by Jason Gurley
What do you think they're doing?
I don't know. It looks like a club, maybe.
I suppose that's possible. Maybe a class.
Wait, Tasneem says. You see them.
There's no limit to my wonderful talents.
I don't understand. I keep saying that, but there are so many things.
It's not that complicated, David says. I can read more than your biorhythms. I process information as if I'm a part of you. So while I don't have eyes, I can, essentially, see what you see.
Tasneem keeps watching the dancers. That sounds suspiciously like you're reading my thoughts, she says.
That's pretty much what it is. Does that bother you?
She considers this. It should, you'd think. But I don't think it does.
Good.
David, she says.
Yes.
Tomorrow I'm having the Soma treatment.
I know.
I'm a little frightened.
You shouldn't be. It's not painful, I've heard.
I keep remembering -- you. How you looked.
That was different. Don't remember that.
I can't help it.
Soma is easy. A few transference patches, two days of observation, and you're as good as forever.
The doctor said something to me. Something about why I was having the treatment done.
What was it?
He told me it was because of my father.
Was he right?
I haven't been able to stop thinking of it. He said that my father died without knowing me. That he missed out. That it makes perfect sense for me to take Soma, because I don't want to miss out on anything.
It's a reasonable deduction. Do you think it's accurate?
I don't know. I don't want to miss out on anything, though. He's right about that. I was fortunate enough to be there when we left Earth and came to Ganymede. I've been here for Cassiopeia and Aries. I hear they're almost finished with Galileo.
Just another six or seven years, yes.
Right. But what comes next? What happens when we run out of space? We can't build space stations forever. Eventually we'll run out of room.
They'll build them to orbit the moon, maybe.
Okay. Maybe. But they'll run out of room there, too. So where do we go next? We can't go back to Earth.
I have some ideas about that.
See? Look at you, for instance. David, you're practically a god right now. You'll never die. Right? You are forever.
But I'm a crippled god, if that's what I am. I rely on you. No -- not crippled. I'm a parasitic god. If not for my host, I am nothing.
But what I mean is, you could last forever. In theory. Whether it's with me or not. And you'll be able to witness where our species is going. It's such a fascinating idea, David! Will we build space stations around every planet? Will someone want to tunnel into the moon and build a hidden city?
Maybe they'll terraform Mars, David offers.
Exactly! It doesn't matter what it is -- I want to see it happen. I want to study our motivations. I want to understand our reasons.
What if we just self-destruct instead?
We've come together to build these stations, Tasneem says. I think we might have a little longer before that happens.
So you're not going to cancel your treatment, then.
Well, I never really considered canceling it. I was just nervous.
And what of Audra? What of her, while we live forever? What of my child?
I have a thought about that, David. Tell me what you think about this.
The outline of America has changed. Most of Florida is underwater. The bridge connecting North and South America is gone. South America looks like a slice of pie, half-eaten and surrounded by crumbs. There's a dramatic storm obscuring Canada.
It's very different, almost every day, Tasneem says.
Doctor Widla nods. Sometimes I watch it and I can almost imagine that I am seeing all of the land drowning, as if it's happening right there before me. Of course, it will be many centuries before that could happen. But can you imagine what it might look like? To look down on a great blue ocean planet?
It would be a thing of great beauty, Tasneem says.
And great sadness, Dr. Widla agrees.
You could see it, Tasneem says. If the space stations are still here then.
I'm sure the space stations will be here for many centuries to come. But I will not.
Tasneem is surprised. What do you mean? Surely you've had --
Soma? Dr. Widla shakes his head. No, I haven't.
But why not?
I am a lonely man, Tasneem, he says. I had a wife, once. I miss her every day. I could not bear that for centuries more. Even a decade seems unpleasant to consider.
My mother was like you, Tasneem says. It was bad enough when my father died, but she hung on. I think when we moved to Ganymede, she felt like her grasp of him had been severed. She lasted for as long as she could.
I would have liked to meet her, Dr. Widla says.
The two of them stand at the window, watching the Earth gently turn.
David whispers in her ear. I didn't ask you before, but -- would you keep me on your wrist? During?
Tasneem doesn't answer, but she doesn't have to.
Doctor Widla places his hand on Tasneem's shoulder. She looks up at his kind face.
Well, my dear, he says. Let's begin.
These two casualties bring the total number to twenty-seven.
Unbelievable, Stanley.
It certainly is, Lisa.
On that note, let's take a look at preparations for the Cosmo Bowl this Saturday...
Bullshit. It's bullshit, Tamara, and you know it's --
Blair, Jesus, yes, I know, I get it. You're not screen talent, though. It's the same old argument I have with you and every other pulse writer. I want to be on camera, let me be on camera, why didn't you let me be on camera?
Blair turns and slams his fist against the door. I'm not every other writer, Tamara, and you know it.
Tamara Antelo sighs. You're right. But you're also not screen-ready, Blair. I don't know how else to tell you.
Blair flops into the chair opposite Tamara's desk. I feel like a drama queen, he mutters.
