starts to blush but doesn’t have to, as the Betterment is still happening, that curved hose changing, streamlining before her eyes. The rest of the farmer’s unmarred skin, already gleaming with health, begins to positively shine, a shine that heightens to a silver sheen as she watches, a sheen that chases the flushed newborn warmth from his flesh to become as bright as polished metal. Driven by the countless tiny whirring engines of his New Improved DNA, he completes his mortal transformation––crossing through superhuman on the way to extra-human––while the tubular unit of concern modestly self-sheaths itself and melds, just like Mark’s, into genitals of a higher order, a slippery-smooth, sculptural and, to a non-Spacegal like her, totally useless stainless mound.
That was fast––he must be in a hurry. Even Mark had stuck around a day or so, considerate as always. The farmer’s looking at the sky again, directly at the arc of far symmetric dots, each as pale and unlikely and undeniable as a full moon in a daytime sky. Once a believer, always a believer––any angel, in the end, will do. He turns down with a kind and otherworldly smile and extends an arm in benediction. “I forgive you.”
That’s rich. “You forgive me? You asked me to.”
His face is silver now, eyes and lips flattened to nothing more than moving outlines. His voice is all around her, a resonant and vaguely metallic reassurance. “Forgiven, so you may forgive yourself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Perfect.” If he’s listening he’s not offended, only taking in the wide sweep of the world with the same long overly-dramatic gaze that Mark had, one part regret to nine parts joy. In fact, he looks exactly like Mark, and exactly like everyone she’s seen––on the news or parked like bad public art in the middle of a Manhattan sidewalk––at this near-eternal stage.
His hand remains extended. Does he expect her to take it? Casey thinks of the doorknob, the ax head, and Mark’s last touch as he stood on the apartment roof, silver-cold and seamless. She shakes her head; she’s not sure the former farmer notices but he folds his arms, a six-foot silver Oscar that hovers, just like Mark, a few inches from the ground and mirrors the bare trees and fields and sun-bleached farm so painfully that she has to look away. And just like Mark, with a single ear-imploding pop of vacuum, her first personal homicide, or almost, is gone forever.
No longer earth-bound; heading for a life of shared purpose with his best Bettered buddies among the stars. Hanging with their modern angels––who were, as far as she could tell, happy to improve this once-crowded planet in all ways, making billions of new techno-converts and leaving it a Better, greener, and definitely less populated place.
Casey groans as she gets up––there is the hangover––slaps the dust from heavy canvas pants, walks to her bike and tightens the ropes that hold her bag and tent in place. One quick kick and the engine stutters and then shouts to life, emitting a grey stink of burning gas more real than anything that has just happened, a futile human global-warming dinge that brings her back to the broken soil she’s planted on.
So I may forgive myself.
He had a point, or would if she felt guilty. Or grieving. Or lost. The thing is, she feels good for trying, good for the ax and good for the spade, good for the fight, for the life she’s been missing, for any kind of life since hers flew away with Mark and all the others.
There have to be more farmers out there, holdouts with a fever and a fatal plan. Fewer and fewer, but she’ll be ranging far and wide. She purses cracked lips, considering. Maybe intervene a little... earlier. The first sniffle? Or as soon as she’s sure it’s not a cold? And smaller pieces. Or a white-hot fire, though she’ll have to stand upwind. Or an acid bath, if she can scare up enough caustics. There’s got to be a way, and she’s the girl to find it.
The morning is still cool; Casey brushes cropped hair back and twists around to the pack strapped to the bike’s backrest, looking for her knit watch cap but coming face-to-face with the unused helmet hooked on top. She has a job now, and needs to take care of herself. With a crooked smile––a surprisingly early one––she pulls the helmet on, leaving the clear faceshield up. A light fall breeze; it feels good to be alive.
Across the stream, down the gravel and the short distance to the highway. Right or left?
Casey travels west.
o:o:o:o:o
For more short stories*, as well as longer pieces**, please visit howtoliveforever.com
*
The Arkitect
Dr. Lucky
**
How To Live Forever (A Very Fictional Guide)
The Mortalist
Casey Travels West Page 3
