“Can—”
I never wanted to be what I have become. I had no choice but to become a killer so that others might live.
“Mauve, I can forgive you.”
Turquoise, why?
Turquoise opens her arms to me. I cannot move. Turquoise steps closer to me. I cannot move. I want somebody to tell me this life is over. These hard choices that are not choices.
“Mauve, I forgive you. Please embrace me.”
Turquoise stands with her arms open before me. I cannot move. I do not feel a need to be forgiven even though I have killed so many people. I cannot move. I will not play along. I will not lift my arms. I cannot take even one false step that I do not believe. I am sure that what I do is what I should do, regardless of how it seems to others. I grind my teeth like I always do when I am forced to do the difficult.
“I dance before you.” Turquoise bends into a semicrouch, her compact dark brown body undulating from shoulder to hip, her arms outstretched. Her small breasts with thick dark aureoles surrounding her nipples are arched outward as she thrusts and contracts. She probably does not even need a halter when she runs. Every time she raises her arms the small, curly tufts of hair in her armpits peek out. Two dense, short, glistening, jet-black patches.
Turquoise has exquisite thighs, thick and muscular. Her calves are also thick, but her feet are small. Dust rises softly as she stamps her feet on the earth and implores, “Dance with me please? I need your dance. Dance with me? I dance before you.”
I do not move. I cannot move.
Turquoise is crying. Her eyes are almond-shaped but big as peach pits. Tears fall with each step. She sings and dances. In a slow circle she moves. Holds herself erect and then bends before me, a graceful bow. Her hips move. Her feet lift on the beats in her voice. She is singing. Singing. And dancing.
I cannot cry.
Maybe I would feel better if I could cry.
There is a hole in me where a well of feelings should be. An endless hole. Deep but with nothing inside but more nothing in the spot where tears should be. What is wrong with me? Turquoise wants to forgive me. Why can’t I let her? Why can’t I pretend? Why must I always be so true to my beliefs?
I have learned to survive how others feel about me. I have learned to survive without feelings of need.
“Indigo betrayed us,” I hear myself saying. “I need no forgiveness for protecting the compound.” The warrior me is speaking. The only person I truly trust.
“My sister is dead. Who will love me now?”
• • •
“Mauve, I have news for you.”
It has been almost a week since the hearing. After I refused to embrace Turquoise, the elders continued reviewing my case and dismissed us without announcing a decision. I know the verdict is due within seven days. Is this the news?
“You have an assignment,” Elder Imani says casually.
I stop walking. I smile. I feel the tension release from my body. I crouch down and circle slowly in a dance. Chanting to myself, but out loud. Oh-yea, oh-yea, oh-yea. The fact that I have an assignment means that I am still a warrior, still part of the society, still eligible to escalate. I will still be able to have a baby. Oh-yea, oh-yea, oh-yea.
“You need to improve your dancing,” he says with a straight face.
“Is that my assignment?”
“Yes and no. We elders have decided that what would be best for the compound is for you and Turquoise—”
“Turquoise. What does she have—”
“Please do not interrupt me when I am giving a directive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You must learn to dance with Turquoise. The compound will be healed when Mauve and Turquoise are able to live together. You are the senior warrior so you must bend to receive her.”
My mind reels. What does this all mean? Will she live with me? Will I have to move in with her? What? Do the elders expect us to become lovers? What?
I am confused by this assignment. I did not expect anything like this. “When will this begin?”
“Turquoise already knows.” We are about to turn into my area. Elder Imani stops. “Mauve, you are a great warrior. We ask greatness of you. We receive greatness from you. You are deeply appreciated.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I will see you tomorrow. This is as far as I am going. Be well.” Elder Imani salutes me.
I return his salute. I am so confused that I almost mumble the salutation, “A luta continua.” Does he mean Turquoise is waiting for me now? Waiting for me to come home? To her? How long is this supposed to go on? Whose idea was this? Questions, questions, and more questions flood through my consciousness.
