by David Nell
"It looks quite advanced."
She shrugged. "Yeah. I tried to ignore it at first. You know, trying to be hopeful. Hopeful that it might just go away. It didn't. So I resorted to hiding it, but you can't hide that sort of thing from your partner indefinitely."
"You have a partner?" I asked, thoughtlessly.
"Had. I also had two children. Not anymore. I know I'll never see them again, except here." She touched her index finger to her forehead and disrupted the transmission temporarily. "Soon even that will be gone, replaced by all the garbage. The noise is there all the time now, in my head. I can't remember the last time I slept without pharmaceutical aid.
According to the consultant I am already approaching IS3I, so I don't suppose I'll be here much longer anyway." She nodded towards a large square, windowless black building about three kilometres away, no more than a dark mass in the distance. "They'll move me there, to the hangar, as soon as the noise reaches 3800 Hz. Then I'll be sectioned for the next transporter to the colony."
"How long have you got?"
She smiled. "Days. Maybe a week."
I told her I was sorry, but my apology washed over her. I knew that I myself would be in her position very soon and wondered if I would be content spending my last audible days standing out on the scorched plain, talking to a stranger.
"Can I talk to you again?" I asked earnestly. "If you don't mind. I could meet you here tomorrow afternoon."
Helena nodded. "Yes, I'd like that." With that she walked off, away from the fence and away from me, back towards the facility block.
Consultation #4: IS2I Assessment – Dr William Zanegretti
Despite my initial impression of the doctor, by my fourth consultation I had come to realise that, despite his best attempts to convince me otherwise, I was nothing more to him than one more poor unfortunate passing time as pleasantly as my health funding would allow until I was no longer fit to remain on Earth.
I stripped off my tunic and allowed him to examine me. It took him less than a couple of minutes.
"The migration of the blastoma has accelerated. You have almost fifty percent coverage now, despite it not being localised."
It was true. It had affected my hands and forearms, lower trunk, buttocks and my right leg extending up to, and including, my genitals. Fortunately, my face and neck were clear, although I had noticed a bright speck the previous day, just above my hairline.
"Clinically, you are still at IS1I, but the migration will become more rapid from this point forward. How is the background noise?"
I pulled my tunic back on, over my head. "I'm aware it's there but so far it hasn't disturbed me too much. I think it's getting louder."
"It will. That's completely normal for this illness. How are you sleeping?"
"OK, I guess."
"Are you eating normally?"
I nodded, afraid to tell him that my appetite had almost entirely vanished.
"Good, good. I'll see you at the same time next week, Mr Artellus. Any questions?"
Of course I had questions. I had millions of them. I needed to make sense of my illness and how it chose its host. I needed to know where it was first identified and why it hadn't been taken more seriously from the beginning. I wanted to know if more could've been done initially, to isolate sufferers and perhaps prevent more widespread infection. I wanted to know if the disease was, as we had all been told, a mutagen and not some horrific biological weapon created by Chinese scientists and set loose on enemies in retaliation for the obliteration of Beijing and two-thirds of the entire country. I had so many questions. I knew Dr Zanegretti would not have the answers to all of them, so opted for one I felt sure he could respond to.
He stared at me for a moment, then stood up and made sure the door to the consultation suite was firmly closed. When he sat down again he sighed like a tired old man.
"Everyone who comes in here, in fact everyone I've ever seen, sitting where you are now, asks the same question. So it's easy for me, because I just repeat what I've told the hundreds and hundreds of people before you. My answer to that specific question has become more like a conditioned response. That is not good because I've found I no longer have to think about it. However, that time is, I'm certain, coming to an end, and I am very fearful for the future of all mankind.
It's always the little things that trip us up. The unexpected? Certainly, but they tend to be so insignificant we barely give most of them a second thought. Like when Christopher Woodford successfully created the first organic bioluminescent screen, created from the cloned cells of those ugly deep-sea fish. There were indications that the development would lead to enormous technological leaps in terms of possible application, although the real breakthrough was his creation of the emulsion.
