Future Lovecraft

by Anthony Boulanger

  ***

  The Council knew that a woman from this part of the world, writing, was a greater threat than any other they had yet faced. She had the bloods to prove it and her bio told them that history could repeat itself. After all, it was women who wanted to unseat them. It was women who tried to rewrite the balance of power. It was women that the Old Countries went to war for, in Ancient Times. They had all the excuses to keep women away from knowledge and a better way to lead, and read, the world they lived in. Rather a docile system of Womanhood, anywhere in the world, than any form of a unified and strong Womanhood, in many parts of the known world. Keep them different, docile, weak, and dis-unified.

  ***

  As the moons carved a trajectory across the sky, and the light from the ships let it be known that another imposed day was upon the planet, she felt that her people would contact her. And they did. Without knowing how much time had passed, she felt surrounded by a warm energy. She was on the floor, lying down, without remembering how this came to be.

  ***

  Soon, one of her own whispered to her. Then, all she could see was a woman dressed in white, opening the filter window. maria got up from the floor and scrambled after the woman, who was clearly about to jump. All maria could grab was cloth and then, finally, a slim hand, as the woman in white slipped from her grasp. Before she let her hand go, on the very ledge from which maria watched the world below, the woman said, “You are everything. I had to die to let you know. Don’t let them stop you. Keep writing in yellow. Then send in red. The colour of life.” And then she let go, her long, dark hair billowing around her, but her body pliant and ready, not angled in fear. She smiled as her body met the pavement. maria had used the ternary glasses she kept for just such an occasion, to see everything that happened. Below, her follower was the colour of life in seconds, and was immediately surrounded by soldiers. Some looked up. The man appeared to her a short while later. He held handcuffs and talked to her about inspiration.

  ***

  “You inspire us to make this more difficult for you,” he said to her, his eyes almost catching light, almost becoming alive.

  “You inspire me to write. She died for a reason. The part of me that never dies, dies in this world. On another, freer world, she is everlasting. My Followers do not weep for this. We rejoice, because we know Freedom is soon coming.”

  “You’re naïve. Who will you go to? You know your voice cannot carry beyond these walls. We made sure of that. Only the Followers in your head, when they appear, know of you.”

  “If I told you my plans, I would not live beyond the three moons, and beyond this world. There are many who wait for my shape to enter its chosen space. This is what frightens you. And the more I write, the more ready my chosen space. For you to keep appearing, it means I am close to my goal.”

  “I have the plug right here, little queen with a small m. What would you tell your followers if I were to pull it? What then would your imprint be like, incomplete, not ready to take shape?”

  “You forget I have allies outside of this yellow, cold room. And that sitting, writing all day is an exercise in creation. You forget many things when it comes to women from my part of the world. You forget our power.”

  “You talk a lot. The Council has agreed. It is time to say goodbye.”

  ***

  The planets were in alignment; the three moons rose that day. Outside the tower, red scarves appeared around the necks and mouths of some soldiers. They started to scale the tower, to the only room it housed, on the top floor.

  HARMONY AMID THE STARS

  By Ada Hoffmann

  Ada Hoffmann is a graduate student in computing who commutes to southern Ontario from an obscure globular cluster populated mostly by elves. Her short fiction has appeared in Expanded Horizons, Basement Stories, and One Buck Horror, among others.

  Harmony I: Day 624

  THERE’S ONLY SO much paper on this ship. I shouldn’t be wasting it on a diary, even with my thumbtop gone. But I have to write this somewhere, before the songs of the stars drown it out and I forget.

  I found blood on the walls today.

  I was lugging garbage from the mess hall out to the recycler. Thumbtop in my pocket, piping kwaito music into my ears. Humming along, so I wouldn’t hear the stars at the edge of my mind. I kept my eyes on the white-tiled floors, avoiding the windows. The current song ended and I picked up the rectangular screen of my thumbtop with one hand, using my thumb to scroll through to a song I wasn’t tired of yet. I settled on a homemade audio file: my sister, Onalenna, back Earthside, laughing and singing a song we’d invented as children.

