Analog SFF, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Oscar stared at the floor as she spoke, hardly moving. Once he made a deep sigh, and once he suppressed a deep cough, a remnant of his fading infection.

  "So, what do you say?” she asked.

  "I don't think I can do that,” he said.

  "Why not? You want to be cured, don't you?"

  Through gritted teeth, he said, “Yes."

  "And you don't want to be quarantined, do you?"

  "No."

  "Then what—” Netty knew her frustration was showing, and calmed her voice. “What seems to be the problem?"

  "You are saying that my blood will be replaced with clean blood, blood from a bank."

  "Exactly."

  Oscar's eyes darted over the storage boxes, as if looking for something. “But it won't be Baster blood."

  "Eventually all your blood would be replaced with a similar type."

  He shook his head. “Then I cannot do it."

  "This has to do with your father, doesn't it?"

  Oscar still would not look at her. “My father was typical of our people. He was very proud of our mixed heritage and sent me here to preserve our blood. But he was always fighting himself. Sometimes he would even blame me, the dark one, for what he was. But I understood. Do you know what it is like to hate the race that is half of your blood, while hating the other half even more?"

  "I think I do,” she said, working it out. “You'd be both a racist and the object of that racism. Each half would hate the other, by definition. But your father also found something to be proud of."

  Oscar nodded. “He was a great man, but I disappointed him. I will not do it again. I will not let the doctor flush away the last of our blood like so much waste."

  Growing angry, she felt like offering some choice words, but refrained. “It's DNA that defines your race, you know. You'll always have that."

  Oscar appeared to be only half listening. “If I find a wife from South Africa, at least our children would have similar blood."

  That hit Netty hard in the stomach. She exhaled and couldn't take a breath. He didn't love her, or even imagine loving her. What had endeared him to her suddenly tasted bitter. “There ought to be someone like that, in one of the other pods,” she said with attempted detachment. Already she was applying a professional instinct, starting to divest herself from a personal entanglement. It wasn't working, which made her angry with herself, and with Oscar.

  She stood with him, feeling an overwhelming urge to demand an answer to the obvious question: Just how did you get HIV in the first place? She forbade herself from that. Instead, she addressed his myopia. “Oscar,” she said, her voice teetering, “if you're not cured, your line has to end with you anyway."

  He made no reply, but left, shoulders hanging. It's worse than he imagines, she thought. The quarantine might have to be permanent. Not everyone was going to return to Earth, and he was a prime candidate for staying behind. After everything the people of her diaspora had been through, this disaster, as hellish as it was, provided the chance to start over, and to do it right. She was proud of every person on the Moon, especially those of color. There were no blemishes, except Oscar's virus. She would not be the one to unleash that microscopic vampire into a virgin world.

  * * * *

  Netty focused on her work. The PA at SMP3 called, requesting a personnel exchange. He had recovered from his breakdown, but always sounded like he was exhausted. Of the recent fatalities, two were reclamation specialists, leaving a gap in that department. Netty transferred two of hers, a bright-eyed grad student named Aria, who had majored in ecology, and Aria's boyfriend, who had received training in water management. That left her with four specialists in her own department. Not enough, but it was the best compromise until someone else could be trained or brought from a pod at Shackleton.

  It was December, and a man from communications made an appointment for an interview. His name was Duke Liu, a young Chinese American with a keypad and an infectious grin. He met her at her desk.

  "Christmas is coming,” he said, “and we're putting out a special newsletter for all the pods. It's called the Christmas Star, and I'm contributing a column. I got an idea from something I read about you."

  "You've piqued my curiosity."

  "I read something from your memoir that said your management style was like a Christmas tree. Could you explain that for me, in your own words?"

  Netty smiled at the man's journalistic tone. It seemed quaint, under the circumstances. “Well, that's something I've never been entirely comfortable with, but it stuck, so here I am, the proverbial star atop the tree!"

  "Was the idea that you were the star on top of the tree, and the constituents were the thousand points of light?"