Originally, it was just called OBLE, organic bioluminescent emulsion, but it wasn't long before the media and the telecommunications industry began incorporating it into all kinds of appliances. They gave Woodford's discovery the trademark OBLEC, predicting that it would one day totally eradicate the use of electricity, globally. Obsolete electricity, you see? I'm sure you're aware that the first ever emulsion-screen TV was painted by Woodford himself in 2110, on the site of what was originally the British Broadcasting Corporation building in London?"
The buzzing in my head seemed suddenly louder for some reason. "I saw something about it on one of those documentary channels, which is ironic really. I think they have the entire wall in the Koshland science museum in Washington."
"Yes, absolutely they do! The rest, though, is history. It wasn't long before the emulsion was used everywhere, but it was in telecommunications that it made the greatest impact. I don't believe there is a home anywhere in the world that doesn't have an emulsion-screen TV or doesn't employ some form of emulsion technology. So that which I believe will ultimately destroy all life here on this planet was already perfectly placed to have the maximum effect on society. All that was needed was a catalyst, and that catalyst was provided by the Chinese.
You see, whilst everyone regarded the emulsion as an inanimate thing, in fact whatever it was required to be, in reality, it was a living organism. The radiation changed it. It became almost virus-like. We still aren't sure how or exactly when it began to migrate from cold mechanisms and substructure surfaces. We only know it did, migrating to anything that could provide it with a chance to reproduce and survive. The first recorded case of illumoblastoma was in a domestic pig in the devastated Jiangsu Province in China. Within a year the first cases in humans were recorded, believed to have been contracted by the victims eating some form of contaminated animal.
Now no one is immune from irreversible illumoblastoma. Some have a greater tolerance to it than others. You yourself for example, Mr Artellus; your symptoms have not developed as rapidly as they have in others. We just don't know how it works and it appears that we cannot even slow its progress down once it takes hold. So in answer to your question, yes, I have lost someone close to me to the disease. Actually, I've lost two people I loved very much. Despite what you might think of me now, or in the future, I did not hesitate in signing their colony transportation documents. Nor will I next time, and there will be a next time.
One day it might be me and I just hope someone will allow me to remain with a modicum of dignity intact. It is my greatest fear that I might also mutate into a living, breathing emulsion-screen."
I thanked him for his honesty and told him I would see him the following week. How many appointments remained for me was uncertain.
Helena was late. She did not arrive until dusk. When I asked her the reason, she simply smiled and said she preferred the coolness of the early evening on her skin. The constant transmission of images and sound raised her surface temperature by several degrees. It was just another aspect of the illness I had to look forward to.
"The constant noise is driving me insane," she told me. "Sometimes it's like there are a thousand voices in my head at the same time. They say it'll be ten times wor
se by the time it's full blown. I'm not looking forward to it. No wonder infected animals throw themselves over cliffs."
Was that true? If so, what kind of animals? Which cliffs? I wasn't certain there was much indigenous wildlife left.
Her body was so luminescent it made her tunic appear virtually transparent. I watched a weather report play out across her face. Then, without warning, it changed to the opening credits of an old Drago Manek film, the one in which he plays an eco-warrior battling against the corrupt US Secretary of State, played by the formidable character actor Miles Dennison (in what was to be his last role). It was impossible not to stare at her.
"I'm not certain..." She paused, screwing up her face in order to concentrate, to cut through the intense noise pollution from all the simultaneous transmissions her mutated body cells were host to. "I'm not certain I'll be here this time tomorrow night. They cancelled my consultation on Wednesday. That tells me that they're getting ready to transport me."
We both turned our attention towards the heavens. The full moon, like a huge cabochon set against the dark-blue velvet canopy of the night sky, surrounded by twinkling diamanté-like stars, glared back at us. It was so bright that we both had to squint.
