The Settlers

by Jason Gurley

  I've thought about this at length, Tasneem says. And I suppose the obvious answer would be that I could change careers at will, the treatment would provide me with ample time to discover new abilities or train for new experiences. There would be almost no limit on the number of careers I could experiment with.

  Dr. Widla nods thoughtfully. But?

  But I do genuinely love what I do, Tasneem confesses. I'm rather simple that way.

  And what do you do?

  Anthropology, she replies. I study us.

  And what made you choose anthropology? From the great wheel of life and all of its choices, why that one? Why didn't you choose, say, baseball? Or terraforming? Or server at a restaurant?

  Tasneem has been asked this question before. I've always been interested in what drives our behavior, she says. What led us to believe in gods for so long? Was it fear, or an overabundance of love? Why did we build roads? What was the purpose of the structures we created? I love stories, and there are countless stories in our history, and happening right now.

  I see, Dr. Widla says. He picks up the documents prepared by the nurse the previous week, and makes a show of turning quickly through them. Then he drops them on the table again. I had theorized that it was because of your father.

  Tasneem cocks her head to the side. My father?

  Sure, Dr. Widla says. Why do any children grow up to choose what they do? With few exceptions, their reasons come from their parents. Why do you think I'm a doctor?

  Why do you say my father? I don't see the connection.

  Dr. Widla leans across the desk and clasps his hands together. You did not know him, yes?

  Tasneem nods, her mouth suddenly dry. He died before I was born.

  Quite some time before you were born, yes?

  She nods again.

  In a way, your father not only didn't live to see your birth and your great accomplishments as you became a woman -- but he didn't even know what he was going to miss out on. Forgive me if this seems direct, but your father died without a single thought of you in his head.

  Tasneem's eyes have filled. That's not true, she says, voice trembling. My father planned for me.

  Oh, yes, sure, Dr. Widla says, leaning back again. I did not mean to suggest that he didn't. But surely you can agree that your father planned for the idea of you, rather than you, specifically.

  Tasneem turns her face.

  My dear, I'm sorry, Dr. Widla says. Please don't cry. What I suggest is not that your father didn't care -- only that your father, sadly, did not have the opportunity to meet you, and didn't know what he was missing. If there is a clearer reason for that man's child to become a chronicler of human accomplishment, an investigator of human stories, I don't know what it might be.

  The doctor moves to the chair beside Tasneem's. He hands her a tissue.

  Here, he says.

  Tasneem takes it and dabs at her eyes. I'm sorry, she says.

  No need, my dear, he says. It was not my intention to probe.

  Tasneem nods, fighting the urge to cry again.

  Do you know what your name means? Dr. Widla asks. I do. I looked it up. I always found Indian names to have such beautiful etymologies.

  Tasneem says, It means river.

  Dr. Widla says, Yes, but there's more. It means river in heaven.

  I've never heard that before.

  Rivers are like thread, he says. They stitch places together. They are seams that connect very different lands. I think it is lovely that you are an anthropologist. What better name for a woman who might herself be a river through time? he asks. You will have stability in your career once you are almost-but-not-quite godlike.

  You're a philosopher as well as a doctor, Tasneem says.

  Dr. Widla smiles. Time is always changing, and you will ride upon it, witnessing all of the great events that so many people will miss. So, Tasneem, you will probably not feel trapped as easily as a financier or a warehouse manager. Can you imagine spending four hundred years organizing inventory on a space dock?

  Tasneem laughs.

  You are bright, and I am charmed by you, Dr. Widla says. And so we shall do this.

  Tasneem looks up at him, startled. But the nurse said it takes nearly two months to --

  Pffft, Dr. Widla says, flapping a hand in the air. Sometimes you just know. We'll take care of the paperwork, and have you return in seven or eight weeks for the administering of the treatment. We can handle all of the extra steps on paper without running you through the grinder, he says, but unfortunately I cannot make time go any faster. That is the earliest we can manage.

