Gravity is Heartless

by Sarah Lahey

  Ahead of her, Unus is awake and preparing for war. The city buzzes and hisses like a swarm of busy insects, and its streets glow like hot rivers of lava oozing between buildings. Geller merges into the burning ambiance that hovers above the city. She’s on target; she’ll make the landing mark and touch down in the Maldives. Quinn follows her line, mesmerized by the spectacle of liquid light below, and for just a moment she lets go. She closes her eyes, and the world around her evaporates. Her senses heighten, her fingertips tingle, and she sinks, untethered and free, reveling in the ecstasy of release. A universal pulse surges though her. Her physical being dissolves and joins the cosmic atoms and particles that surround her until all that’s left is the essence of her being—a state of bliss, pure bliss.

  Then she collides with a foreign object.

  It’s not a weapon, and it’s not heavy or hard. She’s unhurt, but the impact confuses her, disrupts her flight. She flounders; the thing came out of nowhere. What was it? Not a bird, but like a bird . . . a drone. She collided midair with a black-dove drone, designed for hobby use, not military. It’s probably been flying around for weeks. The drone is shattered and falls. She follows, cartwheeling over and over, then free-falling. Autocorrect, autocorrect—the suit rights itself and continues on, but she’s lost altitude and won’t make the landing mark.

  Ahead, she sights the roof of a residential tower block. She releases her chute; she’ll make the mark if she’s lucky. She descends, her feet scoot over the rooftop, and she’s almost there, Safe, thank the lordt . . .

  Almost. A dirty gust of wind whips around her; it picks her up. No, no, no, please no. It hauls her across the building, lifts her over the edge, and sends her straight into the adjacent apartment block. She twists to the left, protecting her baby human, before colliding with the wall.

  “Ouch.” Her eyes water.

  The wind gust abates, her chute flounders, and she grabs at the side of the building, trying to find a ledge to hold. But she slips and slides, and again she’s freefalling toward the ground. Gravity is heartless; she is a heartless bitch.

  Abruptly she’s pulled up, no longer falling but dangling in midair. Her chute is caught around a dado protruding from the building. Helpless, she hangs, three stories above the ground, like a yoyo on a string. Stranded and powerless, she fears that neither the chute nor the dado will save her, not today; today, gravity has it in for her.

  On her left is a window with a quaint Juliet balcony, and the leap is not impossible. Thrusting back and forth, she swings, gaining momentum until she’s close enough to grab the railing. She manages to pull herself over, and to her relief she lands on something soft—a feather bed.

  She stays exactly where she landed, lying quite still on the soft bed. Looking up, she watches the stars. She listens to the sounds of war in the distance, and she thinks about nothing, absolutely nothing. She could lie like this for hours, sleep here the night. But there’s a strange, musty smell. It’s coming from the bed. It smells of dog.

  She rolls over. The door to the apartment is ajar, and she creeps through it into a living zone. Asleep on the sofa is a dog—a brindled mixed breed with a bright orange collar. It yawns, it opens an eye and sees her, and its ears prick. It knows she’s not supposed to be here, but at the same time it’s aware it’s shouldn’t be sleeping on the sofa.

  “Stay,” she whispers, and it wags its tail. “Shhhh.” She pats the dog’s head and ruffles its ears. “Military exercise, go back to sleep.”

  ***

  After ditching the wingsuit, Quinn checks her Band. No messages, and Geller won’t make contact. Quinn knows she’s on her own, and she knows where she needs to be—the Maldives. On foot, it will take her an hour to get there. She confirms her position and, with a slight limp, heads west.

  It’s hot; she forgot about the oppressive, stagnant heat, even at this time of night. Giant green leaves of chard grow in communal gardens bordering the street. She breaks off several large fronds to fan herself with, and takes the occasional nibble as she walks. The atmosphere around her is bright and busy. A rosy illumination hangs over the streets and a harried vibe fills the air as residents prepare for war, barricading streets and securing entrances. People linger in groups, gathered in doorways to keep tabs on the war, or perhaps simply because they’re unable to sleep.

  “You okay?” an older man on the street corner, a neighborhood overseer and self-appointed lookout, asks Quinn.

