9 Tales Told in the Dark 19

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  The doctor sat me down in his tiny blue office after I took my feet off the cold stirrups and put my legs back together. Bruka couldn’t come, but I could see that he had already tried calling a few times. I ignored my phone.

  “Phantom pregnancy”, is what the doctor had said. He was a very young doctor, around my age, with curly black hair. I was the one who was used to telling people bad news, usually about their rations, citing government statistics and food shortages, trying to appeal to human logic rather than the frightening emotion of the survival instinct. He did the same thing for me. He cited the number of times this had happened in the trials (2%), that I was the first one that this had happened to post-trial, and he explained how it happened: a combination of psychological effects with the hormones and possible problems during synchronization (“primordial leakage” was the term he used).

  I should have gone straight back to work, I had a task-force meeting, but instead I decided to come home to you. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to tell Bruka. I just wanted to sit here, to look at you. You are becoming more and more visible. I can almost make out the human features now, meshed in between the colors and fluid. A little head, and even tinier body. It feels so wrong, our distance. All of the reasons I wanted to go through with this process, in this way, all seem hideous and selfish.

  September 11

  I haven’t been able to sleep since the bad news. My whole body feels bloated, but the only thing I can do right now is stay here, synchronized to you, and research what can be done. The doctors are all saying that because you have reached viability, it really doesn’t matter if we synch at all, and it would be better for me if we didn’t. They want to take you and do the feedings themselves. I’m not going to let that happen. Bruka is mad at me for refusing to see the doctor-ordered psychiatrist; apparently, he didn’t know that was a required part of the process. He knows my feelings on psychiatrists just as much as I know his ideas on pseudo-corporations so you would think he wouldn’t insist on me going.

  September 12

  I’ve found a doctor in Canada who can take care of this problem, and who can make everything right again. If Bruka doesn’t want to come with me, I’m going without him. It was very hard to find her. In fact, her website was publicly blocked, but I used Bruka’s high-level security passwords and I was able to get in contact with her right away. I’ve emailed with this doctor, Amanda Korava, and she told me the “phantom pregnancies” are far more common than the 2% cited to me by the bullshit doctor and the bullshit pod pseudo-corp. She had emailed me a number of studies more or less confirming Aleeka’s suspicions. The pods in fact do pose health risks not only to the mother, but also to the children. They create a protected place for fetal development, and the risk of miscarriage is low, practically negligible. This cures the low-rate of pregnancies and the high-rate of miscarriages that have occurred on a global scale, long before the Reproduction Initiatives. But there are many drawbacks: depression, suicide, and other risks to mothers. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that I didn’t know any other mothers going through pod-pregnancies. As it turns out, there are many people around me with babies, probably my neighbors, maybe even my co-workers. We just don’t know it, because once they are born the children don’t live with us, they are schooled together in the child compound, where we parents can go to visit them for the weekend, or longer. We are just not encouraged to discuss it, or our children. The doctors told me that it was to encourage productivity and also with so many unable to conceive, it prevents jealousy and feelings of Otherness. That is laughable bullshit, I realize now.

  Tomorrow, I am going to use Bruka’s security codes and see if I can’t get in touch with other mothers around me. But for right now, I am going to sit here with you. You have seemed so quiet and content lately, no bubbling, and the color of the pod has stayed a deep, lime green. I wish I knew a lullaby to sing to you, but the only song I can remember my mom singing to me was “Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley”, which is an old, morbid folk-song. Strange how I didn’t think until now how inappropriate it was for a child. But I couldn’t get it out of my head, so I found it online and played it for you, sitting by the Pod, placing my hand against the glass. The green colors pulsed, oscillating between the lime green and a dark, emerald-blue.

  September 14

  They’ve taken you away from me. The doctors and Bruka too, have taken you away. I don’t care what they do with me. I shouted, screamed, and attacked them with everything I had, but they shot me with a sedative and took you away.

