by Jason Gurley
Perhaps that is what bothers Emil most.
This is space, goddammit. Why does it feel like a shipping container at the bottom of the sea?
He picks up his coffee cup and abandons his table in the physician's lounge, taking his screenview with him. He often uses it to watch the public video feeds broadcast from the Aries. There's one external camera on that space station that isn't too far from his own office, and watching the slow pinwheel of Earth past the station reminds him just a little bit of home.
He dumps the coffee out and throws away the cup, tucking the screenview beneath his arm.
At he door, he pauses.
What is that infernal buzzing? he asks.
There is one other doctor in the lounge. She glances up at him, frowns, and then looks up at the lights.
He follows her gaze to the ceiling, where fluorescent bulbs hum behind textured plastic covers.
You're shitting me, he says.
The other doctor shakes her head. I do not shit you, she says.
Emil yanks the door open. It's like they time-traveled to the 1980s to build this place, he grumbles.
The other doctor returns to her crossword. 1970s, maybe, she says.
Emil smiles despite himself. Hey, he says.
The doctor looks up.
I'm Emil Widla, he says.
I know, she says. Soma guy. Don't envy you.
He stares, waiting for her name, but she doesn't offer it.
So he leaves.
Seventy-six Soma patients are dead.
The treatments were finally banned when the mortality count hit fifty, which meant that nearly two hundred people were given Soma before the wall came down. One hundred eighty-five, actually. This befuddled Emil. While Soma patients were already dying, there were still people lining up for treatment, and new doctors emerging who were quite willing to administer it.
Frank Hart and Amelie Golding, the other two physicians licensed for Soma treatment, were both dead now.
Golding had attempted suicide twice, and had been resuscitated both times. Emil had actually been on his way to visit her when she finally managed to finish the job. He guesses that when you fail at the easy way -- both of her prior attempts had involved medications -- you gain the nerve to go out hard.
She had cut her own throat.
Frank had gone into hiding when he and his family started receiving death threats. He turned up underneath one of the station cars on Ganymede. Nobody saw anything, and he had been labeled a suicide as well. Emil suspected otherwise, but had troubles of his own. He wasn't unfamiliar with death threats, either. Maybe he was spared because he was trying to treat the victims when nobody else was.
Of the remaining one hundred nine patients, forty have agreed to come to Galileo for observation and medical attention. The sixty-nine left refused to spend their unknown number of final days within Galileo's walls, and Emil cannot blame them. If at any moment you might die, better to spend those precious minutes with family, or space-diving from Aries' inner ring.
But here he is now, with a meager support staff and little patience for the daily media requests that pile up on his desk.
He walks slowly down Corridor 7, where most of the forty have been sequestered from the rest of the hospital. It is eerily silent here. General hospital staff are not permitted. While the corridor is not quarantined, it may as well be. Patients are not permitted visitors. Emil thinks this is probably the reason most Soma patients refused to participate.
Who wants to spend their last days forcibly removed from their loved ones?
So the forty are a strange bunch. Most are isolationists and introverts. Most are very, very wealthy. Soma is not the most affordable treatment on the market. Well, that's not true. Before it was banned, the cost dropped dramatically, and people with little to lose signed up for what had become certain death.
And yet they hope.
They hope for a cure. They hope they are an exception. They hope for an asteroid to tear through the entire fleet, so that at least if they have to die, everybody else does, too.
Emil pauses beside the first room.
Nurse Lynne appears from nowhere.
Where did you come from? Emil asks.
From room 22, the nurse responds. Mr. Fitz is displeased with his room. Again.
Mr. Fitz is quite welcome to leave, Emil says. It is the only way he will find a room more to his liking.
Are you making rounds?
I'm about to, he answers. Why?
The nurses are in the office watching something, she says.
He takes the screenview she offers him. What is it? he asks.
She touches the screen, and it begins to play.
The image is of a warmly-lit news studio. Two large chairs, shaped like deep bowls, stand unoccupied. Beyond the chairs -- Emil sighs at the image -- is large glass wall, through which Earth, in its haunted glory, hangs like a glowing coal.
Theme music plays, and two people enter and sit down in the bowls.
It's Tasneem, Emil says.
Nurse Lynne nods. Yes.
And that man -- he's familiar.
His name is Blair Hudgens, Doctor. He's been pestering the office for a chance to interview you for months.
Ah, Emil says. Let's watch, let's watch.
Did you know any of the Soma patients who have unfortunately passed away?
Actually, I don't know any Soma patients personally.
Emil frowns. Her hair, he says. It's white! But -- it's only a little bit. A stripe, almost.
I think it's pretty, the nurse says.
Emil shoots the nurse a hard look. White means death, he says.
Not for her, she says.
He pinches his eyes shut. What do you mean, not for her?
Here, the nurse says.
She advances the video.
Watch this, she says.
Let me ask you about that streak in your hair, then.
Oh, this?
