IGMS Issue 48 Page 10

  Inside the pod, the doctor groaned, bleeding but recovering from the initial blows; getting more clear-headed and irritated with each passing second.

  Oliver leaned up against the glastic door and grinned. "I knew sooner or later you'd have to see the place where we found him. It's nowhere near here, by the way. Area 451 is just the most out-of-the-way place I could think to bring you."

  "You think I didn't expect treachery?" the doctor snarled. "You think I didn't expect this? The guards are two minutes behind us."

  "Well then I guess I best not waste time telling you the details of my evil plan," Oliver said with child-like glee. He paused, bringing his hand to his white-whiskered chin, then added, "Oh wait, I have loads of time. I sealed the door. No one is getting in here until they backtrack and get tools to cut their way in, and I locked the tool room, too." He was immensely pleased with himself. "For years I've let you pull the same stupid trick over and over, letting you 'surprise' me with your stormtroopers. All so that one day, the day I needed it most, I could be one step ahead of you. Well today is that day, Dr. Jones. Today the cavalry will not be riding in to save you."

  Dr. Jones lost it. He screamed. He pounded on the glastic door. Curses flew from his mouth like hornets.

  But the only thing his outburst succeeded in doing was amusing Oliver, who said to me, "I know we have our own ideas of what it means to be Christian, but I think ultimately we're more alike than different. If you'll help us, pretend to be our hostage, I think we can force the Brahis and Satis to make real concessions. They'll do anything to get you and your genetic material back. Even treat us like human beings."

  He took a step forward, closing the gap between us. "And in the meantime . . ."

  He ran the back of his fingers against my cheek, leaned in, and kissed me, his beard brushing my cheeks exactly the way Michael's used to. The hairs tickled, soft and feathery, just as his lips fluttered soft against my lips. For a minute, for just one minute, it was as if Michael were back from the dead. I closed my eyes and leaned into the kiss.

  "I want to be a good Christian," Oliver said, suddenly breaking off. "But at the same time I need to be able to express who I am. I've always felt repulsed by the women they make me breed with -- every one of them. Your reading of the Bible allows for something different."

  I opened my eyes and before me stood Michael but not Michael. My Michael, who I had betrayed and left to die. And one week later -- at least in terms of my being awake and alert -- here I was, betraying him again by kissing another man.

  I was a horrible human being.

  "No," I said, backing away; unsure who I was more upset with, myself or Oliver. "I'm pleased to know you find my 'version' of Christianity convenient for expressing your sexuality, but convenience is a lousy reason to embrace something so important. I won't do this."

  "Won't do what?" Oliver grabbed my arm, yanking me toward him hard enough to wrench my shoulder. "Help stop the abuse? Help us get access to food and medicine? Do you know they won't treat half the diseases we suffer from? They say there's no hope for us, so why waste resources?"

  I gazed at Oliver in disbelief. I sympathized with his plight, but it didn't justify his actions.

  I moved away and he yanked my arm again, harder.

  But this time I was prepared. I spun toward him, using his own momentum, transferring it into a shove that sent him stumbling backwards -- right into an open cryo-pod. I slammed the door and threw my weight against it, looking for something to wedge it. But I couldn't find anything -- nothing that I could reach without releasing the door.

  Oliver raged, but within the confines of the pod he had no leverage. The doctor laughed.

  "What are you doing?!" Oliver shouted. "Let me out of here!"

  But the look in his eyes. . . Even through the rage, he seemed genuinely wounded. He stared, still struggling, but it was half-hearted. "I thought we were kindred spirits."

  "Just because what they're doing is wrong doesn't make you right."

  Michael stopped struggling.

  I mean Oliver. Oliver stopped.

  "You have to pick a side," he said.

  I shook my head. "No."

  "Set me free, Jerry," the doctor said. "I'll make sure they know you had nothing to do with this. But if you go with him -- if you let him out -- I don't care how much we need your genetic material, I will make your life hell."

