and at work his focus was intense; away from either he seemed distracted. He spent his free time browsing old recipes on SolNet. At work he asked Leon if he could experiment with new sauces. Our boss, himself absorbed with perfecting his egg dishes, told Karan to have at it.

  Business boomed. We couldn’t keep eggs in stock. They came every Friday from t
he SPC and by Saturday lunch they were gone. The prices we charged were outrageous, and it got to where customers had to place their orders a week in advance. The SPC took half of the proceeds and still we raked in the creds.

  Not that we interns saw any of that. What kept us coming back to the slave pen was the chance to taste Leon’s new recipes. Our portions were no more than a spoonful, but they were enough. Scrambled eggs, poached eggs, eggs over easy, eggs benedict. It felt like charting virgin territory, when in fact we were excavating a world of flavors that our grandparents had taken for granted. For us, each sensation was new.

  Leon expected better feedback than starry eyes and gasps of “oh my god.” Phoebe and I gave cursory critiques, but Karan really got into it. After each tasting he would spend half an hour bombarding Leon with suggestions. Eventually our boss would drag him to his station, where Karan would boil for the rest of his shift. If I asked him for help, or made a comment on something he was doing, Kay would snap and apologize later.

  Eventually I left him alone. There was no point in talking about it. I felt the same thrill he did, but what was mere excitement for me had in Karan blossomed into full blown obsession. It wasn’t until several months later that I found out how bad it was.

  ~

  Karan banged on the hatch to my sleep tube.

  “Pagan, it’s me. Open up.”

  As soon as I cracked my eyes, dim lights flickered and the time appeared on my display. It was half an hour until my alarm. “Camera,” I said, and the screen showed Karan looking over his shoulder ever few seconds. I tapped the icon for the speaker.

  “The hell, Kay? You know what time it is?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” he whispered. “I need your help. It’s urgent. Hurry up.”