  Then I looked up and saw it: the red-brown streaks marring the wall’s white tile, just opposite the window. Angry, dripping Mandarin characters. I dropped my thumbtop with a crash.

  I can get by in a Mandarin conversation, but the writing still eludes me. I don’t know what the characters said. Normally, I would have needed to use the detector on my thumbtop even to know what they were. But I’ve got a PhD, same as everyone, and I knew what it would have said if it hadn’t just broken. Organic material. No bacteria. Dissipated proteins. Glucose. Platelets. Erythrocytes.

  Blood.

  I wanted to pretend I didn’t know why anyone would have done such a thing. But I knew. After all, I’ve been avoiding the stars with all my might since we passed the Oort cloud. They’ve looked different since then. When I’m not talking or listening to music, I hear them whispering, just past the edge of comprehension. Blood is one of their favourite words.

  Blood on the walls meant someone else heard them. And someone gave in.

  ***

  I was halfway done scrubbing the blood off the walls before I realised I might have let them stay as evidence. But there’s already enough crazy on this ship and blood’s unsanitary. Better to clean.

  Cleaning used to make me laugh. I’ve got a PhD in microbiology. When we get to Barnard’s Star, nine years from now, I’ll be doing tests too delicate for the antique robots that got there, first. Checking if the local bacteria interact catastrophically with our crops or our bodies. Fixing it if they do. So a plague doesn’t wipe out the real colonists.

  But the only bugs on the Harmony I are the ones we brought ourselves. Until we land, “microbiologist” means “cleaning lady”.

  I picked up the broken pieces of my thumbtop and tried to hum while I worked, taking up the song where Onalenna’s voice left off. But I was so upset I couldn’t remember how it had gone.

  ***

  I thought about not telling anyone, but this ship has hierarchies. There are the glorified cleaning ladies and there are the scientists who have important things to do shipboard. And then there is Captain Hao.

  Captain Hao likes to say her door is always open. In Johannesburg, when profs said that sort of thing, they meant they liked to chat. I tried chatting with Captain Hao, once or twice. Got a blank stare, like I was singing about cockroach-headed dogs. I thought maybe it was me; maybe my Mandarin was just that awful. But I asked everyone—even Jason Chong, who grew up speaking Mandarin in Singapore—and they all agreed: Captain Hao is like that with everyone.

  When Captain Hao says her door is always open, she means she expects verbal reports whenever anything happens. So, when I’d scrubbed the blood off the wall, I made my way to her quarters.

  “Captain,” I said, saluting—she likes salutes.

  “Dr. Maele.”

  She was sketching with a sharp pencil in her quarters, which are bigger than mine—bigger than anyone’s out here—but still barely the size of a college dorm room. No decorations, beyond some charts and calendars: Even her sketches went in a neat pile at the side of her desk, not onto the walls. She was off-duty, but still in her uniform jumpsuit and gloves, with her hair pulled back to the nape of her neck.

  She’s beautiful. Her eyes are like licorice candies. She makes me nervous.

  “Captain, I found something odd on my cleaning rounds. Somebody’s been writing o
n the wall. In blood.”

  Even her raised eyebrow was tidy. “Have they?”

  “Yes.” I took out a slip of notepaper where I’d copied the characters. She frowned at the use of paper, but didn’t comment. “By the recycler. This is what it said. I cleaned it off so no one would panic, but I thought you should know.”

  Captain Hao took the paper and studied it. I wanted to ask what the characters meant, but stopped myself. She knows that I have to look at the English side of the manuals, but I don’t like bringing it up. I don’t like looking incompetent to her.

  “Good work, Dr. Maele. I’ll look into this. Leave the next one up so I can study it, if there’s a next one. Is that all?”

  “Would you like me to do anything? Should I keep on the lookout for blades, bloodstains on pens, suspicious behaviour, anything like...?”

  She gave me a flat look, like she didn’t trust me to notice suspicious behaviour in the first place. “No. Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  That’s what I mean by hierarchy. Captain Hao needs to know everything. Cleaning ladies don’t need to know squat.

