Luna Station Quarterly - Issue 018

by Luna Station Authors

  Once we’d parked in front, Alice unlocked the heavy front door and ferried our belongings into the large foyer. She disappeared down a long hallway carrying what looked like a cooler. Julie and I wandered outside to look around. When Alice returned, she sat down on a folding chair beneath one of the trees, and pulled a book out of her bag.

  “I’ll let you two get on then, but let me know if you need anything. There’s syncaff in the kitchen, and cookies – – through the door on the left, end of the hall. Lunch is in the fridge when you want it.”

  Julie and I began with a rudimentary survey of the shipping container where Incident Response had unceremoniously dumped all the Editor archives post-raid, after which we sat on the ground beneath a tree and drew up a rough plan of work. Eventually, we wandered into the main building and into what looked like a former classroom. The blackboard still had writing on it; a series of diagrammed sentences. The interior spaces were uniformly neat and tidy, which I could only attribute to the former residents – – I’d never known IR to leave a place in that condition. We decided to drag two desks outside; there were no chairs in any of the rooms, just desks.

  I asked Alice about the chairs when I passed her in the foyer later.

  “The chairs. Well. Part of what sparked the ‘intervention’ was the Editors trashing the perimeter fence. The agreement they made with the government stipulated that the fence had to stay in place. Once it came down, the next thing they did was take all the chairs and pile them upside down where the fence had been, like some kind of stockade.”

  She gestured toward the “bushes” which I could now see were upended chairs.

  I thanked her for the explanation, and went to take a closer look. I extricated two from the tangle with some difficulty and carried them back to the compound.

  When we’d set up our workspaces, Julie and I ventured into the container again. I started with some material from just inside the door; Julie had ventured a bit further in and picked up a stack of journals written by Editors founder Sally ‘Boldface’ Johnson.

  “Hey. Check this out.” She began reading aloud from a faded green notebook.

  “My central insight in recent weeks has been this: that punctuation is KEY. It gives us a vocabulary with which we can proactively address the myriad issues encountered in daily life...”

  Julie rubbed her temples with her fingertips, chunky bangles clanking as they slid down her arms. “Wow. Just... wow.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Punctuation. New one on me.”

  I continued examining my own pile of documents. The folder on top was labelled Therapy Transcripts.

  “John?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “The Editors who survived the raid – – can we talk to them? “

  “I hope so. I’m trying to set up interviews for next week.”

  “Good.” She went back to reading the journal.

  *

  The Colon

  This next technique is one of the most powerful in the book; it has been responsible for numerous positive, independently verified outcomes. While its mechanism is not yet fully understood, some Master Editors have suggested that by creating anticipation, it kindles latent possibility.

  Read the following sentence fragments slowly, paying particular attention to the moment AFTER you reach the colon. What comes next? What will fill that space? Open your mind up to the possibilities, however strange they seem.

  She thought about it all day, until suddenly she realised:

  The city was largely in ruins, and yet:

  Gradually, he understood the rationale:

  The most famous Colon intervention paved the way for the Topeka II Accords that ended the Delfinian Civil War. One of the Parentheses Faction negotiators happened to be a devout Editor, Artie “Tilde” Robb, although this was not common knowledge at the time.

  Later, Artie described in interviews how after three long days of talks, negotiations between the Parentheticals and the Delfinio government had reached an impasse. He was given an hour to come up with new proposals. Artie, relying on his Editor experience, drafted the following memo, which was slipped under the door of the government team’s suite:

  Both sides were able to point to gains following the historic agreement:

  Future generations identified Topeka II as the turning point, for these reasons:

  There were several things Team Bracket needed to hear from the government side:

  Soon afterward, the head of the government delegation asked to meet privately with Artie. Their twenty-minute discussion resulted in the rudimentary, but ultimately durable, agreement that both parties signed the next day.

  *

  I never knew exactly what Julie went through that first semester in grad school, not in detail. Like me, she’d chosen the program mainly for a chance to work with India Mandeville, who was something of a superstar in the newly fashionable field of Cultic Anthropology. India is one of those rare academics who does solid research and writes books that sell more than a few dozen copies. When I was working on my thesis, I got used to seeing her being interviewed by a talking head, trying to explain why X group might have issued such and such demand. Twice during that period, the Delfinio government brought her in to advise on hostage situations.

  All seven of us were under her spell to some degree, but Julie was more like a disciple than a student, and it nearly undid her. The first time I saw Julie, she was with friends in the campus pub, relating in loving detail a story that India had told the day before. Her inability to say ten words without mentioning Dr. Mandeville was funny at first, but it started to get old. When she wasn’t around, the rest of us remarked on it – – not in a mean way, more ‘wow, that might not be so healthy’. None of us knew much about India’s private life, but it was pretty clear (to me anyway) that she was uniformly charming to just about everyone she encountered, and it would be a mistake to see this as anything other than a thin social veneer.