"It hurts your eyes just to look at it from down here, doesn't it?"
Helena nodded but continued to stare at it. She reminded me of a picture I'd once seen in a picture book; it was of a hare gazing forlornly at the lunar satellite in the sky, far, far above. Her neck was craned forward, slender and smooth. I watched some kind of documentary about the defoliation of trees in Germany flicker across the surface of her skin and then she said softly, "Why do you think they send us so far away?"
I didn't answer. With her imminent removal to its surface perhaps only hours away, I supposed she would find out soon enough. There were stories, of course; we'd all heard the stories but no one knew if they were really true because no one had ever returned from the colony. I imagined the combined luminosity and noise from the sixty million or so infected inhabitants would be impossible to tolerate for long. It explained why even the transit vehicles were remotely operated.
"When you get there," she said, "do you imagine that you will be able to identify your friends, or those family members that were sent to the colony before you?"
"Possibly." I wasn't really sure. "Why do you ask?"
"Will you look for me?" She turned to face me. "I don't have anybody there."
"Yes." I was being as honest as it was possible to be. "I'll try to find you. If you are able, try to stay as close to the transit terminal as you can. I'm not sure how many days or weeks it will be before I arrive there, but if I can, if it's possible, I will find you."
She held up her hand in some kind of gesture of gratitude. I was used to her noise now. "Thank you, that means a lot to me. Will you come out here again, when I'm gone?"
I nodded.
"Good," she said finally. "I'll watch for you, and when I can no longer see you, I'll know you are coming."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Trak E. Sumisu is the author of the transgressive fictional CPR trilogy, and has been described as the 'British Houellebecq'. He writes in various genres including crime, science-fiction, alternative reality and fantasy. This year he has been short-listed in the WFL crime novel award and was a bronze prize winner in a major UK poetry competition. His next novel Taphophilia has already been described as 'a grotesquely twisted modern gothic tale.'
THE LAST
MOON COWBOY
Edd Howarth
"Well, which will it be?" asked Derek Mazer to his son.
"I'm not sure," said Patrick Mazer. He breathed a cloud on the glass he was leaning against and wiped it away, as if this would reveal the answer.
Derek Mazer placed his hand upon the boy's shoulder, and what a delicate, bony shoulder it was. "You must understand the importance of this decision," he said, and looked directly into the boy's eyes.
His son nodded, then pointed to a snub-nosed revolver.
"It will not give you much distance, you understand this?"
Patrick Mazer nodded.
"But a boy must have a gun."
Outside, the sun shone brightly through the high windows of the Moon Market.
Derek Mazer and his son selected the revolver and a leather holster, slightly too large for the boy.
"You will grow with it," he said.
As expected, the cashier gave them trouble.
"Is this allowed?" asked the cashier.
"Are you allowed?" Derek Mazer put his hands upon the counter, and what large hands they were. The cashier looked at those hands, then up at Derek Mazer, intimidating in his olive green uniform, medals flashing like gold teeth.
He shrugged, rang up the purchase, and with the gun dangling by Patrick Mazer's hip, out went the two, out into the market, out into the stacks of high glass buildings, melted from moon rock, out into the crowd of hurrying fathers and mothers, towing children, some sprinting, some yelling. A busy, busy day. "Is the Earth nice?" a boy asked his mother, and in response the mother stared off to a point far away, and kept moving. "Just one test," hissed a father to another father. "My boy!" yelled another woman, turning and turning on her heels.
But Derek Mazer was not listening to any of this. Instead, he lit a cigarette and passed it down to his son, who puffed it crudely as they passed signs in the windows reading "Mor – SOLD OUT", "Rad Tabs GONE", "Nide Moving FAST". And it all seemed to be moving so fast to Patrick Mazer, who held tightly to the leather strap over his shoulder, having learned a long time ago to never take his father's hand. They passed the rocket with the children already gathering, holding tight to their mothers and fathers, heads bowed as if in prayer. Patrick Mazer watched them over his shoulder.
