At least he used lots of lubricant, and agreed to do it to me from behind. Near the end, he actually felt pretty good inside me, and lasted a decent amount of time. Then once it was over, breathing hard together on his bed, we could have been any of the billions of couples throughout the galaxy, relaxing together after sex. Sweaty and satisfied. Well, more or less.
But we weren’t. We were on an icy moon, many billions of miles from anything. There was no romance in this, no true pleasure to be found, only a meeting of the awful biological necessity.
We did it again, and then he sent me away. Kiri refused to come to my room, and wouldn’t answer her door. I cried for hours, alone.
143rd Day after Landfall
I refuse to think about it. So I won’t write more about it.
Instead, the news: our farm continues to absolutely thrive. Today’s crop of bright red radish and more deep green water spinach was a welcome treat. I fixed some for Dad, who ate only a little before complaining of nausea. He really does not look good, but our medical supplies are so very basic. Mom is already talking about something called ‘palliative care’. She cries whenever we talk about it.
Curt still hasn’t ordered Kiri to his room. I’m scared about what will happen, really I am. Kiri will fight him, tooth and nail, and it will be a test of how firmly Curt believes in maximizing the birthing options of our colony. If he hits her, or tries to force her, it will only get worse. She’s a wild one, my Kiri.
150th Day after Landfall
Dad is spending more and more of the day asleep. He eats tiny amounts, but can’t really keep anything down. Mom spends almost all of her time with him, and our farm has suffered from the lack of labor. Kiri and I are working hard to keep up, but Curt’s schedule assumes that we’ll each have a baby every year, and he insists on getting the most out of our food production.
The beautiful blue planet above us has developed a major storm in its atmosphere. I noticed it last week, but by yesterday night it already seemed to have grown. It’s a swirling, white tornado. The computer says that it’s rotating at nearly a thousand miles per hour, and might last for decades.
I dreamed that night that I was standing at its center, watching its savage, endless winds destroy us all. I haven’t slept since then.
152nd Day after Landfall
Curt has apparently given Mom some kind of compassionate leave from her upcoming duties as a concubine and baby-factory, in light of Dad’s worsening condition. I visited him twice today, but he was deeply asleep. Mom told me that I should come back often, because she wasn’t sure what was going to happen.
Kiri and I are spending almost all our working time in the farm, and it’s a welcome distraction. Still, I had to broach the most difficult of subjects with her, just to sound her out. “What will you do?” I asked, feeling foolish but needing to hear her answer, “when Curt tries to take you?”
She glanced around the farm for a moment. Rows of greenery, the future hopes of our colony, shone brilliant under the heat lamps. New seedlings flanked their more mature cousins in a cycle of food which would sustain us for as long as our power and nitrate mechanisms held out. It was almost the only thing around here I could trust. Then Kiri spoke.
“What do you think?” She looked me straight in the eye. “What do you really think?”
159th Day after Landfall
It happened four days ago, but this is the first time I’ve summoned the energy to write about it. As Kiri put it, our colony has suffered a ‘population collapse’.
The chain of events began when Curt summoned Kiri. All of us, him included, recognized this would be a major watershed. I was terrified and took to pleading with her to acquiesce. I begged her, for Dad’s sake. He would spend his last few waking moments, I warned her, in fear that we might kill each other instead of heading into the future together.
But she is a wild one, my Kiri. I knew what to expect, but I prayed for the opposite.
She went to his bedroom, fully clothed and ramrod straight, declaring loudly that she did not consider herself part of the population project, and rejected its aims. Curt warned her that violation of the agreement would have grave consequences, but she held firm. I heard Curt remind her about the explosive device in our reactor, but Kiri repeated her refusal and made to leave.
I’m not really sure what happened next. There was an enormous amount of noise, some yelling – by who it became hard to tell – and crashing sounds as though objects were being thrown around the room. For all the world it sounded as though Kiri was rushing around, hurling things at Curt to keep him away. From the state of the room afterward, I’m pretty certain that’s what happened.