  But I can’t hate her for it. I can’t do anything but wish that I was tidy and important like her, and that she liked me. Call me crazy.

  Harmony I: Day 625

  Ni Nyoman Suardana can fix anything. Except, apparently, a shattered thumbtop. She put on her gloves, took the pieces, one by one, from their plastic bag, examined them critically for a few minutes, then turned to me with her dark eyes wide, like she thought I’d be angry. “I can’t do anything, Moremi. I’m sorry. This thing’s wrecked.”

  I must have looked disappointed, because she jumped back like I’d startled her. Suardana was like a nervous little bird from day one. I’ve been told she passed her psych eval narrowly, but out here, she keeps getting worse.

  “It’s okay,” she said, holding out her hands. “It’s okay. We’ll get you a spare.”

  I leaned against the wall and tried to look real casual. If I don’t act casual around Suardana, she just gets worse. “I’m not too worried. Is it easy to get a spare?”

  Suardana nodded like she was placating a gunman. “Yes, it’s very easy. Very, very easy. You backed up your files, right?”

  “’Course.”

  “Just bring that to me tomorrow, and I’ll get one out of storage and put them on. Really, it’s easy. It’s fine.”

  I wasn’t lying to placate her. I really thought I had a backup. I remember saying goodbye to my family, hugging my sister like a vise and holding my mother more gently, afraid of hurting her. Trying to memorise the smell of the earth, even though it was just asphalt and fuel out there on the launch pad. Walking stiffly onto the ship, praying the photos and letters and music I’d packed onto the thumbtop would be enough. I’m sure I was smart enough to make a backup.

  But I’ve trashed my room. Every space-saving drawer. Every pocket. If we were allowed to keep personal files on the ship’s mainframe, I’d have trashed that, too. There was no backup. Finally, I gave up and took out this paper.

  I keep glancing out my little window, daring myself to look at the stars. I’ve only realised just now how much I’ve kept on my thumbtop and not in my head. I had a diary from Earth, but I can’t remember any of what I wrote. I had letters from all my friends, all my extended family, even a few ex-lovers. I can remember a few of their faces but only one name. I didn’t know it was possible to lose so much.

  I wonder if I’ll remember the percussive beat of a kwaito song, nine years from now. I wonder if I’ll remember Johannesburg. Or the moles on my sister’s face.

  Harmony I: Day 628

  I slept with Henri last night to block out the stars’ whispers. To think about something else besides cleaning, blood, and loss. It wasn’t our first time.

  I like Henri and I don’t like him. He has nice hands and nice legs. His hair is going prematurely grey. He’s nice to me, in a smarmy sort of way. He’s better than being alone.

  I don’t like trying to cuddle on his little cot. We can do it if we try, but once the endorphins wear off, it feels sweaty and squished. So, when we were done, I sat on the floor, wrapped myself in a blanket, stared into space. He ran his fingers through my hair.

  “You can take the spare Suardana offered,” he said, when he’d run out of sweet nothings. “You can borrow my music. Borrow everyone’s. Better than doing your oh-so-menial job in silence.”

  Henri gets to tease me about that. He’s an organic chemist, so he has one of the only jobs lower on the totem pole than mine: He repairs the composting toilets.

  “It’s not the silence. You know what it is.”

  “Oui. And the lost files, of course.”

  “It’s the sounds.”

  I glanced at the window. I’d been hearing it more and more since my thumbtop broke. We were here when you were prokaryotes, said the stars. We will be here when you are dust.

  There was a nervous smile in Henri’s voice. “Oui, Moremi, but don’t say it out loud. Ssh.”

  I closed my eyes and focused on his fingers in my hair. Normally, I don’t like closing my eyes with Henri. Not in the afterglow, when it’s only his fingers. I always end up realising, with a start, that the hand I’m imagining in my hair is Captain Hao’s.

