Kzine Issue 17 Page 3

  I place my glass back on the table, savouring the heady buzz of champagne on my palate, and wink to the woman across from me (Sue? Susan? Dammit, I’ve forgotten already). She gives me a wrinkly wink in return, a sparkle still present in her rheumy eyes. I reach across the white tablecloth and snatch the last piece of bread from the basket—still warm from whatever oven it had emerged from.

  The bread up here was something else. They said it was made in ovens situated in hub (the centre of this giant wheel spinning slowly in space); which could explain the excessive airiness of it. I smear a pad of soft butter onto it, which melts right into the air pockets, and quickly cram the whole thing in my mouth, before it drips over my sweater vest. Ah, fresh bread! Crunchy on the outside; velvety smooth on the inside. Liquid butter trickling towards my throat. I think I let out a soft moan as I chewed, because Sue/Susan is chuckling at me.

  “Robert, this damned place is giving me a migraine!” That’s Harvey. His chair squeals on the patio tiles as he pulls it out from the spot beside me. He drops his bulk down, and clears his throat noisily. I forget the magical bread in my mouth and prepare for a barrage from my new cottage-mate. He’s not my choice of roommate, but for the sake of three days up here, it’s not worth making an issue of it. After this, we won’t have to worry about seeing each other again.

  “That goddamn incessant ringing is driving me bonkers, I tell ya.” Harvey’s wearing ill-fitting sweatpants and an overlarge t-shirt emblazoned with some running competition he may or may not have attempted decades ago. “Did you know the toilets flush backwards here? What’s that about? It’s distressing, is what it is.”

  Yep. Harvey likes to complain, alright. Sue/Susan loses her smile, avoiding any further eye contact with me, as if he’s my fault.

  We’re not supposed to get to know our cottage-mates too well—or anyone else, for that matter—but I’ve managed to deduce that Harvey was a New Jersey corporate lawyer, who recently lost his wife, Marilyn. Well, by ‘deduced’, I mean he blurted it out when we first met. It was pretty evident, too, by the way he clearly has not dressed himself in probably half a century. I hadn’t reciprocated, though, telling him nothing about my reason for being here, my former career, or that I’d been unattached for more years than I care to think of.

  I mechanically swallow the hunk of forgotten bread in my mouth, when I catch something out the corner of my eye. It’s a pair of uniformed company employees emerging from inside (isn’t everything ‘inside’ here, though? I still haven’t decided.), each grasping their ‘pads tightly. I clear my throat and toss my chin in their direction, for Harvey’s sake: he’s still going on about something or other.

  “Ah! Well, it’s about time! It’s not like we have much left, as it is!” My cottage-mate attracts the attention of most everyone at adjacent tables, including one of the uniforms, who glances at Harvey, looks at her ‘pad, then back over at him. Her partner raises a finger to silence us all.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you slept well. It’s time for the presentation. Please feel free to continue eating as the subjects circulate for your viewing. We do ask that you neither speak to them, nor feed them, though.” A few people chuckle, including myself, though the uniforms don’t join in. I guess they’re serious about the no-feeding policy. The company guy checks his ‘pad, tapping and sliding his fingers across it for a moment, before nodding. Sue/Susan gasps and points somewhere over my shoulder. Harvey and I crane our necks about to see.

  There they are.

  I draw in a deep, rattling breath, which nearly sets me off into a coughing fit. Harvey—refreshingly—is speechless. A ripple of silence floats across the patio until even the clink of cutlery ceases. I can hear nothing but my own ragged breathing. And the hum. But I can ignore that for the time being.

  They begin to move among us, bare feet slapping lightly upon the patio stones, lithe fingers grazing white tablecloths, exposed torsos glowing with health, rippling with muscles just beneath the tight, smooth skin.

  There are gods among us.

  My breath falters. I start to blink uncontrollably. Several sobs burst out, and Sue/Susan has tears streaming down both cheeks, unnoticed. Even Harvey is affected: the hand resting on the tablecloth is shaking.

  Several of them have passed-by now, and my head swings around to track them, without conscious thought. My eyes follow the lines of their shoulders, down to their backsides, and further, all the way to ankles that take my breath away.

  “Can we… can we touch them?” Someone asks. The uniforms confer for a moment, checking their ‘pads.