I turn the corner. Turquoise is sitting patiently waiting for me. Her backpack of personal items rests next to her. And something next to the backpack. A drum. I stop. Speechless. Our eyes lock. Neither of us smiles. This will not be easy.
Aftermath
(excerpt)6
LeVar Burton
Dr. Rene Reynolds had spent years mapping the neural networks of the human brain, using everything from nuclear magnetic resonance scanners to high-speed computers that recorded the firing order of each individual neuron. Working closely with computer designers and electronic engineers she had developed the Neuro-Enhancer. The device repeated neuron firing orders, but at an increased rate, sending tiny electrical impulses shooting through the hundreds of electrodes lining the inside of a copper headband.
She had been looking for a cure for Parkinson’s disease, which slowly destroys a tiny section of the human brain called the substantia nigra. It is the substantia nigra that supplies the neurotransmitter dopamine to a larger area in the center of the brain, called the striatum, which controls movement and motor skills of the human body. As dopamine supplies to the striatum dry up, movements slow and become erratic, eventually grinding to a complete halt. Although Parkinson’s disease is not usually fatal, many of those afflicted die from injuries suffered in falls. Others end up needing wheelchairs to move, or unable to even speak.
After only a few weeks of testing with the Neuro-Enhancer, Rene noticed a remarkable transformation begin to take place in her patients. In almost every case the uncontrollable tremors of hands and legs, characteristics of the disease, were completely eliminated. Motor skills and muscle strength also returned. In less than three months, 90 percent of her patients were again walking and talking normally.
Excited over the prospect that she might have actually found a cure for Parkinson’s, Rene was absolutely stunned when she discovered that treatment with the Neuro-Enhancer also resulted in the elimination of chronic pain, an increase in memory, and, probably the most important of all, the complete regression of cancer cells within the body. The regression did not stop when treatments were halted but continued until the cancer was completely eliminated.
With 65 percent of Caucasians suffering from skin cancer due to a depleted ozone layer, and with the steady increase in the reported number of cases of carcinoma, leukemia, lymphoma, and sarcoma in the general population, the country was on the brink of a major health collapse. Since the Neuro-Enhancer had proven effective in the battle against all types of cancer, it could just be the invention of the century.
Adjusting the metal bands on Mrs. McDaniel’s head, Rene inserted a pair of coded micro CDs, containing neuron firing patterns, into the Neuro-Enhancer microcomputer. If the visiting scientists had come to see a show, they were going to be disappointed. There really wasn’t anything to see. No flashing lights or fireworks, no lightning bolts coming out of the sky like in the old Frankenstein movies, nothing but a mild hum and the readout of the instrument gauges to show that the device was even working. Nor was the healing visible to the eye. Cuts did not vanish with the wave of a wand. Tumors and infections did not run screaming from the body. The healing that occurred took days and weeks, not minutes and hours.
Rene flipped a switch on the computer console. On the wall behind her a projection
scene lit up, displaying the readouts of Irene McDaniels’s pulse, blood pressure, EKG, and bio-rhythm. She flipped another switch and a video movie appeared next to the readouts. The video showed Mrs. McDaniels as she was eight weeks ago, suffering from the advanced stages of Parkinson’s disease, barely able to walk or get out of a wheelchair, unable to feed herself or even speak clearly. Rene allowed the video to play uninterrupted for a minute, then turned to face her audience.
“Welcome, doctors. I’m glad that you could be here today. Thank you for coming.” She picked up a small laser pointer and switched it on, aiming the tiny red dot of light at the screen. “The lady in the video is Mrs. Irene McDaniels; she is a patient of mine. These pictures were taken a little over two months ago. As you can see, Mrs. McDaniels suffered from Parkinson’s disease. Like many who are afflicted, she was no longer able to move about without the aid of a wheelchair. Nor could she feed herself or engage in normal conversation. Prior to coming to the institute, she had been treated by several other doctors in the Atlanta area with a variety of different medicines, including levodopa. Unfortunately, what little relief the drugs provided proved to be only temporary.”