The noises continued for about three minutes and then suddenly stopped, replaced by fast, panicked gasping sounds. I tried to force open the door, but it was locked. Mom came, in tears, unbearably hurt by this noisy chaos at a time when she was getting ready to say goodbye to her husband. She spoke through the door, asking them if they were alright.
The door finally opened from inside and we saw the destruction – almost every fitting in the room was torn out, the bed was upside-down in the corner, the lighting gantry had been ripped down and was sparking dangerously on the floor. Kiri was standing over it all, her face bloodied and chunks of her hair torn out.
She looked at us both and then pointed to the far corner. “He’s there.”
Curt was curled in the fetal position, facing the wall, holding his midriff. We could see movement – he was alive, but obviously badly injured.
“Curt?” Mom tried. “Are you OK, honey?”
I have no idea, in future years, if anyone will read my diary, or who that might be. But if you’re a humanoid, and in any way squeamish, I suggest you skip a paragraph.
Kiri had used Curt’s own strength, flinging him against the wall as he attacked her. He collided hard with the metal wall of Epsilon and was stunned; we could already see a large, red mark on his forehead from the impact. After this, with the clear intent of ending his reign, she had stamped on him so many times that his ribs were shattered, his pelvis broken and his genitalia quite simply destroyed. There was a large amount of blood. It was obvious that he would die without the immediate help of a skilled surgeon.
Mom ran to his side, wailing uncontrollably at the sight of his horrendous injuries. Unable to do anything for him, she simply cradled him, sobbing. He wasn’t able to speak.
Kiri took my arm and handed me a small, metal device, the size of a key ring. “His reactor bomb,” she explained. “I took it from him, and he attacked me to get it back.” That was all she said on the matter for a long time.
We helped Mom, who wanted to do all she could for Curt. His breath rattled in his chest, and we knew that his injuries were extremely serious. After an hour, with no change in his condition, she told Kiri to go to her room, and left me with Curt while she returned to Dad’s room. As she left I saw that she was barely able to keep herself upright.
In the hours that followed, there was an absolute silence. Mom stayed with Dad as he lost his battle and died in his sleep.
We cried together, holding his hands, willing him back to life, if only for a moment.
When we were finally ready, we silently washed and dressed him. Then we wrapped him in a long sheet of cloth and sealed up his room. We didn’t know what else to do.
179th Day after Landfall
But Curt took four more days to die.
The gasping, rattling noises told his that his smashed ribs had punctured a lung. In his last hours, he sounded like a blocked drain trying to breathe. Then he just stopped.
Mom spent these two days, and the next twenty, on a diet of pills which provided nutrition and oblivion; heavy painkillers, sleeping pills, even hallucinogens, anything that would insulate her from these horrors. In effect, Kiri and I were humanity’s only consciousness in this system.
It was a responsibility we were ill equipped to discharge. Two bodies awaited burial. These, we knew, would
have to be outside, in the ice. Neglected during the crisis, the farm needed many hours of work, and our life-support systems needed significant repair. Thankfully, Curt’s robots did much of the mundane work. One of them, a boxy little guy with three arms, was already programmed to fix almost any mechanism on the ship. While Kiri and I held each other, seemingly for days, the machines tended the farm, ham-fistedly at first, but with growing skill. They cleaned the complex, bagged up the two bodies and dug two deep pits in the ice. It took nearly a week.
But neither of us was prepared to let a machine carry out the last rights and bury our two men. So we suited up, for the first time after Landfall, and dragged the two heavy, black bags out of the airlock and into the unforgiving, crystalline ice.
Being three billion miles from a star makes you appreciate every last photon. The distant sun gave the moon’s surface a surprising variety of colors; there was a distinct purple to the ice, darker in some places than in others, but also shades of pink and red, the colors forged by steady chemical change over uncountable eons.