  "Yes," I said, "That's the way to win me over. Nothing says 'Do the right thing' like threats."

  I had a flash of insight and took off one of my shoes and wedged it under the door handle. It worked. Not as rigid as a pipe, but it didn't need to be. Now I could step back from Oliver's pod. Now I could think.

  But what to do?

  Oliver had a point. I'd only been awake for eight days, but it was clear that he and his people were being treated unfairly. They had some pretty strange ideas, but to call them second-class citizens would have belittled the extent to which they were mistreated. Using me as a hostage, though, that was no way to go about changing things.

  On the other hand, though Dr. Jones and his people were rigid and controlling, I could see the sense in their gene-pool program. If things were this bad -- and again, eight days was plenty of time to see that they were -- then extreme measures were justifiable. If Earth had already died, we might be humanity's last chance for survival. Didn't that trump everything else?

  Now that I thought about it, I realized Oliver had been correct about one thing: I had to pick a side. Eventually I was going to get used by someone. That much was clear. Inevitable even. The most I could hope for now was to decide by whom. And maybe use my fifteen minutes of power and influence to make some small, good thing come out of it.

  But what? How?

  I had no idea. None at all.

  But I knew who did.

  I knelt. And I prayed for guidance.

  In the background two competing voices clamored for my attention, appealing to my sense of justice, pleading with me to see their point of view. They shouted and cajoled. They cursed and offered bribes. And they wouldn't shut up.

  How was I supposed to hear God's voice over all that noise?

  That's when I heard Michael, whispering in my ear . . .

  I staggered drunkenly toward Dr. Jones, my robe flapping open and flashing my otherwise naked body. I was not ashamed. Alcohol was still available in the 36th century and it still did its job. Praise God.

  "You have to admit, it's pretty amazing," I said. Or did I slur? With Dr. Jones' homemade hootch flooding my system, I couldn't tell.

  "What is?"

  "How one book can do all that," I said. "How the Bible can remain relevant for over three thousand years."

  The doctor shook his bandaged head. "What I find amazing is how people manage to find ways to make that book say exactly what they want it to, no matter what the facts might be."

  "No," I corrected him emphatically. Possibly over-emphatically. I jabbed my right forefinger into my left palm, saying, "I'll tell you what's amazing. What's amazing is that for thousands of years that book has been able to say exactly what people need to hear in order to make society work."

  Dr. Jones shrugged. "You say tomato, I say tomahawk. I don't mind disagreeing, as long as we can do it civilly."

  "Says the man who lost his mind when I confessed I was a Christian."

  "Admittedly not my finest hour."

  "Tell me something," I said, hopeful, yet afraid of the answer. "Is there anyone left who believes what I believe? Anyone at all?"

  The doctor shrugged. "Honestly? There may have been a few, for a while, but I'm certain that life after the Wrecking required a radical rethinking of many things. And that was a very, very long time ago."

  I lumbered toward the doctor. I needed to hug him. I appreciated his honesty so much. And he was so cute, even with half his head wrapped in gauze.

  He dodged me easily. "Did you really have to consume quite so much alcohol?"

  Given what I h
ad agreed to do, yes, I needed to be very drunk. Often and a lot. But at least I got to establish the ground rules. And being plastered was just the first of them.

  "Getting wasted worked for Lot's daughters," I said. "Can't imagine that either of them were terribly excited about having sex with their father. But without that, there's no Lord and Saviour. No one to save mankind."

  "Did you actually go back in the Bible and follow all of those 'begats' or are you just taking Oliver's word for it?" The doctor immediately waved off his own question. "Never mind, I really don't care. I'm much more concerned that you're so drunk it'll keep you from performing sexually. Alcohol impairs people, you know."

  The door opened, and in walked Melba, she of the pointy chin and loopy lower lip.

  Dr. Jones said, "On the other hand, in order to have sex with that I'd have to be so drunk I was blind, so. . ."

  "I don't know 'bout that," I said, squinting. "If you look at her right, she kind of looks like a man."