  “Fine, thank you.” But she’s not fine. Everything hurts.

  ***

  By the time she enters the Maldives courtyard, Quinn has nibbled all her pieces of chard to the stalk. She spots Geller and Flax waiting in the shadows by the fountain. Geller strides over and hugs her.

  “I hate tardiness,” she says gruffly. “’Tis unforgivable.”

  Flax, wearing a saffron nightshirt, kisses Quinn’s cheeks. His eyes are hooded and his face rough and unshaven, but his lips are soft and his breath smells fresh, like peppermint tea. Relief melts his harried expression as he sighs and smiles, pats her hand, and then beckons for them to follow.

  The people of the Maldives were the first displaced nation to arrive in Unus, and they settled in the Renaissance precinct. The main quarters were once a grand five-hundred-year-old palace, and they’re headed toward its central building. They climb the worn stone stoop and enter through heavy timber doors.

  Inside is a cool sanctuary with a circular staircase rising up three levels. Colorful marble mosaics cover the floor, and the stucco walls are faded, painted in soft pastel frescos. They scale the stairs and continue down a narrow corridor to a room—a small partitioned space, divided many times to accommodate the masses. The once ornate layers of sixteenth-century decoration are now stripped away. What’s left is peeling wallpaper, bleached timber floors, paneled cabinetry, and two beds with crisp white linen.

  Seeing the beds, Geller and Quinn yawn in unison, and Flax leaves them. They skull some water, and Geller climbs into bed.

  “Sleep,” she says. “We debrief in te mornin’.” She closes her eyes, and soon her breathing slows. She’s dozing.

  Quinn’s not well; her body hurts. When she climbs into bed, she moans. Her hip and leg ache, and she wonders about the damage. How much bruising? What if there’s blood? It feels like there could be blood, and if she’s bleeding it will stain the white sheets. Then they’ll have to be washed. It would be a shame to get blood on them; they’re so white and fresh. She should check to make sure there’s no blood. She lights her Band and examines the yellow and black welts on her thigh and hip; no blood, just bruising.

  “Get yourself ta sleep,” Geller mumbles.

  “Sorry.” Quinn switches off her light and lays silent. Then her shoulder starts to hurt. The pain moves up the right side of her neck. It doesn’t feel like it’s bleeding; it feels like it’s bruised, like her thigh. No need to check. She touches her shoulder, finds the point of impact. It’s rough and grazed; there could be some blood. Maybe it’s dried blood, but she should check. Adjusting the brightness to a dim glow, she switches on the light in her Band again and surveys her upper arm. No blood, just bruising.

  “Sleep!” Geller yells, and Quinn kills the light.

  She’s tired, she’s so tired, but she’s also wired and can’t relax or switch off. Her body hurts and she can’t ignore the pain. Her head fills with images of Tig; she wonders where he is and if he’s safe. Then her thoughts flick to Matt, harboring Ada’s corpse and everyone thinking it’s Lise; Lise and the stupid message in the diamond. Fuck. Sleep evades her. She opens her eyes.

  Interoception. Interoception will put her to sleep. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She relaxes her toes and feet, then her legs and thighs, then her stomach and abdomen, then further up to her chest, then . . . back to her stomach. Something’s wrong, her abdomen feels different. She waits, processing the sensation. It’s not painful; it’s intense and heavy, a feeling of bearing down. Blood. There’s blood between her legs, w
et and warm. She’s bleeding.

  Rising, she flicks her light on again, heads to the cleanse zone, and undresses. Blood has soaked through her underwear. She sits on the toilet, and large drops of blood drip into the bowl. She freezes, stricken by fear and guilt. Her heart pounds. She waits; she prays to the universe, begging it to keep her baby safe. She waits ten minutes, and there’s no more blood.

  Back in the room, Geller sleeps facing the wall. Quinn sits beside her and touches her shoulder. “I’m bleeding.”

  Geller stirs and turns. “How much an’ what color?”

  “Not much; red, deep red.”

  Geller launches her SelfMed and scans Quinn. The result is inconclusive, so she checks Quinn’s hormone levels. “High progesterone an’ estrogen, good sign. Get some rest. Cross your fingers.”