  September 15

  Aleeka came to visit me. They call it a psychiatric ward but I know what is really is: prison. They’ve been spying on me the whole time, looking into everything I write in my Notebook™, which is how they knew about my plan to go meet with Dr. Koravakian. They told me that my behavior was dangerous and I needed to be kept away from the baby for a short while. How could they tell me what is best? Aleeka said she and some of her friends are trying to organize a protest and get me in touch with a civil rights attorney. You are my child, after all.

  Bruka has not been here to visit me, and I’ve tried calling him every chance I’ve had, but he hasn’t answered. Not that I want to talk to him; I just want to know how you are doing. I want to be there with you, to just sit next to you and maybe synchronize with you if I can. I keep getting the tune to “Tom Dooley” in my head every time I think of you, and it puts tears in my eyes.

  Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,

  Hang down your head and cry

  Hang down your head, Tom Dooley

  Poor boy you’re bound to die.

  I met her on the mountain, there I took her life,

  Met her on the mountain, stabbed her with my knife.

  I am certain they have been putting something in my food here. I laughed, though, when the first meal they served me was FoodWaves rations. It was a joke they were playing on me, to show me how low I had fallen, from the high and mighty creator of the food to the mere psych-ward-ridden-consumer of protein flakes. But my pride and fear of sedatives did not stop me: I munched down the salty, brown, fishy smelling provisions, because I was hungry.

  THE END.

  DEAD SPACE by Cathbad Maponus

  The station’s chronometer is not being nice to me. Every time I look down, it seems only seconds have gone by. It’s been a very long shift! This is Day 230 of the most boring space trip I have ever been a part of.

  I’ve drawn third shift on the Helm for the current four weeks. Like first or second are any better! Well, they are, actually; there are more people awake. The only one on the bridge with me is Canon… damn if I can remember his first name. He’s an Ensign who thinks he’s a Captain, just because he’s drawn a Command shift. Come to think of it, he’s an ass when not on shift, as well.

  Point is, I’ve no one to talk to. And on the main view screen? Nothing. It’s like we’re in a deep void of space. Oh, there’s pinpricks of light that indicate distant stars, but this is not a very populated part of the Milky Way.

  Back on Taurus, where I was born, I could go outside, look up and see way more than what’s on the view screen, with my unaided eyes. The tub I’m currently assigned to by the Masooga Corporation has the delightful name of the Starlight. How original!

  “Three-hundred hours; all indicators registering green, operational.”

  Yeah, that was my big excitement; giving the hourly report. The computer records everything said on the bridge, and this is a requirement on both second and third shifts. Wee.

  “Acknowledged,” Canon responds – quite unnecessarily.

  “Ensign Canon? Request permission to go down to the cafeteria and get our lunch?” Yeah, an hour early, but the excitement’s really getting to me.

  “Yeah; why not. I’m hungry to, Crewman Michaels.” Delightfully surprised, I take one more good look at the emptiness before me, and log my departure manually. Standard routine.

  “Be back in a jiff,” I tell the Acti
ng Captain, as I jump out of my seat and almost trot to the lift.

  I get in quickly – damn doors have a habit of closing early. As I turn after entering, I see something that makes me go pale: It looked like a face. A face on the view screen!

  I almost hit the ‘Open Doors’ button, but think better of it. Just an illusion, I tell myself. It’s been a long night. I hit 7, the Cafeteria’s floor level, instead. It had probably been a distorted reflection of Ens. Canon. It’s just that the face had looked so… odd. Long and pale. And pained, like someone suffering.

  I give a self-conscious shrug. Canon was probably feeling as blue as I am about this listless voyage, that’s all. I put it out of my mind, and a moment later the lift doors opened and I stepped out.

  The cafeteria is directly opposite the lift. I walk in and see Ens. Reed, one of the late shift engineers, pouring herself a coffee.

  I give her a wave. She waves back, but she’s also leaving the cafeteria.

  “Back to the grindstone!” she quips, smiling wide.