"The other children don't have guns," called Patrick Mazer over the market noise.
Derek Mazer kept a steady pace, so that Patrick Mazer scurried to keep up, much like a small dog.
"The other children will die. Now, you will have a hat."
So into the clothing outlet they went, empty and quiet, knocking the moon dust off of their feet on the front mat. A lone woman behind the counter peered strangely.
"What hat would you recommend for a boy such as mine? The hat must shape his face. The hat must be strong and durable. The hat must last."
The woman looked at the boy with the cigarette burning between his lips.
"A hat that lasts?" she asked, finally.
"The hat must last," he said, and nodded at his son. "What about that leather one, the one with the wide brim?"
"I suppose that would last."
So in a daze the cashier rang up the hat, and Derek Mazer plucked the tag like a stray hair from one of his uniforms and placed it on the boy's head.
"This is a fine hat, do you understand?"
The boy nodded from somewhere deep within the brim.
Out, out into the square they went. Faster, now. Derek Mazer glanced at his watch.
"Dad?" said the boy. But Derek Mazer was not listening. He was searching the outlet windows, peering through the smoked UV protected panes. "Dad!"
Derek Mazer stopped and looked at his son.
"Can't I take the tests again?"
Derek said nothing.
"Would you like another cigarette?" he said.
"The last one went up my nose. Why do I have to smoke these again?"
"A cowboy smokes," he said. He stared off into the distance, and then added: "You will eat beans from a can."
The boy's eyes brightened. He shifted his back pack, and sure enough, there was the clank of canned beans.
"You must have a knife," said Derek Mazer, and they walked toward the pharmacy. A line of black-booted men held a steady line along the front wall, watching for trouble.
Inside was chaos, but in they went, shouldering past the other mother's and fathers, weaving in and out of their stationary children. The shelves of pills and salves had voided long ago.
"Derek, God, Derek," and t
here stood Dr. Henry Wilkins and his son, breathless and red-eyed.
"I just can't believe this," he said. He looked at his son, then away.
"It is very busy in here," said Derek Mazer.
"Jesus, Derek. The boys!"
"They are pioneers," said Derek Mazer, and nodded at his son, who nodded back.
"Pioneers? More like lab rats!"
"Go and select a knife, son," he said. And Patrick Mazer went off and rummaged on a nearby shelf, out of earshot.
"What's all that, Derek? A hat? A gun? You know they've sold out of morphine all over?"
"Morphine will not work," he said.
"But it's something. The gasses..."
Wilkins mopped at his brow.
"All this to see how long they'll last. Jesus –Look, we bought two. Just take this, please. Put it in his pack." He pushed a dark pill into Derek Mazer's palm.
"Goodbye Derek," he said, and took his son's hand, and was gone.
Derek Mazer dropped the pill onto the floor.
"Did you choose a knife?"
"This one," said his son.
Now there was nothing more to buy, and only time. They strolled to the outskirts of the market and came to the sealed walls of the camp. There they positioned themselves by an observation window and both stared out at the stillness of the dust, the powdered craters filled with motionless lakes of ink. Patrick placed his hand on the glass.
"It's very boring here, isn't it Dad?"
"So very, very boring, son."
"The other children don't look too happy about leaving."
"The other boys are not cowboys."
Patrick Mazer thought this over.
"They're cowgirls," he said.
And then something rare happened. Derek Mazer laughed.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, they are cowgirls." And he stared at his boy, who looked up and out into the stars, and he stared for a long while.
The alarm rang. Deep and sonorous, summoning them to the port. There the boys, one by one, shuffled up the ramp to the rocket bay, all thin and bony, all clutching small zip-lock kits to their chests, moving with distant eyes to a bright red rocket with a single engine, pointed at the Earth.