  Harmony I: Day 643

  Henri’s music doesn’t help. It’s all breathy chanteuses and tinkly pop. It doesn’t grab me and move me like kwaito. I keep drifting off and hearing the stars.

  We were here when you were dust. We will be here when you are vapour. And you, in the meantime, will serve.

  I’m not sure I have all the words right. I try not to get them right.

  I keep finding messages in blood. I don’t want to know what they say. I left the second one up for Captain Hao, but after three days, I couldn’t stand it, anymore, and scrubbed it off. She didn’t say anything about it, good or bad, but the stars got louder. The third one, I scrubbed right away. Too much crazy on this ship, already. We don’t need blood.

  Last night, I woke up sweating from a nightmare. I couldn’t remember anything. Just the terror. Instead of going back to sleep, I started cleaning early. No one gets up early on this ship. The mess hall should have been empty.

  But there was Captain Hao, with a razor blade and a calligraphy brush. One glove pulled off, one hand dripping red, the brush redder. Writing a word on the wall.

  She turned her head and looked at me. I’ve never seen emotion in Captain Hao’s face before. Today, her eyes went wide; her lip trembled. I think it was fear.

  If she hadn’t looked scared, I might have stormed in, demanded an explanation. But with that look in her eyes, half of me wanted to hug her, kiss her straight black hair, tell her it would be okay. Half of me wanted to run screaming.

  I split the difference. I bowed my head and backed out politely. Hours later, when she was gone, I scrubbed the bloody wall until it shone.

  Harmony I: Day 644

  I almost didn’t tell anyone. I lay awake, tossing and turning, trying to shut out the stars. Told myself it would make no difference if I did. She’s the Captain. Even if she weren’t, what could we do? Send her home?

  We will be here when you are dust, said the stars. You will serve us. She will serve us.

  I got up and paced, as much as you can pace in a room the size of a closet, taking one step and turning, step and turn, step and turn. I leaned on the poster I’d smuggled up from Earth, a big view of a herd of kudu in Marakele National Park. I stared at it and wondered if I’d been there before.

  I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen kudu. I couldn’t remember if I’d been to a national park, at all. I tried to think of it and only saw blood.

  That was the last straw. I had to talk to someone.

  ***

  “Someone” means Mesfin Biniyam, the ship’s psychiatrist. At Mission Control in Beijing, when they told me psychiatry was one of the most important jobs in space, I laughed. I wrote an eye-rolling letter back hom
e to Onalenna.

  Nowadays, I don’t laugh about it.

  We each had a weekly session with Mesfin for the first few months. When Henri and I started fighting over whether to call ourselves a couple, Mesfin smoothed it over. When Suardana reported anxiety, he taught her some deep breathing, which helped her keep an even keel—for a while.

  But when I first told Mesfin about the stars and their whispers, he got this gazelle-in-the-headlights look. Like, all of a sudden, here was something he hadn’t read in a psychiatric journal. Nowadays, he wanders the ship with nothing to say.

  When he stopped holding weekly sessions, I just grumbled and wished he’d help with the cleaning. But today, I needed him.

  Mesfin’s office doubles as his cabin and it’s one of the bigger ones. He and I can both sit down and close the door and, if we’re careful, our knees don’t touch. He’s decked out the walls in inspirational posters mixed with traditional Ethiopian art.

  I sat down and explained. About Captain Hao. The blood on the walls. The whispers. How I felt like a traitor just talking about it, but worse if I said nothing. How beautiful she was, even writing with the blood from her own wrist. How badly I wanted her to be sane.

  He let me h. He asked the usual headshrinker questions. “How does that make you feel?” Then he closed his eyes. “I can’t help with this, Moremi. I’m sorry.”

  I pulled away a half-centimeter, which was all I could do without plastering myself against the wall. “What do you mean? You’re the one who deals with the crazy. You’re telling me there’s no entry for this in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual? No little page of instructions in Mandarin, somewhere in the ship’s handbook? ‘By the way, if the whole crew goes batshit, here’s what you do....’” My voice cracked. That surprised me. I held my hands up to hide my face.