Rene fast-forwarded the film. The image of Irene McDaniels jerked and shook like a high priestess in a strange voodoo ritual. Rene slowed the action. “This footage was taken a little over two weeks ago.”
The video showed Irene sitting at a table, writing a letter. Gone were the herky-jerky movements of her hands and head. Gone too was the unsmiling, unblinking facial expression, typical of those who suffered from the disease. The last section of the video, taken a few days ago, showed Mrs. McDaniels working on a backyard garden, pulling weeds, planting flowers, and performing a host of tasks that should have been impossible for someone with Parkinson’s. Rene looked away from the video screen to study the reactions of those in the room, amused at the stunned expressions on the faces of the visiting scientists.
“Bullshit. It’s a hoax,” someone in the back row whispered, loud enough to be heard. “The woman in the video is an actress.”
Rene stopped the video and shook her head. “I promise you that Irene McDaniels is no actress. If you look in the folders you will find complete medical reports from four of Atlanta’s top doctors. If Mrs. McDaniels is an actress, then she’s good enough to fool all of them. She’s also talented enough to fake blood tests, X-rays and lab work. And as you can see by the reports, not only has she been cured of Parkinson’s disease, she has also been cured of colon cancer. Even the melanoma on her arms and the back of her neck have disappeared.”
She paused to allow the information to sink in. Several doctors flipped through the folders given to them, reading the day-by-day progress of five of Rene’s patients. The others stared intently at the charts displayed on the projection screen.
In the back row sat a large Caucasian man, powerfully built, his face and arms covered with a patchwork of dark brown skin grafts. Rene recognized the man, having seen his picture in numerous scientific journals. He was Dr. Randall Sinclair, one of the nation’s foremost authorities on the treatment of skin cancer. Dr. Sinclair made worldwide headlines three years ago when he invented “skin fusion,” a process of grafting skin from African Americans and other dark-skinned ethnic groups onto Caucasians in order to increase skin pigmentation to stop the spread of skin cancer. The process was often effective, but it was very expensive and only the very wealthy could afford it.
The Neuro-Enhancer, on the other hand, was affordable and would be available to everyone. It was a cheap cure-all for the masses. With so many poor and dispossessed people dying from lack of even minimal health care, the Enhancer would go a long way toward bringing the country back together. If Rene never did another thing in her life, the Neuro-Enhancer would have made her existence meaningful.
• • •
Rene lay on the ground, gasping for breath. She wanted to close her eyes and make the world go away, but the men wouldn’t let her. They grabbed Rene by the arms and dragged her to her feet, marching her back across the field in the direction of the truck.
She moved in a white-hot haze of pain. Overheated from running, her body felt like a blazing furnace. Sweat poured down her face and into her eyes, blinding her, ran salty and stinging into the cut on her back. The muscles in her legs quivered with fatigue, her feet stumbled as she was dragged along.
Rene turned her head and looked at the men who held her, wondering what evil they had in store for her. The men were dressed alike, each wearing combat boots and white coveralls that were splattered with what looked like dried blood. Heavy leather belts encircled their waists, from which hung large, curved hunting knives. The handles of the knives, as well as their sheaths, were also stained with crimson splotches.
They arrived back at the truck, the driver waiting with rifle in hand. Rene voiced a plea for water, but her request was ignored. Instead the driver trained his rifle on her as the other two men searched her, confiscating the stun gun and pocketknife. She was then dragged around to the back of the truck and forced to kneel while one of the men opened up the trailer’s double doors.
Shaken from the ordeal, and about to pass out from heat exhaustion, she was staring at the ground when the trailer’s doors were unlocked and opened. Her thoughts as unfocused as her gaze, Rene didn’t look up until she heard a moan of pain similar to the one heard before. She looked up—and screamed.
Inside the narrow trailer were at least sixty men, women and children—all African American—packed together so tightly there was barely enough room to sit down, let alone move around. There was no air-conditioning in the trailer, no windows or vents of any kind. The air that spilled out when the doors were opened was stifling hot and reeked with the odors of urine, vomit, and death.