  A couple months into our program, Julie and I went clubbing. We weren’t overwhelmed with what the campus had to offer, and in desperation, took a shuttle to New Wichita. There was a long queue for the Temporary Lurcher reunion gig. Eventually, we got in and found a table in a dimly lit corner. Julie had talked me into trying the house special, a fluorescent fruit-flavoured cocktail – – predictably, it was horrible. She was halfway through her second one when I asked about her family; she and her parents had moved to Delfinio during the mass exodus from Vetch, when the vegetation finally got the upper hand. She was telling me how she’d earned money uprooting invasive plants as a kid when I saw something catch her eye. I turned and saw India standing at the edge of the dance floor with Erica, an academic visitor just in from Earth.

  India saw us and waved; the two of them slowly worked their way over to our table. Julie’s expression as they sat down was hard to read – – before I knew it, she was up and buying drinks for everyone. India asked me how my research was going; before I could say much, Julie was back, asking India solicitously about her dog, some kind of rare breed that only ate imported food. Julie clearly basked in India’s attention – – to be honest, it was a little embarrassing to watch. I chatted with Erica, a medical anthropologist, who’d come to study Delfinio’s recent flu pandemic.

  I don’t remember a lot after that. I looked up at one point to see Julie and India dancing; pink and purple strobe lights flickered across their faces. Later, India and Erica gave us a ride back to campus; I staggered into my flat at about 1 AM.

  I spent most of the following three weeks in the library. I’d see Julie around in the stacks; she looked happy. And then one day she didn’t. I was concerned enough that I said we should go for syncaff, hoping she might confide in me. It was a little like pulling teeth, but she finally admitted that it was about India.

  *

  The Period, or Full Stop

  This exercise, when used correctly, can stop a negative sequence of events in its tracks.


  Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Pay close attention to your breathing. Now slowly open your eyes and focus on the paragraph below. Notice how, despite its length, it is only one sentence. Diagram it if you’d like.

  Andrew, feeling for the first time in several years a strong desire to return to the house (the selfsame house that had, over five decades, witnessed such great unhappiness), resolved to go there at once; it wouldn’t matter that Lisa was in residence – what was she to him now anyway? – and without further hesitation, he sat down on the sofa and picked up the phone.

  Imagine for a moment that the passage of time is a run-on sentence, and that it could come to a STOP. Well, it can! YOU punctuate reality. YOU invoke the period. Beyond it, there’s only white space, ready for whatever comes next. You might be tempted to go back and pore over the sentence, searching for meaning that you missed the first time. DON’T. That period is there for a reason; it’s a boundary. Move forward.

  This technique was memorably deployed by a group of early Editors during the winter of ‘67, when Delfinio suffered a series of particularly devastating tornados.

  *

  After she transferred to Trinity, about a month after our conversation, Julie became seemingly unstoppable. We stayed in touch, working together to interview people who’d recently come out of cults. It was hard work. We travelled to different locations on Delfinio with vid and sound equipment, setting up in hotel conference rooms for weeks at a time. Some of the things we heard were upsetting, but she handled it all beautifully – – suggesting breaks at just the right time, offering to turn off the recording equipment, being sympathetic without overdoing it. One evening, we had dinner at a local burger place.

  I asked her whether she might reconcile with India. She stopped eating and put down her burger.

  “Hahahaha NO. People like that I do NOT need in my life. I’m just about at the point where I can see her name and not feel physically sick. In a way it’s helped me understand what other people go through. You know, because I told you, that ‘nothing happened’. I’m sure India paints me as a troubled obsessive – – fine, whatever. She can say what she wants, it’s a theoretically free planet. She led me a merry emotional dance and then cut me loose, painting herself as the innocent party.”

  “Plus,” she continued after a swig of soda, “I’m not the only one. Christ. After this happened I thought maybe it was my fault, blamed myself. Then I talked to someone else who had a much worse experience. And she knows of others. This is not a one-off; this is an ongoing pattern of scumbag behaviour.”

  “Anyway, it’ll be a happy day in Julieworld if she ever falls off that fucking pedestal she’s built for herself. She’s a phoney, John. Don’t you let her pull you into her bullshit. I’m serious.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. It put me in an awkward spot, since India was still my supervisor. I’ll be honest, I’d kept my distance of late, knowing some of what had gone down with Julie.

  “I won’t,” I said. “You sure you’re OK?” I reached across the table and touched her hand lightly. She smiled.

  “Yeah. But I’d like to go. Can we get the check?”

  *

  On Friday of our second week on Delfinio, Alice dropped us off at the New Wichita Safe Custody Unit, where we took turns interviewing the four survivors individually. By this time, we’d scanned and catalogued nearly all the items in the shipping container. In something of a coup for me, I’d managed to blag my way into an interview with the General who’d led the attack on the compound by claiming to write for a popular military publication. Julie researched the firebrand senator who’d instigated the intervention, while keeping as low a profile as possible.

  The survivors, who were mobile but frail, insisted on being called by their Editor names: Frag, Awk, Rep and Wdy. Frag and Awk were women, Rep and Wdy, men. Julie seemed to develop an almost immediate rapport with Wdy, the oldest of the four. During a break, she told me excitedly that he’d given her the most complete account yet of events at the compound; before, during and after the assault. That evening, we sat in the hotel bar comparing notes. Julie kept returning to things that Wdy had said: turns of phrase, particular details he’d mentioned. I actually thought that Frag, in spite of her scattershot narrative style, had in fact been the most perceptive; I listened to Julie, but to be honest didn’t pay close attention.