  She shook her head, but he was keying something in, and did not see her. “It originally had to do with the way government workers become unproductive when new leaders are elected,” she said. “It's not that they're not good workers, but it can take quite a while for political appointees to settle in and for everyone to adjust to new policies. So during the transition, I just tried to keep some light shining through the confusion."

  Liu lost his place typing, stared at the pad, then looked up. “Uh, I think I get it,” he said.

  "It was the government employees who were the lights, not the citizens. But leaders should be like a beacon to everyone, of course."

  "That's great,” he said, keying something in.

  Netty recalled that this was the man who led the daily tai chi sessions, which was about the only exercise available outside of jogging in thermal slippers. He'd used some Chinese jargon in his class, so maybe he could answer a question for her. “Do you speak Chinese?"

  "I'm the official translator for this pod. Did you need to send a message to Chi Yue?" he said, referring to the name of the independent Chinese base on the other side of the Moon.

  "Not at the moment, but I may eventually. It's good to know you're around."

  "Any time."

  "You know, I've been wondering, what does Chi Yue mean, anyway?"

  "It can mean red moon, or naked moon."

  "So which is it?"

  "Both. It was intended to be poetic."

  "Well, they are both appropriate. I'm sorry for interrupting. Did you get what you wanted?"

  Liu grinned. “Yes, ma'am!"

  * * * *

  As she headed home at the end of her day, she thought she saw Oscar in the clinic, which was adjacent to the command center. Both were at the hub of the pod. She stopped in to find Dr. Simon plugging an IV hose to Oscar's upper arm.

  "What's this about?” she said, wavering between hopeful and suspicious.

  "This is the blood transfusion we spoke about,” Simon said. “Didn't Oscar tell you?"

  Oscar met her stare, not looking away. “I decided to do it,” he said, his face sagging like a caricature of a sad puppy.

  "We're almost complete,” the doctor said. He made a clinical smile. “We'll need to have a blood drive to replenish the reserves."

  A confusion of relief, grief, and shock fairly muted her. “I don't know what to say."

  "Thank you, Netty,” said Oscar.

  She left them, walking laps instead of going directly home. This news was unexpected, and though she should have been pleased, she was uneasy. Oscar had looked tired and pale, and she hoped that he would be all right. Probably his condition was normal, under the circumstances, she thought. Yes, and he might be cured after all!

  Encouraged, she quickened her steps. On the Moon, you can cover a lot of ground that way, provided you don't hit your head on the ceiling first. When she turned to the C ring, she bumped into Dr. Bhatti, the chief of her medical staff, whom she had loaned to Pod 3. They exchanged greetings and paced together, since both were exercising in the traditional counterclockwise fashion. She had spoken with him several times in teleconferences, but this was the first time he told her about the tragedy face to face.

  The patients were recovering, and the mysteri
ous bone fragments were indeed from a recently deceased man on Earth. He had literally ridden his truck to the Moon, in the most spectacular vehicle crash in history. This revelation chilled her own bones, and she shivered. She felt as though many of her problems would vanish, if only they would turn up the heat a little. She needed a vacation at Pod 1, where the fusion reactors were. It was supposed to be toasty there.

  "I want to ask you about something else,” she said. “Is it possible to cure Trojan HIV-X by replacing a person's blood?"

  Doctor Bhatti stopped, so that she had to walk back to where he was. His bald, asymmetric head and flaking skin made him look like a potato. His thick eyebrows bent into a glower. “Where did you get that idea?” he said.

  "It's an experimental treatment I heard about, using special filters and a total blood replacement."

  "No, that's ridiculous,” he said, his raspy voice raising to a high pitch. “Where did you hear about that? Where?"

  "Is there a problem?” she said, stalling.

  "There should be no one here with HIV!"

  "I know that."

  "You have been consulting Doctor Simon, haven't you?"

  "To be honest, yes."

  "He should not be here either. He does not know what he is doing. He knows nothing about microbiology!"

  "So you can't cure AIDS that way?"