The makeshift road which Curt and Dad built when we first arrived was, of course, still intact. It ran in a snaking, narrow line from the airlock to the emergency canisters which had saved our lives. Although better than nothing, it was dreadfully bumpy, with shards of ice and frozen boulders jutting up, threatening to trip us up or, much worse, to slice open the bags. We both fell over a lot, not yet used to the suits and constantly pulled off balance by our cumbersome cargo, which snagged against hummocks, lances and blocks of ice, or against the small crater edges which lined our route. It seemed to take hours, and it did.
Three hundred meters (“Why so fucking far?” complained Kiri) from the canisters were the two deep ravines which would hold these remains forever. We stood, exhausted, sweat matting our hair and stinging our eyes. At first, no words would come. Then, sensing our shared need to dignify the occasion, even just a little, Kiri tried.
“We came a long way together. We were saved by luck, and hard work, and by each other. In the end, we reached the limits of being human. No one could have done better.”
I bumped my helmet gently against hers in a sign of approval and love, and we ordered the robots to cover the bodies with rock and ice, filling the ravines over the next twelve hours until the surface was almost flat once more.
We hobbled back to the airlock in silence. Above, the deep, placid blue of our parent planet seemed to offer some kind of constancy amid this fearful change, this appalling loss. The white storm was growing daily, a tight spiral of pressure and movement, expending its fleeting energy amid the cool, fathomless ocean of its atmosphere.
I’ve had dreams of falling into that blue, pulled in deep by its gravity, and by my desire for transformation. I’ve dreamed of our planet as a portal, a way home, a way to heaven. I think I could stare at it all day.
In my mind, there are two of them, now. There is the real planet, around which our little moon carries on its gentle, backwards tumble, nurturing us as we try to grow and breathe and stay alive in this remote and unlikely place.
And then there is the great, blue gas giant in my mind, wherein lies salvation.
***
Chapter 2: Falik at the Council
Grand Council Meeting Chamber, Takanli
Falik stood nervously and alone in the giant ante-chamber, waiting for her name to be called. As befit the grandeur of the Council buildings, she stood in the finest, deep red Takanli cloth, lustrous and slender. She wore the gown, which had belonged to her mother, more to raise her own confidence than to influence the notoriously intractable council. The thought of those dozen, impassive faces brought a shiver of nerves, and she tried to breathe deeply.
A guard spoke her name with a quiet solemnity, and motioned to the imposing, black double-doors. As they had so many thousands of times, the doors swung forward, revealing the suffused blue light from within. Falik straightened her back and marched confidently into the chamber. I have rights here, like everyone else. This episode was not my fault. I deserve my chance to explain.
Her inner monologue only ceased when the doors closed behind her. The chamber was a large, smooth dome enclosing an amphitheatre. On its floor was a broad horseshoe of twelve high-backed chairs. Falik stood before them, her red gown iridescent in the chamber’s lights. Behind her, the rising tiers of the amphitheatre were almost impossibly crowded; beings of every kind were jammed into the seats, sitting on the steps which separated each section of the crowd, or floating above the proceedings. The sight made Falik’s throat tighten, and she wondered if she’d even be able to confirm her name when the question came.
The silence continued. Frustratingly for the crowd, and maddeningly for Falik, each Council session began with a brief, silent conference between the twelve members, accomplished entirely through the Neural Net. The only visible manifestations were the gossamer strands of cyan sparks which linked the beings, arcing silently from one to the next. For the uninitiated, it resembled some other-worldly stage show; there was surely theatre in this bizarre ritual, however crucial it was. After a short discussion, all twelve Council elders were ready to listen and deliberate. And to decide, Falik remembered with a shiver.
“Fellow members and visitors.” The voice had no clear source. Perhaps it spoke for the whole Council, or perhaps this was pre-agreed narration. Why must you always keep us guessing? “If we could have your attention for the next matter before the Council.” Large screens, hung from ceiling beams high above the amphitheatre floor, began scrolling through Falik’s biography and the details of the case. Soon you’ll know all my secrets. There can be no hiding, not here. “Would you confirm your identity, please.”