  “Okay.” Quinn nods. She finds her bed, curls up, and crosses her fingers. There’s nothing she can do now. Rest. Rest. Interoception puts her to sleep.

  ***

  In the morning, Quinn pukes. She looks at Geller, wipes her mouth, and smiles.

  ***

  War rages in the skies over Unus and it is relentless, night and day for ten days, machine pitted against machine. This is the third revolution of warfare. The first was gunpowder; the second, nuclear weapons; the third, giving AI the autonomous decision to kill. Pacifists fought the legislation for decades but finally lost in 2040, when the military assured everyone it would bring an end to the Wars.

  It didn’t. Instead, it opened a Pandora’s Box of misery and despair. Science and technology were hijacked by the war effort. Space was militarized with long-range weapons, GPS launchers, and quantum stealth. Militarization of the Moon soon followed. Then depersonalized killing machines took hold, along with electronic interface computing and guidance control. The Authentic Human Association argued that delegating life-and-death decisions to a machine was unethical; it crossed a threshold from which humankind might never return. There was no data to back this up, however; machines upheld the laws and morals of society far better than humans. So drones and their grounded companions, Sentient Unmanned Vehicles (robots that don’t look like people), were quickly phased into the fighting; the public protested less when killing machines looked like machines and not humans.

  For ten days the citizens of Unus have hidden indoors, covering their windows, blocking out the world, and it has been a bleak and fraught existence. Geller and Quinn have kept to their room, and no one’s come, and no one’s gone. Morning and night, they’ve prepared dehydrated food with a samovar.

  Quinn woke one night somewhere in the middle of all of this to blackness, and the world closed in and swallowed her. She couldn’t breathe; there was no air, her heart pounded, and her hands shook. She huddled against the wall, unable to move.

  “It’s okay, darlin’,” Geller whispered, “you’re ’avin’ a panic attack, but you’re safe. We bot are.” She told Quinn to center her mind, breathe, and think about something else.

  So Quinn filled her head with calculus, and she repeated the sums over and over. The distraction worked; in the darkness, math was her savior.

  ***

  On the morning of the eleventh day, the skies above Unus finally clear and a quiet stillness falls over the city. The stillness lasted about an hour, until a dog starts barking, and it continues barking and barking all morning, filling the silence left by the war. Tentatively, residents realize the barking is a sign, a good sign, and they leave their homes. Venturing into the streets, they climb over the piles of rubble and burnt buildings and dodge falling debris to survey the damaged buildings and check on their neighbors. News moves quickly, and it’s soon apparent that this is not a ceasefire—it’s peace.

  The final war statistics are hopeful: A massive counterattack was launched from Hexad, and Dirac’s forces fled Accord. Maim Quate claimed victory, and the city will be governed by the Democratic Republic. For Quinn and Geller, their personal statistics are also better than expected. Over the last ten days, they consumed thirty-two dehydrated meals and completed twenty sessions of Interoception; Quinn felt her heartbeat in her elbow and is now an Interoception master. They completed ten sessions of Pregnancy Yoga, focusing on Stick Pose, which involves lying on the floor and breathing, and Standing Mountain, which involves standing tall and breathing. Quinn decided that devising calculus was more strenuous. Geller read three books on war: War Poems, The Trojan Women, and The Art of War. Quinn read three pregnancy books: What to Expect When You’re Expecting, Complete Pregnancy, and Day-By-Day Pregnancy. Quinn caught over fifty (she stopped counting at fifty) small flying ants with her left hand. The creatures were nesting in a decaying window frame and occasionally escaped to fly around the room; Quinn’s left hand was adept at grabbing them. They’ve also consumed eight fennel and cinnamon cakes, delivered yesterday, and six almond and ginger muffins, delivered two hours ago, all made by Flax’s family.

  This morning, the morning of the eleventh day, someone taps on their door. Geller unlocks the seal, and Flax enters with a woman.

  Her name is Celeste, and she’s a midwife. She is tall and slender, with a long, angular face and braided hair that tumbles down her back. When she unzips her climate suit and discards her jacket, she reveals muscular arms and shoulders.