  “Me too, soon as I get these lunches together.” I had stopped at the four-door sandwich dispenser. I start spinning the carousel, looking for Canon’s favorite, the Tuna Delight. Lots of extras – including onions. Ugh, like he wasn’t awful enough without the bad breath? Seeing none, I went with his second favorite, chicken salad, and was glad to do it.

  A hand on my back!

  I scream like a girly-man, throwing the chicken salad into the air. I spin around…

  Reed looks as shocked as I am! She had gone pale, and her hand is at her throat. “I… I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

  I give a laugh that I realize is more like a young girl’s giggle. “No, it’s alright. Guess I’ve spooked myself out, with the silence making this ship seem like a ghost ship!” Another cute laugh. Ugh. I had almost told her about the face I saw on the view screen, but I’d already made a big enough fool of myself for one night.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Look, I just wanted to let you know I just put on a new pot; it’ll be a few minutes before there’s fresh coffee.”

  “Ah. Okay. No problem with that! The longer I get to stay away from Captain Canon, the better!”

  She laughs. I like her laugh. Hate mine. She gives me another wave and mouths the word ‘bye’. I smile and wave back. I watch her exit the room – guess I want to be sure this time!

  I clean up my mess, and grab another chicken salad for Canon. I select a sandwich for myself, a BLT. I put it in the steamer, press down the handle and wait for the steam to subside. I collect us some chips, a soda each (he likes that decaffeinated crap, I prefer the sugary, heavily caffeinated type) and a desert. I remember he likes cheese cake; a slice of chocolate cake for me.

  Finally, I’m standing in front of the coffee machine, waiting for it to finish loading. It won’t let you pour a cup until it’s finished filling the reservoir.

  I feel someone behind me. I tense, but refuse to scream, this time. I wait for it, ready to give her the scare this time!

  A hand on my back!

  I spin around…

  A loud scream echoes down the empty corridors of the ship. A gurgling sound goes unnoticed. The sound of a body falling to the floor is muted through the walls. The exhalation of a final breath is unheard.

  I take my coffee and pie back to engineering. Lieutenant Redding is standing just inside the doorway, holding a D-Scanner when I get back.

  “Oh, hey, Lieutenant.”

  “Good evening, Ensign Reed.” Redding is so formal, I nearly laugh, but the look on his face stops me. He looks… rather… ‘eerie’. I offer a smile, then hurry to my station, where I sit down and get back to the arduous task of watching the engine read-outs. Everything’s normal, as it has been every day for the past seven or eight months.

  Taking a big gulp of the hot liquid, I replay the scene with my Shift Leader in my head. It sticks in my mind because it was so odd.

  Usually, Lt. Redding is an easy-going guy with a ready smile and something nice to say right on the tip of his tongue. Just now, his look was just so… vacant. It was as though he wasn’t even looking at me as he addressed me. The thought now comes to me that looking into his eyes was like looking into the eyes of a dead man!

  The sudden presence of the very man I was thinking of startles me so, I nearly drop my coffee cup. Some of the hot liquid spills over the brim, burning my fingers. I set the cup down and lick the hot coffee off my fingers. “You startled me, Lt. Redding! Is everything okay?” I feel so nervous talking to him now!

  “Everything is fine, Ensign.”

  I suddenly realize the other thing that has me unnerved tonight – the Lieutenant keeps speaking in a monotone voice!

  “I um… I’ll be filling out the bi-hourly report soon, Sir; is there anything you wish to add?”

  “No,” he replies calmly. “There will be no need for that report.”

  “Sir? What do you mean? We’re required to – who is that behind you?” And, I wonder, why can’t I make out his face?

  A loud, panicked scream bounces off the thick walls of the three-story tall engine room, but finds no egress by which it could warn the others. Another body falls to the floor, a final breath is taken, before all is still again.

  “Where the hell is that lazy nincompoop?” I say aloud to an empty bridge. Michaels has been gone for twenty-five minutes, according to my station’s chronometer. It should have taken him ten minutes, tops.