  Tasneem throws her arms around the doctor's neck. That's wonderful! she sobs.

  You are still crying, he observes.

  I'm sorry, she laughs, very nearly bawling.

  Perhaps you will need all of my tissues, he says.

  As Tasneem stands to leave, he says, Oh, please. One final thing.

  What's that? she asks.

  Be remarkably careful and thoughtful during these next few weeks, he says. Sometimes people who are approved seem to forget that they haven't had the treatment yet, and behave as if they are already nearly immortal.

  Oh, no, Tasneem says. What happens to them?

  Usually? They're run over by transports, or they forget to take spare oxygen cells when they work outside, he says. Dumb things. I can test for a lot of things, but sometimes pure dumb dumbness gets right by me. So you stay safe, and look both ways. Best if you simply strap yourself into your bunk until February.

  Tasneem leaves the office with the doctor's words echoing in her head. Suddenly every step she takes is a possible broken ankle. Every corner she turns is an opportunity to be flattened by an oncoming pod. Every window is a potential airlock ready to fire her into space.

  Her wrist vibrates, and she looks down to see a warm glow in the soft skin between her ulna and radius. She presses her thumb to the warm spot, and in her ear, a voice recording begins to play.

  Neem! Come find me as soon as you're back, Neem. David -- well, David's gotten the treatment. I think something's wrong, but maybe you'd know better. Please hurry.

  Tasneem wrinkles her nose. How could David have gotten the treatment?

  Unless he bypassed the stability checks, like she had.

  Except he would still have to wait seven weeks.

  Black market, she thinks. Oh, shit.

  She follows the concourse, passing the shops and common areas quickly. She had thought about celebrating her treatment approval by stopping for a pastry and spending some time in the green belt, but there's no time now. She bypasses the green belt as well, leaving its acres of gardens and streams and its lovely glass rooftop behind.

  At the first juncture she comes to, Tasneem darts onto the inner ring and grabs a tether. The ring's momentum is startling, and she loses her balance, bumping roughly into a young man.

  Sorry, she says.

  He nods, and returns to his screenview.

  Station Aries was built for efficiency. The lessons learned from Ganymede and Cassiopeia were both social and functional. Cassiopeia did away with the failed class-leveling experiment of Ganymede, but stumbled in its own way. The station was a vast labyrinth, a warren of cubbies and corridors and wings and sub-levels. Traveling anywhere could take hours, and there were stories of people becoming so hopelessly lost that they never found their way back to their quarters.

  Aries solved that with a classic ring design. Residents called it the donut, or the wheel. It was not much different from the visionary concepts that scientists devised in the mid-twentieth century. Its interior was an effective series of rings that revolved at different speeds, and sometimes in different directions. The primary concourse was home to Aries's commercial interests, from shops to religious structures. Rotating at a slower speed one level below the concourse was a deep residential track, carefully planned to offer a variety of homes to the station's twenty-three million residents.

  At junctures througho
ut the station, one could switch to a fast-track -- a ring that moved significantly faster than the other tracks, allowing for rapid transit between around the station. The ring never stopped, which made boarding and disembarking quite interesting. A grav-free track surrounded the ring, so that when someone stepped off of the fast-track, they would simply float. Of course, the fast-track's momentum was transferred to each passenger as they disembarked, and it was quite amusing to watch passengers flung into a zero-gravity space. The walls were deeply-cushioned to protect riders as they hurtled from the fast-track.

  Boarding was never easy, though. One simply had to go for it, and hope for the best.

  Tasneem holds to the tether, and with her free hand, taps her wrist. Audra, she says.

  Her implant responds almost immediately. Audra is unavailable, it says.

  David, she says.

  David is unavailable.

  Shit, Tasneem says.

  The young man with the screenview glances up at her briefly, then away.

  Locate Audra, Tasneem says.

  Audra is unavailable.

  Locate David, goddammit, she says.

  David is --

  Unavailable. Alright. Shit. She thinks for a moment. Dr. Widla, she says.