  "Of course not!” Bhatti was chewing the inside of his lower lip, the veins on his forehead darkening almost to green. “You do not need to replace the blood. Affinity hemodialysis can target just the HIV. Even peptides from crocodile blood could do that, if we had any. But HIV-X hides inside the cells of other tissues, not just blood."

  "You're sure? There's no new technique that can filter out HIV?"

  "Ms. Washington, that makes no sense at all. If you are going to replace all the blood anyway, why would you bother to filter it?"

  "Oh, I see.” Put that way, Simon's procedure seemed preposterous.

  "Has this procedure been performed already?"

  She hesitated, but the glare of his grave, sunken eyes, further shrouded by long, untrimmed eyebrows, saw through her. “We may have a problem on our hands,” he said. “There may be a lot of equipment to sanitize, not to mention a lot of tainted blood to dispose of. We may have to throw some things away."

  Netty smoldered. “This is no way to run a sustainable medical facility."

  "Or to ensure the health of a population,” said Bhatti. “The tiniest error here can ruin our independence entirely. We've already seen what can happen in an emergency, over in Pod 3. What if, the next time, we are unable to help?"

  * * * *

  On her way to work the next morning, Netty was tempted to stop by the clinic and start a firestorm. She did not. It would take more time, and a formal investigation, to decide what to do about Simon. Instead, she focused on Oscar, exercising her authority to invoke the guest-to-crew program for the first time. Everyone in the pod could be enlisted to perform whatever job was assigned by the PA.

  She stopped in on the department head of Reclamation. She told him that she had a new worker for him, but the recruit wouldn't start until after the holidays. That done, she went to the clinic to tell Oscar. Whenever she delivered bad news, she preferred to have something positive to say as well.

  Oscar was not there. Doctor Simon had her take a seat. He made his ritual, curt smile, which diminished his credibility by its inappropriateness. “The procedure wasn't working,” he said. “I've stopped it."

  Her heart sank at the sadness of the confession. She smiled sadly back. “What went wrong?"

  "Nothing went wrong. There just doesn't seem to be a way to get every trace of virus out. It was a good effort. Worth a try!"

  "The other doctors are back now,” she said with a dash of gall. “Did you ask them for help?"

  "W-we have conferred about it, yes,” he said. As chilly as it was, sweat was gleaming on his forehead. “We are in agreement that we cannot cure Mr. Izaaks at this time."

  "I'm very sorry to hear that, for Oscar's sake."

  "Of course. The clinic is fully sterilized, and we've irradiated the contaminated blood, for fluid recycling. Now,” he said, looking beaten but hopeful, “I suppose you have some hard decisions to make."

  "I've already made them,” she said. “Oscar will stay here for the rest of his life, and the medical board will decide about you."

  * * * *

  "Knock, knock!” LaDonna had come early to Netty's. They both had the day off, and they had planned to braid what was left of each other's hair. The dry, chilly air had made their hair brittle, and though they each had a small supply of extensions, they were saving those for some other occasion.

  "Come on in."

  "The Christmas Star is online,” LaDonna said.

  Netty brought up the paper on her notebook. “Is my interview in it?"

  "The link's right there. ‘Our Christmas Star’ by Duke Liu."

  Netty's eyes widened. “What's this?” She read: “Though humble, Miss Washington's reputation as a Christmas star is not unfounded. ‘I want to be a beacon, leading people to the promised land,’ she said.” Well, that is not what I said!"

  "That's the press."

  "Oh, it's not that. Duke is not even a real journalist. He's quite nice, but I've always hated being misquoted."

  "There's also an announcement there,” LaDonna said, to change the subject. “They're showing The Sound of Music at the Double-wide Diner this afternoon. Derrick suggested we meet him there."

  "Let's just do our hair instead. I'm not in the mood for a tearjerker."

  "Tearjerker? That's one of the feel-goodest movies of all time."

  "These days, any movie that has singing mountains, raindrops on roses, and kids frolicking outdoors is a tearjerker,” Netty said.