  We’d satisfied ourselves that the four were being well-treated, in as much as that was possible in the haphazard environment of New Wichita. Their case workers had been generous with their time, and seemed, for the most part, kind. The rest of our work could now be done off-site. I contacted Health and asked them to arrange flights home for Monday. I hunkered down in the Delfinio Public Library, around the corner from the hotel; Julie said she was just as happy working in her room.

  My flight left first, a few hours before Julie’s. On Monday morning, I knocked on her door to say goodbye, and asked about her plans for the immediate future. She said she’d keep on teaching until another project came her way. She didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but I put it down to her being tired; we’d stayed up late to finish coding the interviews. I kissed her on the cheek and left.

  *

  I sat upright and rewound the news clip.

  “Officials on Delfinio today announced the arrest at the New Wichita Safe Custody Unit of the four surviving members of the Editor community, as well as a Lunar U anthropologist who had been studying the group, for unspecified prohibited activities.”

  Blurry photos of the four Editors scrolled by, followed by a clip of Julie at a podium addressing a small crowd. I say addressing, but she wasn’t actually speaking; she was making a sort of slow lyrical gesture with her left hand, a loop, over and over. After the sixth repetition, I realised what it was: delete. After the eighth repetition, an armed Delfinio policewoman entered the frame and grasped Julie’s left arm; firmly, but not roughly. When she put her other arm on Julie’s back to guide her away from the podium, Julie appeared to comply willingly enough. For a moment, she smiled into the camera. The image faded to black.

  I called India in case she knew what was going on. It was mid-day there, so I thought I might reach her at her office. When no one picked up, I got the departmental administrator and asked him if I could leave an urgent message for Dr. Mandeville.

  “Mandeville? I’m sorry, we don’t have any faculty members by that name here.”

  “This is the Anthropology Department?”

  “Yes, this is definitely the Anthropology Department.” He seemed annoyed. “Can I put you through to someone else?”

  I hung up.

  Place of Plentiful Water

  Molly N. Moss and Shereen Marie Jensen

  Shereen Marie Jensen has lived much of her life in the Middle East. In addition to writing, she is studying hospitality management.

  Molly N. Moss lives in Georgia, but hopes to escape to the Pacific NW. A member of Horror Writers Association, she is also a proud crazy cat lady and an incurable nerd currently studying quantum mechanics for fun.

  Shaista knows that she hasn’t gone to heaven. The Holy Qur’an teaches that heaven is a place of plentiful water, of gurgling streams and cool clear pools. Instead she sees only Najeed Rawdah, the village where she lived and died. Patches of mud, made of her own blood mixed with the parched soil, stain the village courtyard. A village well stands in front of the stone-walled mosque, an oasis in a desert of ash-white dust.

  Rocks litter one end of the courtyard. Some are small enough to fit a child’s hand. A few are so big that a strong grown man would need both hands to lift them.

  Her own hands, her real hands of flesh, are now battered almost beyond recognition. She had raised them at first, trying to ward off the stones smashing into her. Then a rock the size of a melon crushed her right thumb backward in a lightning stroke of agony, leaving the thumb dangling uselessly and held on only by her skin. She’d been so horrified by her ruined thumb that she held her hand in front
of her face and stared, even as another stone struck the side of her head and knocked her down on her knees in the dust. When her oldest brother Faisal scooped her lifeless and mangled body into his arms, her blood soaking the front of his shirt, Shaista’s soul awakened still unable to look away from her hands.

  As she raises her hands and looks at them again, now that her soul is no longer joined to a body, they appear intact. Yet they fade the more she studies them, and they cannot feel the hot dry air smothering the courtyard.

  Not long ago she’d hoped to use her hands to heal the sick and the injured. She’d been accepted for admission by the same university in England that Qareeb, the schoolteacher, attended before Afghanistan’s war with the Soviet Union.

  Qareeb had tried to help. His studies in England had been of law. After the Taliban seized power in Afghanistan they’d forbidden him to practice law anymore. Nevertheless, when the village mullah Shamas summoned the religious police to decide Shaista’s fate, Qareeb risked himself and his family to defend her. “Shaista is obedient and modest in school,” he told the religious police. “It is not in her nature to give herself to a man not her husband. It is not in her nature to lie. If she says a man took her against her will and against the laws of Allah, she speaks the truth.”

  But the religious police demanded four eyewitnesses to the rape, all of them men, to testify Shaista was blameless. Nor would they consider any other kind of evidence under the sharia law of Islam. There had been no eyewitnesses – only Allah the all-knowing, her rapist, and Shaista herself. So the religious police declared Shaista guilty of sexual acts outside the sanction of marriage, and they sentenced her to die.

  It’s her own blood staining the dust of Najeed Rawdah, and Shaista hasn’t gone to Heaven. Unsure where to go or what to do, she looks at the patches of mud and the heaps of stones, and she waits for a sign.

  *