  One moment, her implant responds.

  Come on, come on, Tasneem urges.

  Dr. Widla's office, a female voice answers.

  Dr. Widla, please. It's Tasneem Kyoh, and it's an emergency.

  Okay, calm down, please, the woman says. Can you tell me --

  I don't have time. Please, Tasneem says. Tell him that a friend has had the treatment, and I believe it may be a black market strain. I'm going to him now and I need Dr. Widla's help.

  The doctor does not treat patients who have acquired the treatment in out-of-office experiments, the woman's voice says. I'm sorry, but --

  Please. Listen to me. The man who took the treatment is David Dewbury.

  I'm sorry, did you say --

  Yes. I did. And you'll understand now why this is important, so please, please, tell Dr. Widla to call me. It's very urgent. We cannot let anything happen to him. Am I clear?

  The David D--

  Yes. Yes! Tell him! Tasneem cries, and presses her wrist to disconnect.

  The young man behind her taps her shoulder.

  What? she says, rattled.

  Did you say David Dewbury had a black market treatment? Do you know how dangerous that is?

  If you eavesdropped on that much, then you must have heard the rest of my conversation, Tasneem says. So yes, I fucking know.

  Wow, the young man says. Excuse me. I was just going to say, I might be able to help.

  Tasneem's anger vanishes. How? How?

  I think I know where he might be.

  I don't have time to be lied to, Tasneem warns.

  I'm not lying. I'm Blair Hudgens.

  Tasneem's expression is blank.

  Blair Hudgens, the young man repeats. Oh, never mind. I'm a pulse journalist. I did a piece about illegal treatment scams last week. So I'm not lying. You can trust me. I really do think I can take you to him.

  Tasneem nods. Please. Now, please.

  Okay. We'll get off at juncture seven.

  Juncture seven? Tasneem says. That's --

  The Upper Ward. I know. Please trust me.

  Okay, Tasneem says. I sure do hope you're real.

  Oh, I'm real, Blair mutters. I just hope I'm right. I'm Blair, by the way.

  You said that already.

  I know, I was just hoping you'd forget and tell me your name.

  Maybe later, Tasneem says.

  Blair raises his eyebrows.

  Fine, she says. Tasneem. I'm Tasneem. Can we get moving?

  The Upper Ward is a direct response to the class-leveling failure of Station Ganymede and the clutter of Station Cassiopeia. On Earth, the Upper Ward might have been a gated neighborhood of multi-million-dollar estates. On Station Aries, the Upper Ward is a sleeve that cups the outer ring of the station. It follows the rotation of Aries itself, though at a slower speed.

  Access to the Ward is limited to station officials and residents, which would explain how David gained entry. Audra was one of the first administrators brought to Aries.

  Most of the black markets are run from here, Blair says.

  Tasneem follows as closely as she can. She's distracted by the opaque glass buildings and what looks like real grass carefully blanketed at their feet. The canopy over the Ward is electronically tinted, filtering the view through a color that corresponds with the time of day back on Earth. Right now the canopy is a brilliant gold touched with blue.

  There are even artificial clouds bobbing across the artificial sky.

  The stench of entitlement here is overpowering. At this moment, Tasneem sort of wants to punch out the first Ward resident she sees.

  You said something, she says.

  I said that most of the markets are run from here, Blair repeats.

  How is that -- but -- why?

  Blair is hard to keep pace with. Where's the last place you would look for a black marketeer?

  Here, I guess, Tasneem says.

  That's partly true, Blair answers. When you look for the guy dealing the shit, yeah, you're right. He's not here. But when you start connecting the shit to the money? It almost always leads to places like this.

  He glances back at her as they run through the Ward, which almost feels abandoned. She hasn't seen a single person here since they entered.

  You still look uncertain, Blair says.

  I just --

  You just thought that the Ward was more noble than that, he finishes.

  She nods.

  Don't worry about it, he says. Everybody thinks that.