  Before the physical examination, they drink tea and eat the remaining almond muffins, bantering about conception details and dates. Celeste is interested in the longitude and latitude of the event, meaning the night of hot sex, as well as the star and moon cycles. Quinn confesses to Conscientious Prevention. On her twenty-first birthday she had an implant; technically, she should be sterile. Celeste’s skin prickles at the news; the fine hairs on her forearms stand on end.

  “I’m happy. I guess I’m lucky,” Quinn confesses.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” Celeste reproaches.

  Celeste asks Quinn to lie on the bed while she performs the scan. Quinn watches the images on a module, and she sees her baby’s heart beating, strong and loud, the strangest noise—a resonance of connected throbs. The sound is totally hypnotic.

  Celeste confirms that the baby is a girl and she’s healthy. She will prepare a calendar of events; the pregnancy has cultural significance and will be recorded in their archives.

  Geller is not interested in baby images and pregnancy conversations. She’s more concerned with Flax’s foot. Squatting on the floor, she examines his wounds and unwinds the bandage covering his ankle. The infection is rank; the odor permeates the room.

  “Bacterial,” she says. “Chemical weapons.”

  Flax nods.

  She unpacks the military pack, laying the weapons over the bed, and again it looks like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag with a limitless supply of armory. She’s after a Nanobot antidote patch. When she finally finds the one she wants, she slaps it on Flax’s ankle. “Can’t hurt,” she says, “an’ you don’t ’ave much longer. Destined for a mechanical foot very soon.”

  After they leave, Quinn lies on her bed and reality resonates. She’s going to have a baby. She’s going to be a mother. There are books on how to have a baby and how to look after a baby, but are there books on how to be a mother? How to be a good mother?

  Forty-Seven

  She’s not pretty enough ta be tis Fuckin’ mean.

  IN THE MORNING, GELLER ventures outside to explore the city, and Quinn continues her pregnancy reading. The information is conflicting and often opinion based, devoid of hard facts or science. The authors have opposing theories on just about everything—feeding, holding, pacifiers, sleep, and settling, with sleep the biggest disparity. Quinn loves sleep and she’s sure her baby will sleep, so she skips these chapters and moves on to “Ten Things You Must Never Do” and “Five Things You Must Do,” and tries not confusing them.

  A knock at the door distracts her, and, as she looks up from her “Ten Things” list, the door swings opens and a young woman enters. Quinn’s hand seeks out the weapon under her pillow. The young woman smiles
, and Quinn returns the gesture, but her hand stays fixed on the weapon.

  “Flax sent me. I’m the new midwife. I’ll be looking after you.”

  “Where’s Celeste?”

  “She has other patients, but she’ll oversee your care.”

  Quinn’s face falls; she liked Celeste.

  The new midwife is called Dalia. She wears a pale pink smock, made from climate material, and a yellow cap covering her loose, buttery hair. Dalia’s facial features are animated: she has large eyes, a long nose, and a mouth that won’t stop talking. She babbles excitedly about the arrival of the new princess. Quinn finds her incessant chatting annoying and her hand is still on the weapon under her pillow, so she moves to the other side of the bed, removing the temptation to silence Dalia by shooting her in the mouth.

  Dalia moves closer, hitches up her dress, and takes a chair opposite Quinn. Seated, she splays her legs so far apart that Quinn can see her underwear, not something she wants to see, and she knows she shouldn’t look, but it is right there, so she keeps looking. She changes position again, removing herself from the temptation to stare.

  Dalia takes Quinn’s vitals, recording them on her module, and Quinn moans. They did this yesterday. Why are they doing it again today? A linctus is prepared, just herbs, to keep the baby and mother healthy. Quinn is to take it every day until she finishes the bottle. Dalia hands her the vial and encourages her to drink the sweet liquid, and she does, just so Dalia will leave her alone. Then she lies back on the bed and darkness overcomes her.

  ***

  “’Ey, wake up.” Quinn feels a slaps against her cheek.

  She opens her eyes, and the world is a fuzzy blur. She lifts her head, and the world spins. She begins to scan the room, but her gaze doesn’t get past the bottom of the bed, which is covered in blood. The linen is stained a bright red. Blood is splattered over the walls and floor. Quinn is also covered in blood. A murder scene. Someone tried to murder me.