Patients who have died from Soma have witnessed their own hair go white before they died. What does that white stripe in your hair mean to you?
That I'm a survivor, I guess.
Would you characterize it as the souvenir of a brush with death?
This happened about a month ago. How soon after their hair turned white did the other patients die?
Most within days.
Perhaps I'm a survivor, then.
Emil turns to the nurse in surprise. How long ago was this? This interview?
The nurse says, I don't know. I think it was last month.
And nobody told me until now? Emil says. Why not?
I -- we didn't know, the nurse says.
Well, we must have her, Emil says. Go! Find her. Bring Tasneem here as fast as you can.
I don't know --
You don't know, you don't know, Emil says. No excuses! She may be our answer. Find her as quickly -- and as quietly! -- as you can.
The nurse nods. Yes, Doctor.
Oh, Emil says.
Nurse Lynne stops in her tracks. Yes?
Tell Mr. Fitz that another patient has died. That will ease his bitching.
Doctor, the nurse says. That's awful. I won't lie to him.
Oh, you're not lying, Emil says. Another has.
I didn't hear about anyone, the nurse says. Who was it?
Mrs. Ross, Emil says. I'm sorry I forgot to mention it.
Poor Mrs. Ross, Nurse Lynne says. Alright. I'll tell him.
If he complains again, put him out an airlock, Emil says.
The nurse clucks and trots away.
Emil hesitates outside the first door.
He doesn't want to open it.
Nurse Lynne, he says, but she has already disappeared around the corner.
Nurse Lynne, he says again.
When there is no response, he sighs and continues walking. The corridor connects to a shorter one, which leads to another one, which leads to the nurses' office. It's difficult to stage anything resembli
ng a central brain in this hospital -- another reason he despises the place. Nurses and doctors should operate from the center, and radiate outward to reach all of their patients quickly and efficiently, he thinks.
Here, though, doctors must run and slide around corners and crash into walls and run again and get lost in the haze of beige, beige, beige everywhere.
He passes six patient rooms. Each door is closed, except for the last.
Room 17 stands open.
Emil pauses at the door and peeks inside.
Miss Gretchen, he says.
The room is empty.
Like each of the patient rooms, it is sparsely furnished. The bed has a hood that can be lowered to isolate the patient. There is a simple table beside the bed. A screenview rests on the table. There's a stool for visitors. Not a chair -- a stool. The room is beige, just like the rest of the hospital, but absent any windows.
The room feels like a sac puffed full of stale air.
Miss Gretchen, he says again.
He leaves and walks to the nurses' office. The office is surprisingly quiet. Nurse Lynne is there, speaking into her screenview. He doesn't recognize the face speaking back to her.
Nurse Allen is there, too.
Nurse, he says. Where is Miss Gretchen?
Nurse Allen glances up. Miss Gretchen, she says. Miss Gretchen.
In Room 17, he says.
Right, okay. Room 17. I -- she shouldn't be anywhere. I don't know what -- is she not in her room?
She's not in her room, he says. Go find her.
Emil steps aside and the nurse hurries by.
He enters the office and takes a seat behind Nurse Lynne. A crude chart is spread out on the table before him, mapping the forty occupied rooms. Each room has small, colored sticker on it.
Emil picks up the chart and studies it.
Room 1, black sticker.
Room 2, red sticker.
Rooms 3 through 6, black stickers.
He scans ahead.
Room 17.
White sticker.
Black stickers mean present. You're a Soma patient. You're probably going to die. You're here.
Red stickers mean dead. There have been three of these already.
White stickers.
White stickers mean any moment now.
White stickers mean your hair has gone white.
White stickers mean you're on watch.
White stickers don't stay white for very long.
He looks over the rest of the chart.
Every red sticker is applied on top of a white one.
White stickers mean you're about to get a red sticker.
Emil sighs and drops the chart. He leans back in the chair and runs his hands through his thinning hair.
Nurse Lynne is still talking to a stranger.
Emil wishes he had never heard of Soma.
Gretchen
She refuses to meet with him in her room.
Emil meets her in the physician's lounge. She's there when he arrives.
Before he enters, he turns to Nurse Lynne. No one comes in, he says.
Nurse Lynne nods, then pushes the door open for him.
Miss Gretchen is sitting at one of the tables. She looks up when he enters. Her hair is brilliant white. Her eyes appear even darker in contrast. She smiles at him, and he feels his heart sink.
It's always hardest when they smile.
Miss Gretchen, he says.
She stands up, and he takes her hands.
She smiles.
I'm sorry that this is the only room we have, he says.
Gretchen shakes her head. It's okay, she says. I won't --
I know, he says. I understand.
I won't die in that room, she says. I just won't.
I want to tell you that I'm sorry, he says.
Oh, Emil, she says. It isn't your fault. Don't burden yourself with that. How many is it now? A hundred? Two? That's too much burden for any man to carry. One is too much.