  “The subjects will begin to seek you out. When one or more of them do, you may… inspect them, within reason. Please, though—do not attempt to talk at them.” It’s several minutes before any of them converge on our table. Harvey is first. A subject approaches him, slowing to a halt in front of my paunchy roomie, and you can see it takes all of Harvey’s control not to paw at the being in front of him.

  “It’s ok, you can do it,” I whisper, which breaks through to him. He blinks, and ever-so-slowly raises a hand to the subject’s torso. His palsied fingers come to rest on the most amazing six pack I’ve ever seen. The contrast of old flesh and new is heartbreaking. By the sounds I can hear from around me, I’m not the only one who feels that way. Harvey rubs his shaking hand across abs, moving to a pair of pecs so chiseled they could have been carved from marble. My cottage-mate can’t take it, though. He lifts his hand away, hiding his eyes behind it. The subject cocks his head, looking at Harvey, but somehow through him too.

  I look around, watching as subjects come together with each of us nearly-dead, mostly male-male or female-female, but there’s the odd mixed-gender joining too. Now Sue/Susan has been joined by one. She’s standing in front of it, cupping a pair of breasts that are silhouetted beneath a thin white shirt. Sensing me watching, she looks over, barking out a short laugh.

  “I can’t remember when mine last felt like this. They’re actually pointing up, look at this, Robert!” I smile and nod, not sure what I’m actually feeling, though. This is unlike any experience I’ve had. I find my glass back in my hand, sipping flattened champagne and bitter orange juice. Turning, I come face-to-face with mine.

  “Oh,” someone utters (oh, wait: that’s me). There’s fierce thumping from nearby (yep, that’s my heart), as I stare into those eyes. I’m moaning. Uncontrollably. How pathetic this behaviour must seem to them. But, those eyes! I don’t even want to look at the rest of him, so entranced I am with his dusty gaze. A tinkling crash comes from close by, and I feel a splash on my pant leg. Shit. I’ve dropped my drink.

  The subject in front of me looks at the ground between us, at the creeping puddle of bubbly orange, and takes a small step.

  “No!” I cry, as he puts his foot on some glass. I try to prevent him from standing there, but it’s like pushing marble—warm marble. “No, no! Move your foot!” I’m attracting attention now, but not yet caring. I let myself down to my knees, grunting at the pain my old joints feel at so simple a motion. One of my quadriceps threatens to seize up, and I drive a fist into it to try and quell the traitorous muscle. My subject descends smoothly to the ground, sitting on his perfect posterior. One corner of his white linen shorts begins to wick up my spilled drink.

  “Sir, we said no talking to the subjects.” A pair of creased pants and lace-less white shoes appears next to us.

  “No! It’s… he stepped on some broken glass!” Corroborating my story are several drops of blood splashing into the spilled juice. My subject is inspecting the bottom of one foot, in which a small sliver of glass is clearly visible. He’s doing nothing about it though. “Should I pull it out?” Without waiting, I reach out with one hand, steadying it on the sole of his foot with three fingers, while using my thumb and forefinger to pry the offending shard out. A tiny, bright stream of blood follows, running off his foot onto the sticky ground. The subject and I both stare at it for a moment, then look into each other’s e
yes.

  * * *

  We’ve taken the maglev tram back to our cottages. Enough excitement for one morning. I’m standing at the window in the common area, my eyes following the curve of the landscape as it rises up and out of view. I’m still not sure if I find that claustrophobic or thrilling. It’s only my second time on a torus station. Harvey’s at the table, complaining about something, under the assumption I’m listening. Of course, part of me is, storing what I’m hearing away. That’s part of what I do, who I am. Was, I correct myself. Turning from the concave landscape, I shuffle over to where I’d left my coffee, sit across from Harvey, and let him carry on for a bit before interrupting.

  “Why didn’t they want us to talk to them?”

  “…tell you, Marilyn’s coffee wasn’t bitter like this stuff… what? What’s that?”

  “The subjects. Why are we not supposed to talk to them?” Harvey pauses, his brows meeting above his broad nose. I hate how our noses never stop growing as we get older. I used to be told my own nose was aquiline. Nobody says that anymore. From the side, I look like a sallow, sick ostrich.