  "I'm thtanding right here," Melba said.

  "Whatever gets you in the mood," the doc said, looking at her and grimacing.

  Alcohol plus Melba looking like a man was exactly what would be required to get me in the mood, at least this first time. After that I had to hope I could find my way with only booze, because I had seen some of the Brahis and Satis, and they didn't look nearly as manly as sweet Melba.

  Doc Jones insisted that the status of sleeping with me was as important to people socially as the genetic material I'd be sharing. So as much as it disgusted me, this was what the situation required. I flopped back onto the bed and patted the space on the mattress next to me. My robe fell open. "C'mere, Melba," I said. She looked aside modestly. It was a horribly feminine gesture.

  The doctor headed out the doorway Melba had just entered, saying as he passed, "Be careful with him. He's had a hard day." He turned back to me and said, "I'm going to visit Oliver in his cell again, see if he's ready to tell us where he really found you. I still think there's valuable information to be gleaned. And before you ask again, yes, I will make sure he honors his part of your agreement and shaves that stupid beard."

  "Tha's right," I said. This time I know I slurred. "He don't get out of jail until that awful thing is gone."

  "Right," Dr. Jones said. "As we agreed. Might be a few other things I require before he gets out, but that's definitely on the list. When you're done here with Melba, you should sleep it off. You're too drunk to go again anytime soon."

  "Really?" That was wonderful news, because I was truly freaked out by the whole thing. Starting with Melba was the right place to begin -- and it had the added benefit of meeting one of my other requirements: equal time for the Madris. But it was still going to be difficult. And unpleasant.

  I realized my robe was open and pulled it closed.

  "And for pity's sake, try to relax," said the doctor. "Even spacing things out so we don't have too many babies born at the same time, you're going to have to impregnate an average of eight women a month for a long time to come."

  "As long as we do one Madri for each Brahi and Sati," I said. "I'll do 'em when and where you tell me." So many women, such stomach turning results. But it was the one thing I could think of that would bring balance to this system. The genetics were too far out of whack for the Madris to be viable as a breeding group, but if the status conferred by sleeping with me would change the way people treated them . . . well, it wasn't much, but it was a start.

  Let love be without hypocrisy, right Michael? That's what he always said. That was my new prayer, every day.

  "As we agreed," the doctor said. "Everybody gets a turn."

  I looked at him longingly. Teasingly. Flirtatiously. I didn't mean it, but if he was going to put me in this awkward position with all these women, making him a little uncomfortable was the least I could do to pay him back. I waggled my eyebrows. "That's right: Everybody gets a turn. Every body."

  He started to laugh, stopped, then started again, unsure if I were serious. Good.

  He said, "God damn, you're drunk. No, not every everybody. Not for all the cloning machines in the universe. That is never happening."

  "Don't blaspheme," I said, even though I laughed when he said it.

  But as I closed my eyes so as to avoid watching Melba get undressed, I couldn't help adding, "And don't say 'never' too quickly, my dear doctor. Stranger things have happened in this universe. . ."

  Life With Slug

  by Paul Eckheart

  * * *

  I find the girl asleep, curled up under a giant leaf of the bush. There are worse places to sleep. The soft loam she'd piled up into a makeshift pillow. Morning dew on the leaf threatens to drip onto the poor child's face. I pull a handkerchief from the back pocket of my faded fatigues and wipe the dew away before it spoils her dreams.

  She is maybe eight or nine earth-years. Red hair. Yellow summer dress matted with dirt. Freckled face - the sort that refuses to tan.

  She is the first person I've seen outside of rangers and law enforcement in many, many years. Protocol dictates that I wake her immediately and send her back to the colony.

  And yet I decide to leave her there. It is a quiet morning, save for the soothing buzz of a few overachieving insects. The first moon has already disappeared behind the red mountains to the west. The second moon hangs high in the sky, its sunward side bright with reflected oranges and yellows. Not even a hint of clouds overhead.

  She can sleep all she needs to. I can harvest the greens around her and be on my way before she even stirs.