You're the first patient who ever called me Emil, he says.
They sit down together at the table.
I don't want to be a patient anymore, she says. So I'll be Gretchen, and you can be Emil. And none of this Miss bullshit anymore, either. Now that I have this hair, I certainly don't want to be made to feel older than I am.
Fair enough, says Emil.
So, she says. First things first. Will it hurt?
He presses his lips together, then chews one absently.
That's a nervous-making kind of non-answer, Gretchen says.
Emil smiles sadly. I'm sorry. Nervous habit, maybe. I can't really answer your question.
Gretchen nods. I know. Nobody sticks around long enough to talk to. I've read as much as I could.
Emil places his hands flat on the table. I wish that wasn't the case.
I don't know how I'm feeling right now, she says. I guess everyone probably thought they were going to be the exception. That they'd be the one person who didn't succumb to -- to whatever it is. I know I did.
It's human nature, he says.
I saw the interview, Gretchen says. The one with the woman you treated.
Emil sighs and closes his eyes. I wish you hadn't.
One of your nurses, she says. She thought it might give me hope.
Oh, it probably does, he says. And that's why I wish you hadn't seen it. Which nurse?
Oh, I won't tell. You leave her -- him? -- alone. Gretchen smiles. I'm glad to have seen it. It means that maybe we can get around whatever this is.
You'd want that? Emil asks.
What do you mean?
I'd have thought this experience might have soured you on the idea of life extension treatment, he says. Some Soma patients became protesters when they learned what was happening. One tried to introduce legislation to ban it. He died before it was successful, but the cause carried on without him.
Oh, I don't want it banned, she says. I wish it wasn't. We have to learn from this, Emil. We have to solve it. Our lives are too fragile. If we're ever going to restore ourselves, we'll need more tenacity than we've got right now.
Tenacity, he says. That's a good word. We are kind of lacking in it, aren't we.
Gretchen looks around the room. As evidenced by our surroundings, she says. Is that fluorescent lighting?
God, Emil says. I'm glad someone else noticed.
The humming is going to kill me, Gretchen says. I've a good mind to die right now.
Please don't, Emil says. This is the most refreshing conversation I've had all day.
Well, that's tragic.
This place doesn't exactly inspire, does it, he says.
No, it does not, Gretchen says.
Emil puts his hands on the table. Gretchen, do you have anything better to do right now?
I have absolutely nothing planned, she says.
Would you like to take a walk with me? he asks.
I'd like nothing better, Emil.
Nurse Lynne knows a guy who knows a guy. A few hallways, sharp turns and unlocked doors later, Gretchen turns to Emil and says, breathlessly, This is not a bad place to go, you know what I mean?
Emil is deeply surprised to find that he agrees with her.
Galileo, for all of its drab interiors -- even its exterior feels like an interior -- has startled them both. Like a glass-bottomed boat, the space station has a viewport that rivals all of Aries.
Why is this closed? Gretchen asks.
But Emil can only shrug.
Nurse Lynne's friend's friend gives Emil a tiny salute, and pulls the access door closed behind him.
They are alone.
And yet.
The viewing deck is a long, wide room with a glass floor. Mounted to the walls are harnesses.
Emil wanders over to one and runs his fingers along the contraption.
No, Gretchen says. You think?
They aren't difficult to figure out, and Emil carefully straps Gretchen in. The shoulder harness clasps across her che
st. Her feet buckle flat against the wall, her knees bent.
When she is secure, he says, Are you ready?
Go slowly, she says.
She grips his hand.
He releases the tether line, letting it out a few inches at a time, until Gretchen says, Stop.
Emil locks the tether in place.
Gretchen is suspended a couple of feet above the floor, facing the glass.
Well, he says. Is it worth it?
You should join me and see, she says. But yes. Yes, it's very much worth it.
I'm not sure I can buckle myself in without help, he says. That tether required all of my strength.
Gee, thanks, Gretchen says, laughing.
Emil sits cross-legged on the floor beside her. It's a beautiful view, isn't it.
I certainly didn't expect it, Gretchen says. This station is like living inside of a cheese grater. Except there are fewer windows.
Emil chuckles.
Thank you, Gretchen says.
Are you scared?
I'm -- I'm not sure, she answers. Maybe? Maybe a little bit.
I don't know if it's painless, he says. But I've seen a few of these now, and they're fast.
Oh, don't tell me, please, she says.
Okay, Emil says.
They fall silent, taken in by the view. The sun is behind the Earth somewhere, and the planet seems to pulse with light. In the dark they can see the faintest glow of cities. There are fewer lights every day.
Do you remember Earth? she asks.
Emil nods. I'm a great deal older than you. Most of my life was lived down there.
Gretchen says, Do you ever miss it?
Perhaps. I miss what it was, maybe, he says. It's not the same place now.
He looks up at her. And you? Do you miss it?
Her eyes seem very far away.
I miss her, she says.