  "I see what you mean."

  "Cornrows?” asked Netty.

  "Don't make me hungry,” LaDonna said with a laugh. “Go ahead and try, but ain't no corn gonna sprout out of this head!"

  Netty set to work on LaDonna's hair, wanting to occupy her fingers. As they did their line dance across her friend's chafing scalp, her mind wandered, trying not to think of The Sound of Music. LaDonna worked a little vacuum nozzle, sucking up the dandruff and broken bits of hair. That would keep them out of machinery, and make recycling easier.

  But honestly, who would want to watch that movie? What kind of cockeyed optimism could anyone have now? All humanity's achievements were gone, all history burned or buried. Graves were overturned, roads crushed or pulled like taffy, cities ruined, pyramids and other ruins ruined forever. The hills were not alive with the sound of anything—especially not music.

  And what was in that Liu's head, to twist such words into her mouth? She had not said anything about leading anyone to a promised land, she was sure of that. “Do you suppose that Liu was only writing what he wanted to hear?” Netty said.

  "How should I know?"

  "He does have a point, I suppose. A leader has to have somewhere to lead people to.” And people to lead, she thought. “Maybe I needed to hear what he wanted to hear."

  "Spoken like a true leader,” LaDonna said.

  Netty's fingers worked LaDonna's crumbling hair into tight rows, moving like a knitting machine that was missing a hook. She had long ago learned to braid with her missing ring finger, and as she watched that finger move, she wondered whether her great-grandmother's wedding ring would stay securely on the stub, should the occasion arise.

  Humanity had been amputated too, and she had believed that everyone left was a true gem. Yes, there were jewels; but there were also people who improperly screened refugees, people who left shutters open, administrators who broke down under stress, quack doctors, cat smugglers, and a man with AIDS. And a PA who would abandon that man because she thought he was the only one who could wreck her vision. People would walk the Earth again, diamonds in the rough, all. Despite her authority, her duty was not to winnow, but to polish.

 
; "You're going to let Oscar go home, aren't you?” LaDonna said, craning to see Netty's reaction. Netty turned away, feigning indifference. LaDonna could not sit long in silence, so she hummed a few bars of My Favorite Things, as if she heard it all the way from the diner.

  "You shut up and sit still,” said Netty. “I can't let you return to Earth with your hair looking like this."

  Copyright (c) 2008 David Bartelll

  (EDITOR'S NOTE: Oscar's departure from Earth was described in “Misquoting the Moon” [March 2007].)

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  Science Fact: GREEN NANOTECHNOLOGY by Richard A. Lovett

  There was a time in science fiction when nuclear energy was the magic genie that could solve any problem. Call something “nuclear powered,” and it could be anything from a souped-up dentist's drill to an interstellar hot rod.

  Okay, I exaggerate. But in the early days, when few people really understood how nuclear power worked, a lot of stories got it wrong. Much as, more recently, many have turned virtual reality into what might as well be magic. Exactly what some have tended to do with nanotechnology.

  Like Ed Lerner, whose article graced the pages of the September 2008 issue, I was first introduced to nanotechnology in the form of nanobots: tiny machines like molecular bulldozers that could rearrange atoms any way you wanted. But while it appears possible to make ingenious nanoscale pumps, pipes, rotors, and wheels, it's hard to envision combining these into fancy widgets like microscopic mini-subs, with manipulator arms, cargo bays, and propulsion systems. Not to mention that anyone who's ever struggled with biochemistry knows this isn't the way the molecular world works. If you want to convert dimethyl-p-benzyl-whatsits into dimethyl-o-benzyl-whatever, you're basically shoving two methyl (CH3-) groups to different positions on a benzene ring. But you're not going to be able to do that with a molecular bulldozer. It's going to take the equivalent of dynamite, and probably a boatload of steps. Just as, in real life, the body takes a great many steps to pluck carbon and hydrogen atoms from glucose (C6H12O6) and “burn” them to form CO2 and H2O.