You and every other reporter have played that same part for about a hundred and fifty years. You're no more dramatic than the rest of them.
It's just -- you know I've been chewing on this story for months now. I deserve the credit for it.
Tamara opens her arms. That's not how it works, Blair. You want credit, go independent. You want visibility, stay here. You'll get a shot, but not before you're ready.
Twenty-seven people are dead, Tamara. From a medical treatment that's, you know, supposed to make you live forever. I've done a lot of legwork on this. I've talked to a lot of people. I've seen David Dewbury's bloated corpse. The least you can do is let me talk about it on screen. Let Stanley fucking interview me -- I don't care. I don't need to be the face of the studio. But the words should come out of my mouth, one way or another.
You're stubborn, Tamara says. It's not very original, but it works. So I'll tell you this -- you get me an exclusive to go along with all of that hard work, something I can promo the shit out of, and I'll... I'll put you on screen. Stanley will ask the questions, you can be the expert. Fair enough?
Done, Blair says.
Alright. Get the hell out of my space.
He won't see you, Mr. Hudgens. Not after last time.
Come on, Blair says. Look, it's not his fault. He didn't invent the stuff, he just administers it.
Doctor Widla was shredded on screenview, Mr. Hudgens. The entire fleet saw it. He had to let the whole staff go.
Except you, I see.
Somebody's got to answer when slugs like you call. Goodbye.
Fuck, Blair says. He leans his head back against the fast-track window.
Six years following Dewbury's death from Amrita, the black-market
version of Soma, the story had turned. Soma patients themselves were beginning to die -- they just toppled over on the concourse, never got out of bed, slumped over their breakfasts. Nobody was sure yet what was happening -- when they were, Blair hoped to be right there to get the details. It was almost as if a switch in their brains was flipped. They just... went dark. Some survived for a few days in a comatose state, but most were dead on the spot.
Nearly one hundred Soma treatments had been performed successfully so far.
Twenty-seven of those patients were dead within nine months of undergoing treatment.
Doctor Widla and two other specialists in the fleet were the only professionals authorized to administer Soma. Doctors Frank Hart and Amelie Golding weren't talking, either. Blair had heard that Dr. Golding had attempted suicide, but had been found in time. He couldn't get a confirmation on the story yet.
The doctors wouldn't talk. He couldn't get a full list of Soma patients.
He's running out of people to talk to.
And then it comes to him.
I feel like an idiot for not thinking of you sooner, he says.
I don't think I can offer much, says Tasneem. I already know what you're going to ask me. And no, I'm not dead.
Blair laughs. You never called me back after your deposition.
Ah, I see what this is about now, Tasneem says. I'm sorry. Something came up, and I got very distracted.
I won't ask, he says. He smiles. It's really very nice to see you.
I have an idea of what you want, she says. I'm not wild about the idea, but I have a feeling it will be good for you.
It will help me get on screen, he says. You'll do an interview?
I'm not sure why anybody will care, Tasneem answers. I'm not a celebrity.
Trust me, Blair says. People are going to care. They're going to care a lot.
Stanley Wilk raises his eyebrow. Did you expect me to complain?
Tamara nods. Actually, I did. You're not following the plot.
The plot sucks. He's a good kid. Give him the break.
You're sure? I want you to be sure.
I'm sure.
We'll cut to him after twelve, then, Tamara says. Can you set him up?
I'll wing it.
You think he'll do alright?
Stanley shrugs. What do I know? I've never seen him on screen. But he's smart. He'll probably be fine. Make sure he has a drink before he goes on. First interviews are always jittery.
I should send him on screen drunk? Tamara asks.
Not drunk. Bright. He'll be smoother.
This sounds like a trade secret I'd rather not know, Stanley.
Stanley bends forward. Then I would advise staying out of Lisa's dressing quarters.
You look nice today.
Thank you.
Are you nervous?
I don't know. Should I be?
I don't know.
Are you?
I don't know.
Do you think this is going to go well?
For you? Or for me?
I don't know. For both of us.
It will go well.
I hope so.
Just remember -- it's only a conversation.
You and me.
Right. You and me.
Okay.
I think they're ready for us.
Okay.
Are you okay?
I can't tell.
Let's go.
Okay.
You underwent Soma, what -- five years ago?
Six, Tasneem says.
She is sitting in a bowl-shaped chair, knees carefully crossed. She rests her hands on her thighs and tries to keep breathing smoothly.
Six years, Blair says.
He's a natural, she thinks. He leans back just a bit, then finds his way forward when asking more intimate questions, as if bringing himself into the story itself.
Offscreen, Tamara is thinking the same thing.
Six years, Blair repeats. And tell me, did you know any of the Soma patients who have unfortunately passed away?
I didn't, Tasneem says. Actually, I don't know any Soma patients personally. There aren't so many of us, you know.
And Soma is administered on all three stations now, Blair adds, which makes it a little harder to meet, I presume.
I'm sure, Tasneem says.
I want to ask you a question, and I hope you'll answer it honestly, Blair says, leaning forward a tiny bit.