Rene screamed again as the two men hauled her to her feet. She tried to fight back, but she no longer had the strength to resist and could only groan in despair as she was bodily lifted aboard the trailer and forced to sit with her back against a large wooden crate. An iron manacle was clamped around her left ankle. A length of chain fastened the manacle to an iron ring on the trailer’s wall. She turned her head and saw other rings, other chains, hundreds of them.
Rene stared in disbelief at the manacle fastened around her ankle. She was a prisoner again, and this time there would be no escaping. She wanted to scream, wanted to attack the men who stole her freedom, but she was unable to gather the strength needed to mount such an assault. Her body, weak from physical exertion and fright, refused to obey even her simplest commands. She could only sit there and watch as the ring of iron snapped in place, feeling a numbing cold seep slowly into her back.
Cold? It was definitely not cold in the trailer. Rivulets of sweat poured down her face as a testimony to the stifling heat. Not only was there no air-conditioning, there were no fans, not even a window.
But Rene still felt a chill. It came from the wooden crate her back rested against, a crate that was refreshingly cool in the unbearable heat of the trailer. Curious. She turned her head and looked into the crate, seeking the source of the coldness. What she saw chilled her all right—chilled her to the bone.
Inside the crate were steaming blocks of sterile ice and layer upon layer of human skin, black and bloody, carefully peeled from the body of some poor victim. Resting on top of the skin was a small plastic container filled with blood. Floating in the blood were two human livers and a kidney.
Rene stared at the contents of the crate and then at the bloody clothing and knives of the two white men, her mind reeling with horror as she realized what they were.
Skinners! Dear God, they’re Skinners!
Climbing down out of the trailer, the Skinners stepped back and slammed the doors closed, casting Dr. Rene Reynolds into the darkness of hell.
• • •
He had come all the way from Atlanta, drawn to a woman he did not know, following a voice that he could not explain. Though the voice was now silent, he still felt a tingling in th
e very fibers of his being, like the caress of invisible fingers along the inside of his spine. He could still feel her.
But where?
Leon focused his attention on the closest of the buildings but felt nothing to make him believe she was in that one. He studied the second building. Again nothing. He concentrated on the third livestock building for a minute and was about to pass over it, when something touched him. Call it a feeling, a hunch, the voice of his consciousness, whatever, he was certain the woman he sought was somewhere inside the third building.
Waiting until the area was temporarily free of guards, Leon moved closer to the fence. A quick check for transformers and insulators turned up negative. The fence was not electrified, but it was topped with three strands of razor wire that would rip him to shreds if he attempted to climb over it. Even if he wore protective clothing, which he didn’t, there was still the danger of being seen as he climbed the fence. Such an unwelcome intrusion would probably be greeted with a hail of gunfire. So if he couldn’t climb over the fence, he would have to crawl under it.
Leon moved along the fence until he found a natural depression in the ground. He looked to be sure no guards were in the area, and then he tore away the weeds and began digging handfuls of dirt from under the bottom of the fence. Luckily, the ground was soft from years of farming so it only took a few minutes to scoop a hole large enough to squeeze beneath the fence. Checking again for guards, he crawled under.
The light on the top of the pole was positioned in such a way that it reflected of the side of the third building. There were no shadows on the side of the building that faced him, no place to hide if a guard happened to wander by. Once he stepped into the open, Leon would be exposed until he made it inside the third building. And if the door happened to be locked he was doomed, for there would not be time to retrace his steps back to the safety of the shadows before another guard showed up.
Here goes nothing. Mystery lady, I hope you’re in there.
Leon pulled the .45 from his belt and switched off the safety. He took one final look around and sprinted toward the third building. He reached it without being seen, but he wasn’t out of danger yet. Framed against the brightly lit wall, he hurried to the end of the building and peeked around the corner. No one was between him and the door. He made a run for it.
Octavia's Brood: Science Fiction Stories From Social Justice Movements Page 22