She swallowed hard. “Dr. Falik Palann, Institute of Biological Sciences,” she managed to say.
“Very well, Dr. Falik,” began a familiar humanoid voice. This was Serda, fourth-most senior member of the council and trusted protector of Takanli’s scientific community. “We appreciate your assistance in this delicate matter.” Such small-talk was to be expected, especially from the humanoids on the Council. They understood, better than their colleagues, the incredible strain experienced by those called before this august institution. And could it be greater, wondered Serda to himself, than to give evidence against a man with whom you have fallen so endearingly, so completely, so very publicly in love?
“Describe for us, if you would, the circumstances of your first meeting with the humanoid known as Paul.” In a break with tradition, the normally taciturn crowd buzzed excitedly at the name. It was hard to think of a more controversial figure, nor one whose impact on Takanlian society had been so great during so short a time.
Falik turned briefly to acknowledge the crowd, provoking another wave of murmuring – support or discontent, it was hard to know – and then faced the Council.
“I met him at our Institute.” Her voice was thin, nervous, almost like a schoolgirl in the principal’s office. Some asshole from the back yelled ‘louder!’ and she tried again. “He came to our institute. Paul had just arrived from his home planet after a one hundred and twenty light-year journey, the first of its kind.” During which we nearly killed him, Falik recalled, from sheer terror. But his journey wasn’t her responsibility and she knew not to expect questions on it. “I was part of the evaluation team.”
Serda continued. “And what was your brief?”
Falik took a breath. “To perform an architectural scan of his limbic and hormonal systems.”
“With what aim?”
How quickly we come to the controversial part. The crowd’s mutterings swelled once more but they promptly fell back into silence. “We aimed to provide every Takanlian with a vaccine.”
New files appeared on the overhead screens., showing DNA spirals and a host of data. “And what was to be the aim of this vaccine?”
“Genetic therapy,” Falik began, but she was cut off by angry shouts from the back of the amphitheatre. The protestor’s neighbors waved at hi
m to stop, but before their pleas were heeded, a Council Guardian, eight feet tall and armed with a long, metal spike, sprinted over like an athlete and simply grabbed the hapless objector by the nape of the neck. The Guardian nodded to the Council floor, content that the interruption had been halted. Falik continued, marshalling her composure.
“Under previous Councils,” she reminded them, “it has been policy to ensure the harmonious functioning of our society through a suite of genetic modifications. These have encouraged altruism, gregariousness, and a sense of community, while stemming natural inclinations towards depression, selfishness and insularity. The results have been, according to most observers, extremely successful.”
Scattered hissing began, somewhat mutedly, among the crowd. Only a few rose to heckle Falik’s summation, and they sat down again rather quickly, cowed by the presence of the towering, menacing Guardians.
“This methodology awaits universal acceptance,” explained Serda quite unnecessarily. Genetic freedom, and control over one’s own genetic makeup, were by far the greatest sources of dispute both on Takanli and throughout the Pleaos System. It was a bold, highly technological solution to perhaps their greatest problem: How can we live together in peace?
Then Ebimus, a reptilian creature the size of an adult puma, spoke through his automatic translator. “What was the role of the fugitive Garlidan?”
More murmuring from the crowd. Two guards jumped into the midst of the commotion and, seemingly at random, slapped a few people around the head for a few seconds. That quieted things down.
“His role was central,” Falik explained. “Garlidan developed the original plan for a vaccine, and coordinated the effort to bring Paul to Takanli. He dispatched the science ship Lawrence which intercepted Paul near his home in Wales.”
“What is ‘Wales’?” asked one of the Council. She checked her data screen and nodded. “A journey of some 120 light years,” she noted. “Remarkable.”
Clarion: The Sequel to Voyage (Paul's Travels) Page 4