  Where is everybody?

  He looks around. You're right. Kind of quiet today, isn't it.

  Not kind of. It's completely silent.

  Well, they're the upper-upper-upper class, he says. They have people to go outside for them, so why should they? Their views are better than anything on the rest of Aries.

  Yeah, but -- don't they work? Or socialize?

  Maybe not, Blair says. Nobody had to give up their wealth or status when they came to Aries. It's not like Ganymede was. You know?

  Tasneem says, Yeah, I do.

  Blair points. That's where we're going.

  If he's anywhere, it's most likely there, Blair says.

  He's steering them towards a narrow glass structure, several stories high. While the other residences are marked with identity plates, this one has no such marking. There's a personal deck parked in front of it, but nobody is inside.

  What is this place? Tasneem asks. Have you been here?

  I've never been inside, Blair says. But this is where William Bogleman lives.

  Tasneem stops dead. Bogleman.

  Uh huh, Blair says.

  As in Harvey Bogleman.

  Uh huh.

  This is his son's house? His son lives on Aries?

  Uh huh.

  Tasneem paces on the lawn. I really don't believe it. I thought that Harvey was the only Bogleman off-world.

  He was, Blair says. But he's not anymore. Now William is the only Bogleman off-world.

  And you think David's inside?

  Blair nods. I'm quite sure of it, actually. William would have wanted to do this one himself. It's David Dewbury, after all.

  Himself? Are you saying he administers the treatment himself? Tasneem is dumbfounded. Is he a doctor?

  He's a socialite, Blair says. He throws parties. You know, like socialite boys do.

  Okay, tell me and tell me now, Tasneem says, stepping close to Blair. How dangerous are the black market treatments?

  They're bad, Tasneem. Scale of one to ten? These are a twenty. That report I did -- we looked for survivors to interview, and we found three. Two wouldn't talk, and the third one -- well, the third one had some sort of relapse, and figured she had nothing to lose. So she talked. And then she died.


  Jesus, Tasneem says. We have to go in.

  Blair hangs back. I'm not sure.

  Did you bring me all the way here just to stop? My friend is inside, and he might be dying! And did I mention he's the most brilliant man alive right now? Or at least probably? We are not, not, not letting him go. Now take me inside.

  Blair nods. Alright. But --

  No, no. No buts, nothing. Inside. You have to help me.

  Blair leads Tasneem to the residence entry. I've never been inside, he says again.

  It's a rich person's house, Tasneem says. How dangerous can it be?

  That's what worries me, Blair says. Look.

  She follows his gaze to the doorstep. There's an insignia there, etched into the hard surface.

  H, she says. Okay.

  You don't recognize that? he asks.

  Should I? What's it stand for?

  Blair looks genuinely nervous. It stands for Harvard, he says.

  As in Harvard Club? Tasneem asks.

  He nods.

  Shit, she says.

  First Wave

  Tasneem held her mother's hand tightly. The spaceport's processing facility was a bustling hive of activity, and smelled sour. All around her were strangers, most in dirty clothing, with mud caked on their skin. More than a few were injured, and some appeared to be barely holding themselves upright. They stank, and their eyes were tired and sunken. Most wore the same blank expression, the stunned look of people from whom almost everything had been taken. They were widows and widowers, orphans and strays, cast-offs and forgotten.

  Tasneem, tuck tuck! her mother said when Tasneem lagged behind.

  A harsh female voice droned over a makeshift public address system: IF YOU HAVE BELONGINGS, DEPOSIT THEM IN THE STACKS UNDER THE BLUE SIGN. NO PERSONAL BELONGINGS ARE PERMITTED THROUGH THESE GATES.

  Tasneem stood on her tiptoes and leaned this way and that, trying to see what was under the blue sign. In tiny flickers between stragglers she saw it: a heaping pile of satchels and suitcases and backpacks and push-carts and wheelchairs and buckets and toys.

  Amma, Tasneem said.