Of course, Tasneem says. I'll try.
Blair sets his jaw and softens his eyes. Are you scared?
Tasneem slows her breathing, hesitates.
Blair waits patiently.
I --
It's okay, he says when Tasneem falters a little.
Tasneem exhales slowly. Yes. Of course, I'm scared. With the news, I'm not sure anybody wouldn't be.
What does it feel like, knowing that death may be coming?
She closes her eyes. It feels... hollow. Inevitable.
But so far, you've been lucky, Blair says.
Very, she answers, opening her eyes.
Do you feel cheated?
Cheated?
You underwent months of psychiatric evaluation, of painful investigation of your past, for a treatment that is designed to extend your life by as long as one hundred years, Blair says. With Soma, your life expectancy of one hundred years just became two hundred. And that's just speculation, because nobody knows how effective the treatment will be at such distant points in the future. So, yes, that's my question -- do you feel cheated?
Tasneem shakes her head. I don't know. I hadn't thought about it in quite that way. I suppose it's possible, but for now, I'm alive. Ask me again when I'm dead?
Blair laughs. Well, let me ask you about that streak in your hair, then.
Oh, this, Tasneem says, fingering the white stripe in her otherwise dark hair.
So far, the patients who have died from Soma have reportedly witnessed their own hair go white before they passed away, Blair says. What does that white stripe mean to you?
Tasneem looks up at the lock of white hair that she's holding away from her face. It means, so far, that I'm a survivor.
I wonder if perhaps, to you, it symbolizes the approach of your own mortality, or would you characterize it more as the souvenir of a brush with death?
Tasneem considers this. I can't say, really. This happened about a month ago. How soon after their hair went white did the other patients die?
Most were within days, Blair says.
Perhaps I'm a lucky survivor, then, Tasneem says.
Is there anything about you that might have countered the treatment's horrible side effect? Perhaps something about your lifestyle?
I practice yoga, Tasneem says. I don't drink.
No secret weapons, then, Blair says with a smile.
I can't think of any, she answers.
Let's assume the worst, Blair says. Let's assume that you leave here today, and you were to die tonight.
That's morbid, Tasneem says.
It is. But if that were the case -- would you want to share any last words with the rest of mankind here, today?
Tasneem thinks about it. I don't think I have anything worth saying, she says. I'm not that eloquent.
Blair grins. Well, we will continue to hope for the best for you, Tasneem Kyoh. Thanks for being here today.
Afterward, Blair shakes her hand, then says, No kidding, is there something you're doing?
What do you mean? Tasneem asks.
The dead Soma patients were sheer white, he says. Hair, pure white. Yours seems to have stopped. I just can't help thinking of it as a sign that you're going to get through this. Like this stripe is your battle scar.
Maybe it is, Tasneem says.
They shake hands again, and he walks her to the lobby.
If anything happens -- anything at all, he says, will you call me?
I'll call you before I call my doctor, she says.
I don't mean to
be selfish, Blair says. Really, I don't. But I think you may have just made my career tonight.
I'm glad, Blair. I hope so.
Be safe, Tasneem. Live forever.
I hope to, she says.
He watches her go, small and composed. Then he steps back into the studio, and heads for Tamara's office.
Stickers
Emil doesn't like this hospital.
There are seven on Station Aries. They wrap like a sleeve around the ring-shaped station, and rotate slowly as the days pass. Each of the patients' quarters has a beautiful view of Earth, though Earth is not so beautiful itself anymore. The patients can see the sun, and sometimes the moon, and they can watch the hurricanes that gnaw at the coastlines far below.
On a good day, they can see the lifeboats singing into the heavens like balls of light.
There are always enough beds.
But this hospital is a farce. It is the only one on Station Galileo, which is a hideous block that lumbers around the Earth now.
He thinks back on the stations. Ganymede, the first, was designed for function and immediacy, and was based on the lessons learned by NASA and Roscosmos and others. It was expected to be full of cables and exposed guts, and it was. Over the years, Ganymede's residents have renovated the station, turning it into a glowing filament of life. He hears that Ganymede is the station most visible from Earth.
Cassiopeia was not much better to begin with, and has not improved with time. He hears it described as a shopping mall, an industrial park. It is a complex stack of cubes and corridors, where people are often lost.
And Aries -- home sweet Aries -- is the fleet's golden star, a series of rings that spin and turn like Saturn. Most refugees from the planet below request asylum on Aries. It is a technological hub, though it was not designed as such. It has emerged as a home for science, while Cassiopeia has developed a reputation as a home for believers.
Everyone had expected that Galileo, named for one of the great astronomers, would trump them all.
Instead, the entire station looked like a school cafeteria.
Its hospital was no better.
Windowless.
Bland.
The corridors were infinitely long. The floor, ceiling and walls were all the same interminable shade of beige, so that it was not difficult to lose track of yourself as you walked. The smell of iodine hung in the air, as if doctors were conducting business on a Civil War battlefield instead of in a floating hospital in space.