  To fetch the last thing I need - a sprig of bone-twill - I have to move the leaf. Bone-twill has a beautiful peppery taste I've been craving in my salads. Almost, I decide to leave it for another day, but the thought of bone-twill mixed with the lemon wheatgrass I'd already harvested overpowers my discretion. I lift the leaf and take a deep breath before leaning over the sleeping child.

  I smell wintergreen.

  Which is impossible. Only one thing on Opal Seven smells like wintergreen, and the terraformers had long ago scoured the planet to make sure it was eradicated.

  I lean closer to her mouth and smell again.

  No doubt about it. She's eaten ivaltoe berries.

  I shake her. "Wake up. Come on, honey. Morning's here." Her little frame rolls limply to one side. I pat her cheeks, feel her forehead - hot and feverish. But her breathing is strong.

  If I hurry she might live.

  It's a sign of how deep my solitude has been engrained in me that I pause to consider the ramifications of bringing her into my home because such a thing is forbidden. In my many years of exile, Damn Bastard Cole (an official title - one I'd given him personally) was the only person permitted to visit me.

  By bringing this child into my home I guaranteed myself another visit from D.B. But I've survived the worst of his wrath before. For the sake of the girl, I can do it again.

  I often think about the events that led to my expulsion from society. Other than my garden and the occasional book, there's not much else to do. And I've already read Moby Dick (this month's authorized selection) once. I'd rather deal with my memories than have to slog through that "Call me Ishmael" excrement again. If brevity is the soul of wit, Melville is, without doubt, the greatest bore ever to live.

  But I digress.

  The terraforming crew worked at night. Until the right kind of atmosphere had been generated, it was easier to deal with the freezing cold at night than the 140-plus degree temps of Opal Seven's day.

  I'd been eating a ham and turkey sandwich with cracked kernel mustard and tangy mayonnaise: Heaven.

  Warm, pre-oxygenated air billowed from the vents. I'd even unzipped the front of my down-filled vest to keep from overheating.

  The dozer rumbled beneath me. After a few hours perched on that unforgiving seat, absorbing the constant vibration with my tail end, everything from my shoulders down to my feet tingled. Black smoke from the engine puffed limply up around the curve of my
operator's dome to eye level and then sank back down into a low-lying dense muck that would later get sucked up and purified by the sweepers.

  The coms-system crackled to life and Captain Ahab - by which I mean Damn Bastard Cole - ordered us back to work. "Alright you third-rate wage whores. Break's over. Colonists are a comin'. No time to waste. Hup-hup-hup-hup-hup."

  What a "wage whore" is, I have no idea. One seems to be implicit in the other. D.B. is just one of those men who likes the sound of his own voice more than Stradivarius liked kitten guts.

  I shoved the rest of my sandwich in my mouth, crinkled up the paper it had been wrapped in, and licked a stray drop of mustard from my leather work gloves. I could have done without the extra salt and dirt the gloves imparted, but I never could pass on an extra drop of mustard. Especially on ham and turkey. For nearly everyone on the crew, meat was one of those rare luxuries that couldn't come often enough.

  Had I known it would be the last meat I'd ever eat, I'd have savored it more.

  D.B. wore a ventilator and a parka over his insulated overalls. Standing in the middle of a commotion of tractors, dozers, and sweepers, he conducted our orchestra of planetary destruction and reconstruction. He signaled to me and pointed me toward a hill at the edge of the worksite.

  Dark green stalks and leaves, splashes of yellow and red from bushes and berries - plants native to Opal Seven like my beloved bone-twill - sprouted from mounds of iron-red dirt. Instead of cleansing the air, these plants used a variation of photosynthesis to replenish nutrients in the ground. So far as we knew, they'd survive just fine in the oxygen rich atmosphere we were manufacturing. Might even do some good once we started planting our own crops.

  I clicked on the coms. "Are you sure, Cole? I didn't think the corps of engineers had cleared us to work outside the site boundaries."