  “You know,” Harvey starts in a voice startlingly free of criticism. “I was wondering that myself. Well, up until he found me, then…” I watch as my roomie goes away for a moment, in his mind, reliving that first touch. Finally, he blinks the memory away, blushing. I look away for a count of four breaths, before he clears his throat and continues. “I wonder if it taints them somehow. Maybe we have to keep them pure, before, well, before…” He trails off. I guess he’s uncertain how to put in words what comes next for us all, once we each finalize which subject we want. “Anyways, how about those bunch of blubberers in there, Robert – weeping and sobbing all over the goddamn place?! You think they’d seen a miracle!”

  “We were told to expect that, with the cerebral re-plasticization. I guess, for some of us, the symptoms haven’t gone away yet. It’s not their fault.”

  “Ridiculous. Waste of time, too, that replastic-whatever.”

  “You don’t feel any different from this time last year?” I ask, thinking back to that regimen of pills, and the ridiculous helmet we had to wear three times per week.

  “Robert—I tell you, my mind is still as lightning quick as it was out of college. Why do you think I was the top rated attorney for five decades in a row? Those… ‘active scans’ were a complete waste of time. Should have asked for a discount and skipped’em.” He nods to emphasize his point, and I give the requisite dry chuckle.

  Something catches my eye outside the window—a tram has slowed to a stop in front of our cottage. Half a minute later, a polite tap comes from the door. Harvey glares at it accusingly, not shifting his bulk. Apparently, Marilyn used to answer doors for him. I use the table’s edge to take some of the weight off my knees as I push myself up, hobble over, and activate the door control. It slides open to reveal a well-groomed woman in the same company uniform I’ve come to recognize. I recognize her too. Denise is her name. She’s the Chief Director of the program.

  “Director. This is a surprise. To what do we owe the honour?”

  “Mr. McCaul. The honour is mine, to have someone of your achievements, as part of our inaugural group of clients. May I enter?”

  “Of course.” I make room for her to pass by me, then follow her into the common area. I offer her my chair, but she refuses, indicating I should take my seat again.

  “I understand there was an incident during the reception earlier today. You spoke to one of the candidates. And he was injured.” I begin to stand again, but she waves me down. “I’m not assigning blame, Mr. McCaul. I’m simply stating what was reported to me. I want your rendition of the events.”

  “Surely you’ve seen what happened?” I say, too late to bite my tongue. I have no doubt that each and every angle on that patio is closely, perpetually monitored. The Director arches an eyebrow, but stays mum. I need to remember she knows everything about us – present and past. But still she asks. So I play her game. “Dropped my drink—couldn’t help myself when it… he walked over to me. I tried to stop him from stepping on the glass, but…”

  “Is he the one?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Have you decided if he is your choice? Video from this morning indicates you’ve bonded already.”

  “I see. Then, do I have much choice?”

  “Of course you do, but if you choose another, we need to arrest any further bonding on this candidate’s part, to facilitate another client taking him on.” Next to us, Harvey clears his throat.

  “I’m glad you stopped by, Miss…?” He trails off, and the Director glances at him without turning her head. “Now, I’d like to discuss my candidate. I want one with a bit more upper body musculature, you know? Mine looks a bit… well, feminine, I guess. And the eyes. They’re blue. Now, I know I mentioned I wanted hazel. My Marilyn had hazel eyes, you see. In case you weren’t aware, I’ve paid in full, and I expect…” Something has caught his eye over by the door. I peek around the director, who still hasn’t moved a centimeter, other than aiming those piercing irises of hers over at my roomie. Two company lab-types have slipped into our cottage, carrying cases. I’m piecing together why, when Denise saves me the trouble.

  “Mr. McCaul. I must ask you. Did you wash your hands at the patio, or once you returned here, afterwards?” Her face remains expressionless, but I’ve worked with her type before. She’s not to be toyed with.

  “Wiped them off on a cloth napkin at the table, but gave them a good wash when we got back. You’re welcome to have your guys check out the bathroom. I suppose they’ll want to check my bags too, eh?” I point to where my bedroom is, and Denise nods to her lab-weenies.