  I get up out of my seat, walk to the Helm, feeling I should make sure we’re still on course, and nothing’s wrong with the auto-drive.

  Not like anything ever is.

  I sit down at Helm, and contemplate calling Michaels over the intercom. I decide against it: Someone’s always forgetting to switch it off in a hall or two, and I’d risk waking someone.

  Worse still, I’d risk letting someone know I didn’t know where my underling was!

  “Damn you, Michaels!”

  I look up at the view screen, into the void of space, saddened by how empty it looks tonight. I get back up, turn to return to my Duty Station. I stop short, seeing a figure – not Michaels - entering the bridge. I’d say exiting the lift, but oddly, the lift doors are closed!

  “What are you doing up here?” I ask the familiar figure. “Your second shift; why aren’t you in the sack?” Damn if the fool doesn’t just stare vacantly at me! “You okay, Mister?” Still no response. Maybe he’s sleep walking?

  “Look; you’re not supposed to be up here. I don’t want to put you on report so why don’t you just go back to your quarters?” Again no response. I’m getting pissed at that.

  I approach him, stepping quickly. “That’s enough, damn it! You’re on report! Now get your ass out – what the?” I stop short. There seems to be somebody beside him. Odd I didn’t notice this individual before! “Who is that? Why can’t I – hey, you. Show your face!”

  And he does.

  There is a long scream from the bridge. Although most of the doors on the decks below the bridge are now open, no one can hear the scream through the bulkhead floor. No one will hear the final gasps; the final whimper as what makes a person be alive leaves the body. Death is a silent thing.

  The body of Ens. Canon was seated in the Captain’s Chair. Another body sat at Helm. Several bodies stood about the bridge, facing either the Captain’s Chair or the view screen – though their eyes seemed to see nothing.

  Finally, the Acting Captain hit the intercom button and spoke, his monotone voice filling every room on the ship. “We are on our way home, my friends. At long last, we are headed back to Earth. Those who are still without flesh will soon have billions to choose from.”

  The nightmarish Captain turned his sightless face toward the Helm. “Lay in a course for Earth, and give us top speed.”

  THE END

  BLIMEY by George Strasburg

  The colander flexed, but could not return to its original dome shape. The stel-fuel dripped
out at the wrong consistency and did not start to pool on top of the fuel pan. The stel-fuel dripped down the cylinder without enough build up to power the food processors.

  Captain Showalter leaned over his mechanic’s shoulder. His hands crossed behind his back, and his chin and nose stretched out as far as they could. “What do you think the problem is?”

  “You kicked it,” Jones said. He was angry enough not to worry about his tone, and angrier still that he did not want to let up on his captain even though a court martial or worse would follow. “Maybe you can get your engineers to reverse-kick it and we won’t all starve to death.”

  “I see,” Showalter said. “There were be rations in the evacuation tubes. I will have navigation plot out the duration of our active course and we will divvy up based on minimal requirements.”

  Jones punched the colander. It shredded his hand as if he had punched a cheese grater. His knuckles were speckled with torn skin and round cuts.

  “I suggest,” Showalter continued, “that you exercise prejudice in all physical and verbal exertions, Mr. Jones.”

  Jones bit the inside of his mouth. He winked, as his face flushed with anger.

  Captain Showalter nodded, accepting it as confirmation. He then exited, hands still behind his back, as if he were merely sightseeing.

  Jones turned to his apprentice, Deidra. She had avoided all and any eye contact during the ordeal. She’d listened to Jones bitch and complain up to the very second that the captain arrived, and the tension had not ceased when the captain left. She was an empath, and hated feeling for both the captain and her mentor. She knew Jones would since her walking the fence if she said anything at all.

  “He’s going to have a mutiny on his hands. And I’m going to have a hard time getting my knife stuck in before the rest of the crew tears him to pieces,” Jones said without looking at his apprentice. “Fuck it. See if you can fix it.”