  “Hey, wait a minute! You think Robert’s stealing that thing’s blood? You can’t be serious! And you can’t just barge in here and rifle through Robert’s stuff. That’s a fourth amendment violation. Robert—don’t consent to anything, man!” Harvey’s up from his chair now, chest puffed out beneath his hideous t-shirt. I start to shake my head, but the Director gives me no time to reply.

  “Mr. Trenton, please relax. We wouldn’t want you stressing yourself unnecessarily before the end.”

  “Don’t you patronize me, Missy! I’ll have you before a review board so quick-”

  “Mr. Trenton. I should remind you: we are not in the United States, nor are we on Earth. This station is the sole property of the Company, and subject to the rules laid out by the Board of Directors.”

  “But international law…”

  “We are extra-national.”

  “The law of the sea?” Harvey was grasping now, and sputtering to boot.

  “We’re in space, Mr. Trenton,” Denise says this deliberately, as if to a child. Turning to me, she added: “This shouldn’t take long. I thank you for your cooperation, Mr. McCaul.” I nod, but she’s already turned about and walking through the door.

  “Preposterous! Does that woman have any idea how much money I’ve spent on this trip?”

  “She knows,” I reply, watching the Director pass out of view along the narrow path. The lab techs finish their search several minutes later, turning up nothing. As I knew they would. If there is a spy on this station, intent on stealing the Company’s secrets, it’s not me.

  * * *

  We’re back on the patio, waiting to be called forth. We get to spend some more ‘bonding’ time with our subjects before… well, before the end. I’m next to a woman who is talking incessantly about the three females she’s narrowed her choice to. Luckily, there’s a dupe on her other side who made eye contact with her a couple minutes ago, and is now the primary audience of her monologue. I’m sipping on some tart, luke-warm lemonade, watching an old man at the next table over suffer through a spat of hallucinations. No doubt a side effect of re-plasticity, since most everyone else is politely ignoring him. He keeps muttering, “I’ve seen that before, I’ve seen that before,” under his breath.

  My turn comes, and I’m led to a
corridor off the patio, and halted before a closed door. Ridiculously, my heart is fluttering. I’m not entirely sure if it’s from nervousness, or simple cardiac failure.

  “Mr. McCaul, are you well?” Asks one of the young lab types who’s accompanied me.

  “No, my dear; I’m dying. That’s why I’m here,” I joke, though I don’t have the breath to pull off the proper tone. She stands there blinking, until her partner clears his throat and throws me an unimpressed look.

  “Oh. I see,” she says, finally. “Alright. Now, we need to confirm, Sir, that you’re only interested in viewing the one potential subject?”

  “Yes, yes,” I reply, impatient, now, to be away from these two. He’s waiting on the other side of the door.

  “Ok. Remember, please: no talking, and no excessive touching at this time.”

  “Right. That comes later, I guess,” I mutter, facing the door. It slides open, finally, to reveal a simple white room, with one chair, one naked subject, and a viewing port in one corner, no doubt for the ubiquitous observers who fill every nook of this station.

  The chair and the viewport, I ignore. I have eyes only for the specimen standing before me. Without clothes on, I get the full impact of just how perfect he is. There’s no need to mention the obvious—he is endowed in ways I never was, even at my peak, many decades past. He faces me as I approach, meeting my eyes, while not quite seeing me. I’m close enough now, to smell his natural musk, to feel the heat emanating off of him. My hand raises of its own accord, and I’m about to touch him again, when spots begin to dance across my vision.

  “Shit,” I say, under my breath. Apparently not far enough under, because an androgynous voice from above breaks through the spell I’m still under.

  “Mr. McCaul? Is there a problem?”

  “No! No problem!” I say through gritted teeth. I take two deep breaths, willing the spots away. When they finally do, he’s looking right at me—really seeing me now, or so it seems. “What are you wondering, behind those beautiful eyes?” The muscles around his eyes tighten, and he cocks his head slightly. A thought occurs to me. I move my face even closer to his, and begin to whisper. “Can you understand me? Do you know what I’m saying?” He blinks at me. “Blink again. Go on—close your eyes, then open them.” He stares at me. Stares and stares. Until finally, he closes his eyes, pauses, then opens them. My heart starts to thump against my ribs. It could be a fluke. Coincidence.